Yeah, rate it up.
The room was filled with blood. Covering the floor in disturbing streaks of crimson, the wall painted in its shiny hue.
The detective walked through the gruesome murder scene, taking particular care not to touch any of the evidence labelled with the little yellow cones. The brutality that caused such mayhem made her heave, shuddering as she tried to keep down her breakfast of decaffeinated coffee, and half a banana.
No one had seen anything. But then again, no one ever did. The victim was identified as one Mike Adams, a tenant in the building. Single guy, paid his bills on time…. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But, when was there? The routine back up check would tell.
He (or what was left of him) was found by the landlady, who had had complaints of the “unearthly odours,” deriving from under his door, placing his time of death prior to 9.30 am. Provided she wasn’t lying. Which everyone does…
The woman was a right mess; seated in the corner, shrouded in a blanket with a mug of something steamy, she was in definite shock, traumatised by the grisly scene before them. The detective turned her back on her. The woman was useless. Or the murderer.
Dealing in absolutes helped her think, helped her to rationalise the conflict of crime and chaos that would have otherwise driven her insane. She took a canister from her suit pocket, withdrawing two pills, and a cigarette, or “nails,” as she liked to call them.
There was something unsettling about this crime. It was too… unnecessary. Too extravagant. Mere anger, mere hate, was not the cause of the destructive violence that had caused the scene before her. There was no reason for covering the room with gore and disgust. Unless they wanted to hide something….
“Get all this blood back to the labs, immediately,” she commanded to the somewhat stunned forensic investigators. Arrogant pricks, she thought to herself. A separate unit, technically they didn’t have to answer to the police, and they took this power in their stride. Nonetheless, after a few moments of hesitation and insolent grunting, they set about their work. Her fellow police officers looked on in confusion, wondering why their colleague would order the needless removal of evidence. She had a hunch though. And they knew better than to question her theories. Regardless of their validity. That was above their pay grade. And their concerns for personal safety.
Her phone began to ring, a professional buzzing which suited the undisturbed silence of the crime scene.
“Yes?” she answered in her brusque style. It was the boys from the office.
“Yeah, we did that back up check on the puddle.” She ground her teeth into her cigarette. Ignorant twats. Yet she reeled in her anger. This call might bring new news.
“We were checking the vics phone records; he’s made several calls in the last week to known associates of Nicholas Moretti.” She had a sharp intake of breath. Nicholas Moretti was one of the most notorious criminals in the city. An Italian mobster, he ran the drug trade, human trafficking, money laundering… everything illicit, ran through this man. Their station’s PD had been trying to arrest him for months, but the only thing they could charge him with were a couple of unpaid parking tickets. If Mike Adams was involved with this guy, then he must be in deep with something bad.
Moretti could be found on the Lower East Side. It was a poorer district, “stingy,” as her corporal described on the ride over, but she guessed that offered more security. It was quiet, driving in; few vehicles on the road, and fewer pedestrians on the street, and those that were seen she conjectured to be on Moretti’s payroll, judging from the manner they eyeballed the flagrant design of the police charger and the bulges under their coats, unusual in the day’s sweltering heat.
“Moretti’s House is just ahead,” her corporal informed her, navigating in the passenger’s seat. He may have said “House” but she thought fortress was a more apt description. Guarded by a 4 metre high concrete wall, adorned by coils of wire. Their path was blocked by a two-lane wide, iron bound gate, an impressive barrier against the measly might of their standard-issue police vehicle. They swung open on their own accord as they drew nearer, and she got her first glimpse of the “house.” Huge and imposing, it was an impressive structure. Several stories of glass and stone it was an anachronism compared to its neighbours of termite ridden wood and cheap brick. Cameras were everywhere, glaring down on them as they pulled up. The front door opened and she was met by a welcome party of two short men dressed in 3 piece suits, slicked back hair and cigars. Nicholas Moretti, she thought to herself, seething.
“Well, detective Taylor. What a pleasant surprise. Can I help you with anything on this fine, summer’s day?” he asked innocently.
The nerve of this guy! He knows why I’m here. He murdered Mike Adams. I’m sure of it.
“Are you acquainted with a Mr Mike Adams?” She asked, supressing her annoyance.
“Mike?” Moretti mentioned something to the second man in a language she didn’t understand. He nodded hesitantly.
“Yes, Mike Adams. Did you know him, or didn’t you?” She was quickly losing patience.
“Yes, I knew Mike. We were school mates. He was practically an uncle to Dom here growing up,” he established, nodding at his son for emphasis.
She and the corporal shared a look.
“And have you been in contact with Mr Adams recently?”
“No… I haven’t seen Mike in years. Why, has something come up?” he questioned, concerned.
“He was murdered this morning.” The detective said bluntly.
“Murdered!” His eyes grew wide and he paused for a moment. “But… Why would anyone hurt Mike? He was the nicest guy in the world! I don’t… I don’t…” He seemed stunned.
