TWO

It was always the same for him. For Detective Finnegan, seeing the body for the first time, holding hands with a family member, saying empty reassuring words, it was a routine he got used to by now. And yet, he could never imagine the pain and horror they feel when the medical examiner pulled the cover off the dead’s face. He saw countless strong-headed, strong-willed men and women break down into tears. He saw them convulsing, covering their mouth as to not throw up. He could never imagine all that happening to him.
Yet, he had to, if he didn’t want the dead becoming just numbers for him. When  he signed up for the Academy, he promised himself, for the sake his sanity, for the sake of what he lost in that decision, he would never walk up to a dead body and think, “Another one?”
Growing up as an orphan, he never knew how to care about something, how to hold something, or someone, dear. But he could still connect to those who lost their loved ones in a flash of human brutality. He reminded himself of how it felt, sitting in the library as he read an old news clipping of a double homicide. It struck him more than anything he’s experienced. The name Finnegan, his name, on that yellowed page. His parents who he never met, now never to meet. All thanks to a faceless murderer, never caught.
He couldn’t let that happen to anyone else.
But he would have these nightmares of his parents’ death, even though he’s never seen them anywhere but in faded pictures. He imagined a worse death than they probably went through. A brutal killing that made him wake up in cold sweat. For whatever reason, he would always feel the murderer closing in on him. He was the next target, just waiting to be found.
Tonight, he dreamt of that repeating nightmare once again. Just as the killer turned around from the bloody mess he’s made of Finnegan’s parents, just as he was about to reveal his face to the detective, he felt a shock run through his body and he bolted upright in his bed. As the fear and panic from the nightmare died down, he became aware of a noise, a blaring, honking scream.
No wait…
An actual melody, a familiar song… Mr. Brightside?
Groaning, James Finnegan willed himself out of the feverish post-nightmare fright and back into real life. His eyes found a beam of light shining through the darkness of his bedroom. It was his phone.
He checked the clock on his bedside table.
4:02 AM.
You have got to be kidding me.
Finnegan reached over and picked up the phone. The caller ID showed the name: Erin Patricks. He flipped it open and put it to his ear.
“Patricks,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again, “What have you got for me at four in the morning?”
“Something new,” she said mysteriously. “Get your butt over here, Mr Detective. You’ll want to see this one. I’ll text you the location.”
“Alright, I’m getting up. Oh, hey, are we still on for this weekend?”
He could almost hear the smile on her face. “We’ll see. First, dead body. Come on.”
The line went dead. Finnegan shook his head in amusement. Women.


“Okay, I’m here.” Detective Finnegan stepped out of his Crown Victoria into the cold. He wrapped his trench coat tighter around him and pushed down his curly brown hair, trying to look more presentable.
“Nice of you to join us, Detective,” Patricks said. She was wearing a thick black coat and high boots to match. She had tied her brown hair back in a tight bun. She smiled happily as she hooked an arm around his. Arm in arm, the two of them ducked under the yellow tape, strode past the blue-whites and into an alleyway, lit by their bright headlights penetrating through the snowy night.
“Alright, so what did you bring me out here for?” he asked, extracting himself from the ME and tugging on his blue latex gloves. He looked up and down the alley. “Where’s the body?”
“Aha, I told you it was complicated,” she teased. She crouched down and pointed with a pencil. “There is no body but we found a patch of blood that soaked through the snow. Preliminaries say it happened between midnight and 2 AM. It looks like the initial spray so if left untreated for long enough, it could’ve killed the guy. Also, there was a piece of metal lodged in the snow,” she pulled out the evidence bag to show him. “I don’t know for sure what it is but it looks like a piece of a sword to me.”
“A sword? Who uses swords?”
“Well, you’re the detective. You tell me. Oh, and you should know"that lamp over there,” she pointed towards the entrance of the alley, “it’s broken. Apparently your attacker wanted some darkness.”
“Alright, I’ll make sure to jot that down. Speaking of which, where’s Peebles and why isn’t he here taking notes like everyone else?”
“Couldn’t get through to him. You know how he is, won’t wake up until 8 AM.”
He rolled his eyes. What good is a partner if he’s fast asleep?
“So what, we don’t have a body, we don’t have an ID, and we don’t even know if the vic’s even dead or not,” he ticked each one off his fingers. “Fantastic. What did you bring me out here at 4 AM for?”
“I’m sure if the vic’s dead, you’ll find the body. In the meanwhile, I’ll work on getting you an ID.” She poked his chest playfully with the pencil. “There’s a magical thing called science, you know. I can use the blood for DNA testing.”
“Forensics, always a wonder. How fast can you get that done?”
“Swing by the morgue by noon. And I’ll get CSU to sweep the alley, see what shakes out.”


