Until Arsen (Daniels Family 1)

Arsen

I spent the entire weekend with Marina, taking her out, having her cook for me. Helping her pack. It was exactly what I’ve always pictured with that special woman but wasn’t convinced was in my cards. However, after this time together, I know she’s it. She’s the one woman I’m meant to spend my life with.

Leaving her last night after things got heated on her couch, was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I was rock hard; she was needy and breathless. I had to recite the entire Nashville Predators roster to focus long enough to drive home.

My five a.m. wakeup call to a gruesome double murder wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Monday. Rod hadn’t been any happier when I called to wake him up after arriving at the scene, either.

Twelve hours later and we’re only getting back to the precinct after casing the scene, talking to witnesses, and stopping by the coroner’s office. We still have to notify both victims’ families before we can take any time to decompress.

“That was a brutal one.” Rod drops into his chair with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah. Worst I’ve seen in years,” I mutter as I walk to the coffee machine. I need fuel before I can even think of sitting down, or I may not get up again.

“Fuck,” Rod shouts as he jumps to his feet. “Emily’s on her way to the hospital.” He looks torn between duty and family.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I yell at him. “Call with an update!” He’s out the door and waving his hand as it swings shut.

“Daniels!” I hear barked from the captain’s office.

Walking over, I know what he’s going to want before I enter. A report. Answers. An arrest. None of which I have yet.

Knocking on his door, he bellows, “

Come in!” Even though he knows it’s me, he still demands acceptance to anyone’s entrance.

“You called?”

“Status report on the double homicide.” The man is a demanding son of a bitch, but from what I’ve been told, he was one of the best back in his time.

“No physical evidence at the scene. Coroner is having castings made of the stab wounds. There were defensive marks on both victims, and we’re still waiting on the toxicology report.”

“So you have nothing?” he snaps.

I have to grind my teeth together. “Basically, yeah.”

“Spoken to the family yet?” He doesn’t even look up from the papers on his desk. The man is cold.

“On my way there now.”

“Get going.”

“Yes, sir.”

As I’m about to walk out the door, he calls out, “Detective, next time, tell your partner to stay until the work is finished.”

I don’t bother responding. He won’t take any type of excuse as acceptable. Nodding, I leave, closing the door behind me. Notifying parents that their child isn’t coming home again is the worst part of my job. I loathe doing it, but I’d rather it come from me than from a beat cop. I have the connection to their loved ones, not some nameless officer.

This is going to be one of the worst notifications I’ve ever had to do. The victims were both young—only eighteen and nineteen. Cousins from I was able to find out. These types of cases are the ones that eat away at a cop his entire career. Makes you question everything you know about the law, about justice and morality.

What happened to these boys is unjustifiable. There is no rhyme or reason to it. It’s some sicko getting his rocks off from what we can tell. We collected their fingers from the bushes where they’d been thrown after being dismembered. The medical examiner counted a stab wound for each year of their age in their chests and abdomens. The very worst part is that they were left for dead.

The killer has excellent precision in anatomy because he made sure not to hit anything vital. They bled out over approximately four hours. With their hands and feet bound and their mouths gagged, no one would have heard them in the abandoned lot they were in overnight. It is a shitty area of town, so there weren’t many people out and about at night.

I would never tell their families any of this, though. It’s something I will protect them from. Learning their children are dead is torture enough. Knowing how is something very few people should have to live with.

Slowing into the parking lot of an apartment building only minutes from Marina’s, I feel a lead weight settle deep in my gut. I fucking hate this part of the job.

I take a moment to place a stoic but caring mask firmly on my face. They can’t know how harshly these boys’ deaths are affecting me; they need me to be strong for them. To give them answers. The rage inside me isn’t what they need.