Written in Blood

Prologue
His given name was Kennedy Collins, but everybody called him Ken. He was a Detective Grade 2 in the Homicide Division in the 8th District of the Foley Police Department.
The close of his rookie year in the Investigative Branch of the FPD was not a good time in his life. Personal circumstances came about that pushed him to his limits and beyond. They brought more baggage than he could handle and threatened to destroy everything. However, the physical issues and the spiritual battle he faced were only parts of the problem.
In that same timeframe, he and his partner, Senior Detective John Filcher, got handed a case that was to become the most trying of his career.
Someone was killing prostitutes in their district. He was efficient and brutal, and unfortunately for the duo, left no trail to follow, except for some inexplicable messages left at each crime scene.
During the course of the investigation, things may not have been handled in the best possible way by all those involved, regardless of the outcome. Interdivisional rivalry, evidence withholding, personal grudges and external forces jeopardized the case at its core.
 
1
Ken

John pulled us as close to the scene as he could. The road immediately in front of the rundown motel was blocked by Foley Police Department barricades. We flashed badges at one of the patrolmen manning the barrier, signed his Crime Scene Log and slid around a gap in the line.
The night was brilliantly lit by a myriad of flashing lights from a multitude of city and county vehicles, which caused our shadows to dance around. Each one competed for dominance with the ghastly pink and blue neon sign perched atop the building, that proclaimed the name of the establishment to be the Starlight, Starbright Motel.
We met Bill Miller, our resident Medical Examiner, as he came out the front door. “Oh, hey John, I didn’t know you were on call tonight.”
“Yep, me and the kid. Whatcha got for us?”
Bill pulled a small pad from the pocket of his coat, flipped a couple of pages and read us his handwritten notes. “White male, fiftyish, GSW to the back of the head, close range; white female, 20’s to 30’s, multiple stab wounds to chest and neck area. I estimate the time of death between 3 to 5 hours ago. I’ll be able to be more specific later on, after the autopsy. The temp in the room makes it a hard call right now. CSS boys are still upstairs.”
The CSS was Foley’s Crime Scene Specialists. They fancied themselves a better version of the ones portrayed on TV. I thought it was up for debate, for some of them anyways.
“Thanks Bill,” John called after him, “I’ll be in touch.”
We entered the motel, saw no sign of an elevator then headed for the stairs. They creaked and groaned so much that I was afraid we might end up back down at ground level.
From what I could see, all the floors were basically the same. Every floor we passed was junked out and in serious need of some TLC. Somehow, I doubted it would ever happen. All the visible walls were covered in a ghastly orange wall paper; much of it had begun to peel at the seams. None of the doors appeared to be the same color and many were in disrepair.
The halls were somewhat dark, with only a minimal amount of light fixtures present. I figured the clientele that came in didn’t pay for ambiance.
We didn’t pass a single soul on our upward trip to the scene of the crime. We stopped outside the room, where we were accosted by a terrible odor.
I covered my nose and mouth and gasped. “Good grief, what’s that smell?”
Steven Phillips, the lead CSS member on sight, looked up from where he squatted. He held a small plastic bag in his hand. He had just dropped something into it. He smiled in our direction. “Just your average flea bag motel aroma.”
He stood. He looked rather spiffy in his white paper suit. “How’s it going, Detective Filcher, Collins?”
John looked around the room, took in every possible detail as he responded. “Not bad, considering.”
“I know the feeling,” Ace Walker said as he came out of the bathroom from where he’d most likely been evidence harvesting, as he liked to call it. “I’d rather be home in bed with the wifey, myself.”
He looked to me and said, “Know what I mean, Vern?” The old Jim Varney catch phrase reference was not lost on me, but I did think that his added hand motions were a bit uncalled for.
I ignored him as he exited the room, shook my head once he was gone. I often wondered how he had come about with the nickname Ace, but had never bothered to ask.
I considered him to be an idiot of the greatest magnitude, and thought that his co workers may have felt the same. Maybe they had given him the name as a misnomer, to disguise how they really felt about him.