“Mr Moretti, if you had not had contact with Mr Adams in months, why then do I have phone records of you texting him in the hours leading up to his death?”
Leaning on the shoulder of his son, who had an equally shocked look in his eyes, Moretti was in a clear state (or feigned state) of distress. But upon her accusation, he drew himself up, an intense rage in his features.
“What are you accusing officer? Are you saying that I murdered my childhood friend? That I bludgeoned him to death in cold blood? Beat his head in with a wrench?”
“Mr Moretti, no one said anything about a wrench.” And none had showed up in the autopsy, but she kept that detail to herself.
“Nick Moretti, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you san can and will be used in a court of law…..”
*******************************************
Sitting back at the PD, nursing over a third cup of coffee, a cigarette stilled on an ashtray before her, the sound of adulation filling her senses as her colleagues congratulated her on her “Big bust”. But something wasn’t right. Why would Moretti just start contacting adams, a man he had not heard from in years? In fact, if they were such good friends, why did they just cease contact to begin with? The facts didn’t add up, she mused over her coffee.
Then, the phone rang, its piercing sound almost knocking her off her chair. She quickly snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Detective Taylor? We got the results back from that lab test you ordered.”
Oh, shoot! She had completely forgotten about the blood test. “Yes, what were the results?”
“Well, most of the blood belonged to a guy called Mike Adams, but we found a minute trace of DNA that belonged to another guy, a Mr Dominic Moretti.”
She was literally stunned. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone.
******************************************
For the second time that day she pulled up the Police Charger outside the Moretti family home that looked more like a fortress than a house. She tapped noisily on the door, Dom Toretti appearing minutes later.
“Ah, detective, what can I do for you? Did your guys miss anything on your visit earlier?”
“I know Dom,” she answered solemnly. “I know everything.”
“What? What do you mean you know everthing…” His voice drained away at the look in her eyes. He clenched his fists, an odd look entering his eyes.
“Like an uncle to me… Yeah, he was like an uncle me. And a best friend to Dad… And to Mom. So Dad killed her.” He choked up. “He killed her. And I was left with a dead Mother, an estranged uncle who had torn my life apart, and a father I now hated forever. And now? Now I have a dead uncle, an imprisoned father, and a mother I am soon to join.” He pulled a 44 magnum revolver, the same gun identified at the apartment, and raised it to his temple.
A smattering of brains and blood stained her jacket, leaving her empty and alone in the hot summer’s night.
The room was filled with blood. Covering the floor in disturbing streaks of crimson, the wall painted in its shiny hue.
The detective walked through the gruesome murder scene, taking particular care not to touch any of the evidence labelled with the little yellow cones. The brutality that caused such mayhem made her heave, shuddering as she tried to keep down her breakfast of decaffeinated coffee, and half a banana.
No one had seen anything. But then again, no one ever did. The victim was identified as one Mike Adams, a tenant in the building. Single guy, paid his bills on time…. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But, when was there? The routine back up check would tell.
He (or what was left of him) was found by the landlady, who had had complaints of the “unearthly odours,” deriving from under his door, placing his time of death prior to 9.30 am. Provided she wasn’t lying. Which everyone does…
The woman was a right mess; seated in the corner, shrouded in a blanket with a mug of something steamy, she was in definite shock, traumatised by the grisly scene before them. The detective turned her back on her. The woman was useless. Or the murderer.
Dealing in absolutes helped her think, helped her to rationalise the conflict of crime and chaos that would have otherwise driven her insane. She took a canister from her suit pocket, withdrawing two pills, and a cigarette, or “nails,” as she liked to call them.
There was something unsettling about this crime. It was too… unnecessary. Too extravagant. Mere anger, mere hate, was not the cause of the destructive violence that had caused the scene before her. There was no reason for covering the room with gore and disgust. Unless they wanted to hide something….
“Get all this blood back to the labs, immediately,” she commanded to the somewhat stunned forensic investigators. Arrogant pricks, she thought to herself. A separate unit, technically they didn’t have to answer to the police, and they took this power in their stride. Nonetheless, after a few moments of hesitation and insolent grunting, they set about their work. Her fellow police officers looked on in confusion, wondering why their colleague would order the needless removal of evidence. She had a hunch though. And they knew better than to question her theories. Regardless of their validity. That was above their pay grade. And their concerns for personal safety.
Her phone began to ring, a professional buzzing which suited the undisturbed silence of the crime scene.
“Yes?” she answered in her brusque style. It was the boys from the office.
“Yeah, we did that back up check on the puddle.” She ground her teeth into her cigarette. Ignorant twats. Yet she reeled in her anger. This call might bring new news.