Finnegan sprayed some Simple Green on the white board. He wiped it with a paper towel, getting the grime off of the surface. Using magnets and a dry-erase marker, he began filling in the information he had. So far, it consisted of just a picture of the crime scene, the metal piece, and a note about the anonymous tip that found the crime scene. Apparently it was “urgent” that the police get there.
As Finnegan stared at the Murder Board, questions began to arise. Who was the anon that brought him out of bed at 4 AM? Why use a sword? And then there was the crime scene. The first to arrive at the spot was smart enough to take pictures of the footprints in the snow before stepping in. They showed two sets going in, but only one set going out. What could’ve possibly happened?
Finnegan thought about his next move, but after a minute of zoning out, he looked at the clock, hoping that perhaps forensic science prevailed over detective work.
11:38 AM. Eh, close enough.
“Oi Peebles,” he said, his voice carrying out clearly through the precinct. Adam Peebles, his partner, spun around in his chair and looked back at him expectantly. On his computer screen was an unfinished game of Minesweeper. Finnegan couldn’t blame him, it had been a slow morning. Though that won’t stop him from smacking Peebles on the back of the head later.
“You ready for a field trip?”


OCME was kept on a constant cold temperature as a courtesy for the bodies. As they walked in, they were forced to shed their thick winter coats made to withstand the passing snowstorm. But they considered keeping it on because the refrigeration in the building was, well, stronger than your average AC unit. However, in a silent contest, or more accurately, tradition, of manhood between the two detectives, they withstood the uncomfortably cool air.
“Your man, or I should say, your woman is Renee Heat,” ME Patricks announced. “Her DNA fingerprints were in our system and they match the sample.” She handed them a photo. Heat was a beautiful blonde with clear blue eyes and sharp features. “Age twenty-three. No criminal record. CSU is on their way to her apartment on East 38th Street and Park Avenue right now. The sheet doesn’t really give you anything on her, but you’ll want to see it yourself later, of course. I sent one to the precinct already.”
“Awesome. For now, we’ll go pay her apartment a visit. C’mon Peebles.”
“Wait, one more thing,” she said quickly. “That piece of metal? Turns out to be made of some really special steel. It’s an alloy of a bunch of strange metals that shouldn’t mix, like francium and platinum. I didn’t even think it was possible. It’s incredible"strong but lightweight. Doesn’t seem to respond so well with the cold though; it cracked and got very brittle when it was treated to sub-zero temperatures. I’m pretty sure it’s a sword, but I can’t match it to a model or brand unless you can get me a bigger sample.” 
“Thanks, Erin,” Finnegan flashed her a smile before remembering Peebles. The smile faded away awkwardly at the sight of his partner with a smug smile and a raised eyebrow, standing right next to them.
Leave it to your partner to ruin a perfectly good moment.


