A Familiar Face

         As a detective, you learn not to be fazed by the cases you see. That includes murder cases. No matter how horrible of a thing it is for humans to kill their own kind, you can’t be fazed. It’s just part of the job. The call comes in, you go, get the information you need, come back, and do it all again. Each time, the ride to the scene of the crime is always quiet. The usual banter with your case partner is replaced by an uneasy tension, though it wasn’t silent.

         This time was different. There were no side glances between the two of us, no quiet muttering about our surroundings, no soft questions about the way to the scene. It was silent. Detective Dolores kept her eyes locked on the road ahead with that same glossy look in her eyes as those who just lost someone dear to them. I will have to check up on her afterward, right now, our main concern is the case we were assigned to.

         Arriving at the scene was like any other, the empty house looking abandoned in the evening sun. It brought a feeling of apprehension. No one wants to see where someone was murdered, it always brings a sadness with it that clings to you for weeks on end. Nonetheless, we signed up for these situations so we must follow through with it.

         Detective Dolores made no move to get out.

         “Hey, Dolores, are you coming?”

         No response.

         “If you can’t handle a bad case right now I can go in alone and you can switch with someone when we get back.”

         Not even a side glance. It was like she never even heard me. Even if we never truly got along, that argument from all those months ago still haunts us to this day, we never ignored each other. I thought we might have been making up too. Have we lost all that progress?

         However, it can wait, this case cannot.

         Upon entering, the house looked like a complete mess. Furniture was knocked over and stray papers were thrown all over the place. Whatever happened, they certainly did not go down without a fight. The time of death was 2:30 a.m., a suspected murder. Neighboring units heard sounds of yelling before it came to a halt after three gunshots. Police had not come in time to catch the killer if there ever was one. There has to have been, too much evidence points to there being one, but cases have shocked us before. The time of death explains the house’s condition. In the dark, it would’ve been hard to avoid making a mess during the scuffle.

         According to the reports, the victim was shot two times in the chest and once in the neck, killing them. Although, if the culprit had a gun, why wouldn’t they shoot the victim in the living room? What was the point of dragging them all the way to the bedroom? The only explanation would be that the culprit didn’t originally have the weapon. They picked up the gun from the house. Now, the only way to go is forward.

         The halls warped and shifted within the edges of my vision, twisting more and more the further I trudged on. It became clear that the victim was trying to reach this gun to protect themselves, as the signs of struggle increased the closer I got to the room.

         Then came the smell, putrid and rotten, wafting down the corridor. Bad smells weren’t a new thing, it was almost a guarantee with every case. This time felt different. A dead body never smells good, yes, but something about this one was wrong. Something about it made a shiver go down my spine and my hair stand on end. Everything in me was telling me to turn around, walk out, and get a good cup of coffee. However, that wasn’t my job. My job was solving this case and I can’t do that by ditching at the first discomfort. I pushed through and finally, I was standing outside of the bedroom, outside of the scene of the crime. The smell was ten times worse here, making me recoil as I opened the door.

         Inside the room, all signs of a struggle were gone. In the center of the room lay the covered body of the victim, only a couple of feet away from a wide-open safe. It seems they didn’t reach it in time before their killer reached them. This is an unfortunate fate, but not unheard of in this line of work.

         Still, that weird feeling of unease remained, creeping just underneath the surface of my skin. That feeling was reminiscent of my first days after being promoted to detective. The first cases are always the hardest after all. The first call you take, whether alone or not, always brings a crawling feeling. You are always scared. However, after years of all different sorts of cases that feeling of fear should’ve disappeared, or at least dulled. The creaking of the door broke me out of my line of thought.

         Detective Dolores stood in the doorway, eyes staring straight through me. Her eyes were no longer glossy, I realized, the tears freely escaping down her cheeks. Something about that scared me. Dolores was never one to cry, even after her mother’s death her eyes remained dry. Why is she crying now? She wasn’t related to anybody involved in this case unless she was and I wasn’t informed.

         I turned back to the body, walking closer to the pungent, rotten smell. A white cover still concealed their identity. Usually, there was no need to pull the cover off. It saves us from future nightmares, but this time, something in me needed to know. In one swift motion, I wrenched the cover off.

         The face I saw staring back was one I knew better than anybody else.

         I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, chest tight against my efforts. It couldn’t be true. This was just some sick, messed-up nightmare. I reached up to touch my neck.

         My hands came back wet, slick with blood.

         “Can’t you see, detective? It has always been you.”