“We were checking the vics phone records; he’s made several calls in the last week to known associates of Nicholas Moretti.” She had a sharp intake of breath. Nicholas Moretti was one of the most notorious criminals in the city. An Italian mobster, he ran the drug trade, human trafficking, money laundering… everything illicit, ran through this man. Their station’s PD had been trying to arrest him for months, but the only thing they could charge him with were a couple of unpaid parking tickets. If Mike Adams was involved with this guy, then he must be in deep with something bad.
Moretti could be found on the Lower East Side. It was a poorer district, “stingy,” as her corporal described on the ride over, but she guessed that offered more security. It was quiet, driving in; few vehicles on the road, and fewer pedestrians on the street, and those that were seen she conjectured to be on Moretti’s payroll, judging from the manner they eyeballed the flagrant design of the police charger and the bulges under their coats, unusual in the day’s sweltering heat.
“Moretti’s House is just ahead,” her corporal informed her, navigating in the passenger’s seat. He may have said “House” but she thought fortress was a more apt description. Guarded by a 4 metre high concrete wall, adorned by coils of wire. Their path was blocked by a two-lane wide, iron bound gate, an impressive barrier against the measly might of their standard-issue police vehicle. They swung open on their own accord as they drew nearer, and she got her first glimpse of the “house.” Huge and imposing, it was an impressive structure. Several stories of glass and stone it was an anachronism compared to its neighbours of termite ridden wood and cheap brick. Cameras were everywhere, glaring down on them as they pulled up. The front door opened and she was met by a welcome party of two short men dressed in 3 piece suits, slicked back hair and cigars. Nicholas Moretti, she thought to herself, seething.
“Well, detective Taylor. What a pleasant surprise. Can I help you with anything on this fine, summer’s day?” he asked innocently.
The nerve of this guy! He knows why I’m here. He murdered Mike Adams. I’m sure of it.
“Are you acquainted with a Mr Mike Adams?” She asked, supressing her annoyance.
“Mike?” Moretti mentioned something to the second man in a language she didn’t understand. He nodded hesitantly.
“Yes, Mike Adams. Did you know him, or didn’t you?” She was quickly losing patience.
“Yes, I knew Mike. We were school mates. He was practically an uncle to Dom here growing up,” he established, nodding at his son for emphasis.
She and the corporal shared a look.
“And have you been in contact with Mr Adams recently?”
“No… I haven’t seen Mike in years. Why, has something come up?” he questioned, concerned.
“He was murdered this morning.” The detective said bluntly.
“Murdered!” His eyes grew wide and he paused for a moment. “But… Why would anyone hurt Mike? He was the nicest guy in the world! I don’t… I don’t…” He seemed stunned.
“Mr Moretti, if you had not had contact with Mr Adams in months, why then do I have phone records of you texting him in the hours leading up to his death?”
Leaning on the shoulder of his son, who had an equally shocked look in his eyes, Moretti was in a clear state (or feigned state) of distress. But upon her accusation, he drew himself up, an intense rage in his features.
“What are you accusing officer? Are you saying that I murdered my childhood friend? That I bludgeoned him to death in cold blood? Beat his head in with a wrench?”
“Mr Moretti, no one said anything about a wrench.” And none had showed up in the autopsy, but she kept that detail to herself.
“Nick Moretti, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you san can and will be used in a court of law…..”
*******************************************
Sitting back at the PD, nursing over a third cup of coffee, a cigarette stilled on an ashtray before her, the sound of adulation filling her senses as her colleagues congratulated her on her “Big bust”. But something wasn’t right. Why would Moretti just start contacting adams, a man he had not heard from in years? In fact, if they were such good friends, why did they just cease contact to begin with? The facts didn’t add up, she mused over her coffee.
Then, the phone rang, its piercing sound almost knocking her off her chair. She quickly snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Detective Taylor? We got the results back from that lab test you ordered.”
Oh, shoot! She had completely forgotten about the blood test. “Yes, what were the results?”
“Well, most of the blood belonged to a guy called Mike Adams, but we found a minute trace of DNA that belonged to another guy, a Mr Dominic Moretti.”
She was literally stunned. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone.
******************************************
For the second time that day she pulled up the Police Charger outside the Moretti family home that looked more like a fortress than a house. She tapped noisily on the door, Dom Toretti appearing minutes later.
“Ah, detective, what can I do for you? Did your guys miss anything on your visit earlier?”
“I know Dom,” she answered solemnly. “I know everything.”
“What? What do you mean you know everthing…” His voice drained away at the look in her eyes. He clenched his fists, an odd look entering his eyes.
“Like an uncle to me… Yeah, he was like an uncle me. And a best friend to Dad… And to Mom. So Dad killed her.” He choked up. “He killed her. And I was left with a dead Mother, an estranged uncle who had torn my life apart, and a father I now hated forever. And now? Now I have a dead uncle, an imprisoned father, and a mother I am soon to join.” He pulled a 44 magnum revolver, the same gun identified at the apartment, and raised it to his temple.
A smattering of brains and blood stained her jacket, leaving her empty and alone in the hot summer’s night.