“God, you guys are fast.”
Finnegan stepped over the yellow tape at the threshold with Peebles following close by. CSU was the first on the scene, as always. The uniformed scientists and cops filed in and out of the apartment, filing this and that, looking for anything that seemed relevant to the case. They worked in almost eerie silence, communicating with each other only when necessary. This quiet was often punctuated by the sharp snap of a camera. The detectives walked slowly into this busy area, trying to do everything the CSU was already doing"looking and noting.
The place made quite a first impression: books, papers, photos, food, drinks, other crap"all that junk tossed around everywhere, barely leaving enough floor to walk on. Clotheslines stretched across every room, every inch of it pinned with more pictures and loose pages. Every movement made them twitch, as if itching to be noticed.
Peebles made the first comment: “Wow. Has she ever heard of spring cleaning?”
Finnegan was about to shoot his partner a disapproving glance when a uniform came up to them. The detective, glad to hear something useful, turned his attention to the uniform. “Heat hasn’t been here since last night and hasn’t checked into a hospital or anything. Looks more and more like a homicide, Detectives.”
Out of the entrance and into the living room, they were greeted by a labyrinth. As soon as they turned the corner, they were forced to stop. Stacks of paper as tall as the detectives formed heavy walls that consumed the entire room. Finding space to squeeze through them was hard enough, but they had to navigate around the room without touching them. While stacks that high seemed impossible to reach, knocking them over seemed the exact opposite, extremely easy. Not to mention the mess.
Finnegan expertly twisted his body this way and that, dancing around the paper stack the best he could, but he was wearing a long trench coat and he kept forgetting to check above for clotheslines with his eyes fixed on the floor, trying to find a spot to place his next step. The first couple steps went fine, but in the next few, he knocked over half of a stack with his elbow. Hearing another thud and loud rustle of papers, he knew Peebles had done the same.
After some more painstaking acrobatic feat, the detectives made their way across to the only clean spot in the room. Completely surrounded by the stacks, which loomed over like a tall trees around a clearing, a simple wooden desk sat by a window. It was clean, polished, and empty. A single lamp sat at a corner, as if daring not to break the utter tranquility. It seemed so lonely… or as lonely as a desk could get, anyway.
“Obvious she wanted to keep her work space clear,” Peebles said sarcastically. Finnegan rolled his eyes. He knew Peebles to never let anything make him feel anything less than excited, happy, or sassy. Through his sarcastic remarks, he dealt with the darkness of murder and the small things like this desk that projected loneliness or sadness. Every cop had his defence against feeling depressed, and this was his method, but for Finnegan, he always tried to find Peebles’s little remarks, as funny as they sometimes are, annoying and disrespectful, and discouraged it.
But, however you cope with it, this was still a job. “This is the odd sock of the room. Jot this down, this might be significant.”
“Maybe this desk is a metaphor for her lonely life, trying to let the light in from a window she can’t open,” he said in a mock dreamy voice as he got out his notepad. “Whoa, it’s like I’m back in high school English. Ew.”
“C’mon, Peebles, we still got lots to see,” Finnegan said, venturing into the labyrinth again. He took a new path through the stacks and found himself in the bedroom. A nice single bed, sheets cleaned and tucked nicely in its place. But even here, papers and pictures dominated most of the space. Folders lay open on the bed, spilling its contents over the sheets. None of these stood out. Peebles stopped to take a glance at the papers, most of which were printouts of anonymous emails. They moved on.
The kitchen was a surprise. It was almost normal. No loose papers or pictures hanging on clotheslines here. No stacks of books, not even a stain on the dining table from spilt wine. It looked like any other kitchen. A sink, cabinets with more spices than you can count, a microwave, an oven with pans thrown in for safekeeping, a refrigerator with almost-empty Red-Bulls, a dishwasher, and a rack of utensils. The only thing out of place was a stack of old newspapers huddled in a corner like orphans.
Out of curiosity, Finnegan plucked a dusty issue from the stack and flipped to a random page. He read: “VICTORIAN CLUB SUSPECTED OF MURDER by Renee Heat.”
“Peebles,” he called, his heart soaring. A clue! “Look at this.” He handed the newspaper over.
“‘DOG NEUTERED BY CAR by Kate Vissicchio,’” he read aloud. He cracked a smile. “You’re a sick man, James.”
Finnegan punched his shoulder. “No, idiot, over here.”
“Wait, ‘Renee Heat’? Isn’t that…”
“Our victim? Yes, exactly. She must be a reporter. That would explain all this… paper. But photos?”
“Could be a photographer too. Journalists aren’t paid so well, you know.”
“Worse than a cop’s pinch?”
“Well, she could be. Or it might be research.”
“There, that sounds smarter. Now, maybe if some of this told us about her killer...Maybe she was about to submit a tell-all story and they killed her before it could be printed, or maybe she found a secret she was never meant to during a research… Why would they kill a reporter?”
“Kill the messenger, right?” Peebles mumbled, but he was already distracted. He spotted a rack of knives. “Wow, you don’t think these are made of that weird metal Patricks showed us?” He ran his finger over an elegant plastic handle.
“I take back what I said about you being smart.”
“Oh, don’t be a stickler, I’m wearing gloves,” he scoffed. Peebles pulled out a knife from the rack against Finnegan’s protests.
Suddenly, there was a heavy grinding of rock against rock. The wall behind them had opened up, revealing a dark doorway.
“What in the world…” You never just find secret rooms in Manhattan apartments.
They got out their mini-flashlights and shone it into the room before entering. It was damp and murky, and smelt of sewers. Simple grey walls and cement floor made it seem almost like a prison. A metal desk sat at the centre. On it, an ancient Macintosh sat silently with a primitive mouse. A folder sat open by the computer. All seemed to connect back to a dark, secretive setting, except a luxurious leather chair situated in front of the desk. It seemed to be the only modern thing in the room.
Finnegan tapped the spacebar and woke the computer, but the monitor simply showed a green blinker like those old computers that worked only on commands. However, that was the feature of the first Windows computers. A Macintosh should be operating on a desktop basis, even the older ones. To add to the mystery, the papers from the folder, yellowed from age, were completely blank.