“How much longer you boys got in here?” John asked.
Steven picked up a medium sized case and moved in our direction. “Just finished up. Have a look around. Bill’s guys should be here before long to bag them up and head uptown.”
John moved toward the open window, notepad and pen in hand. I had my own out as well. I did a rough sketch of the room and positions of the bodies for reference.
The man was on the floor to the left of the bed, crumpled in a heap, totally naked. I leaned over to get a closer glimpse and saw the spot where the bullet had entered his head. There was a hole behind his right ear. From the looks of it, the gun had been pressed against his flesh. I did not look forward to see the exit wound.
As I jotted some notes on the male victim, I scanned the area where the female still lay, covered with a sheet. It had several holes in it and was badly faded from its original design and color. This just added to my feelings of ill will for the establishment.
John reached out from his position and, with the end of his pen, flicked the sheet back, and revealed a gory mess.
“Oh man.” No matter how many bodies I saw, I never got used to it. Especially when they looked like this poor woman.
I knew John was not unfazed by the sight, but he’d been around long enough to keep his feelings in check. He stepped back and pulled a small digital camera from his coat pocket, fired it up and began to snap pictures.
He walked around the room, got shots of the bodies from every angle possible. He took some from the hallway, the bathroom and even from outside on the fire escape. As well as general photos of the room itself.
The poor female victim had been stabbed so many times she looked like raw hamburger. It would probably be too hard to tell exactly how many wounds she sported. Whoever had done this was extremely angry or toted around some serious mental issues.
As we continued to make notes and snap pictures an officer arrived with a man who seemed a bit jittery and on the verge of running for his life.
“Excuse me, Detective,” the officer said, addressing John.
He stopped with the photos. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“This is Mr. Randall Peterson, night manager. He’s the one who found the bodies and called it in.”
“Thank you, Officer. If you two could wait out in the hall for a few minutes, we’ll be right with you.”
That was John’s way of letting the officer know to not let the man out of his sight until we finished up inside the crime scene.
“Of course,” the officer replied as he turned and waved Peterson back up the hallway. Peterson was obviously relieved to get away from the doorway. He shook so badly he looked about ready to faint.
John turned my attention back to the scene. “How can someone do this to another human being? Even if I hated them, I couldn’t do this.”
I could hear the sadness in his voice. Even with all the years of experience he had in Homicide, John was still a tenderhearted man at his core. I hardly ever saw him angry, except when women or children were abused, or worse.
He spoke out more to himself than to me, which was his habit. He said it helped him visualize the crime scene for later replay. “The victims are having a time in here, oblivious to their surroundings…”
“They’d have to be oblivious in this rat hole,” I interrupted.
“…when our perp comes in, most likely through the window, pops the man and savagely attacks the woman.”
He walked to the window and studied the sill, probably to look for telltale signs of entry. He studied the cheap locking mechanism briefly. “Why these two? Does he know one of them? Both of them? Neither of them? Were they chosen at random or sought out purposefully?””
“Maybe this was the first room with occupants,” I said helpfully.
“Maybe so, maybe not. Maybe it’s the first room with an unlocked window,” he said with conviction. “Feels a little chilly in here. Even though the heat’s blowing.”
“Maybe the perp wanted to keep the bodies cold to throw off the time of death. He probably didn’t expect someone to find them this soon.”
I wondered how long the window had been open. The victims were most likely not the ones to leave it that way. Not with how cool it was outside. Not to mention that the temperature wouldn’t have been conducive to their nocturnal activities.
John turned for the door as he spoke. “Could be. Now let’s go have a little chat with Mr. Peterson.”
Wait. That’s not right. That’s not where it actually started. It got going sooner, and it didn’t go bad that fast. It started slow, with a seemingly simple phone call. But, like a snowball rolling downhill, it picked up speed and size, and turned into an avalanche. It left a wide swath of destruction in its wake.