“Weird.”


When you hit a brick wall, you try another route. Finnegan was met with a bunch of deadends at the apartment. Now, he took another route, back to the precinct. The files on Renee Heat were waiting for him on the desk. Sadly, there was no criminal record, nothing to show any reason for her death. However, this confirmed her position as a writer and photographer for The New York Times. Now he had a new route to take.
The detectives flashed their tin at the front desk of The New York Times building.
“Detective James Finnegan, Homicide, and my partner, Adam Peebles. We’d like to ask some questions about Renee Heat.”
“Renee? Homicide? What are you talking about?” called a voice from across the lobby before the secretary behind the desk could speak. A well-dressed woman in a suit and high heels marched her way over from an elevator.
“We’re investing the case of Renee Heat. We have reasons to believe she was murdered last night. Would you know anything about that?”
“Murdered?” she repeated. Her face was fixed at a stern stare, but appropriate surprise showed through.
“Yes, there is evidence to suggest it, but we don’t know for sure.”
“Don’t know for sure?” she snapped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We, uh, haven’t found the body,” Peebles replied awkwardly.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find her soon. Very soon. If she is dead at all,” Finnegan reassured her. “But in order to do so, we do need some information on Miss Heat. I take it you knew her well?”
“Yes, I did, more or less,” she replied, rather stiffly.
“And you are?”
“Kyra Curtis, I watch over my team of writers, including Renee.” She hesitated, eyeing the two detectives with what seemed to be doubt. “I’m a friend,” she said, looking away from the detectives.“Actually, I’m one of her only friends.”
“Sociopath?” Peebles blurted.
“What? Oh god no. No, no. She was very nice and friendly, always smiling and all. But she was the kind of person that everyone liked but never got close to, you know?”
“Did she have any conflicts recently?”
“Oh dear, no. Like I said, everyone liked her.”
“How was she at work?”
“Diligent. Very smart. She was sort of a perfectionist. She did everything perfectly, to the finest details. She was amazing.”
“Was there any bad blood between her co-worked, like jealousy problems or some competition carried away or anything of the sort?”
“She had no interest in becoming editor, or anything like that. She was modest in her work. There was nothing like jealousy or competition as far as I know.”
“You said you were her friend. What was her social and personal life like?”
“Any boyfriends?” Peebles added.
“Yes,” she replied slowly. “I think she mentioned something about a boyfriend once. Been going out for a while now if I remember correctly, but I’ve never seen him. I don’t even know his name.”
“Okay. She seemed to have been out and about Grand Central Station between midnight and 2AM. Any idea why?”
“Nope… maybe to catch a train?” she suggested unhelpfully.
“Well she didn’t. She was attacked in an alley nearby. We found her blood.”
“Look, I know it’s an active case and you guys need solid facts but I just don’t have them. I don’t know her so well, even if I’m her friend. But, you know, Renee’s roommate might know better than I.”
“Roommate? We’ve been at her apartment. One bed. One toothbrush”
“Yes, she moved out a couple months ago but before, she was rooming with this girl, Kate. Kate Vissicchio.”

Peebles turned to Finnegan with a broad, mischievous grin. “This is great, we can ask her about that neutered dog.”