*In a feeble attempt to overcome a lack of writer's mood, I started this story for the current Muse at The Tenth Daughter of Memory. Obviously, due to length, I'll have to finish it another time.
"Nobody but you knows what happened." A male's voice. Inquisitive, interrogative. It wants to get to the bottom of things.
"I know." A female's voice. Evasive, rebellious. She's having fun. Or is scared out of her mind. It's hard to know.
"So why won't you tell us?"
"Maybe because it's all part of the plan."
It was an unusual safety switch for an unusual weapon. A simple push-button. Though she had no military, law enforcement, or any other type of weapons-oriented training, she knew that most safeties were levers. Well, most on readily-available common firearms, anyway. This was no common firearm. The whole thing weighed about 20 pounds and was over 3-feet long. The stranger who handed it to her called it a "saw," she thought she heard. Prior to hearing the term, she mused that it might have been what her father often lovingly referred to as a pig, but thought better of it. How long ago would that have been? Using a firearm her father used before she was born would have unsettled her.
Why was she here again?
A click. An inhalation. A quick prayer even more quickly disregarded. God should not watch this. Explaining this to the Almighty might be a tough sell.
Despite the all-too-frequent examples of slow response times, the Los Angeles Police Department is a competent institution and its cops usually get to where they need to get as rapidly as possible. That the shooting began in Magnolia Park was the only factor in tonight's hesitation. Machine gun fire was expected in North Hollywood - a hangover from the infamous bank robbery - but not in Burbank. Still, the bureaucracy was sorted out before anybody even reached the scene. An Aston Martin V12 Vantage riddled with over one hundred rounds of 5.56 millimeter ammunition. Two blood types splattered all over the interior. But no bodies.
She had been over-thinking things in an attempt to alleviate her panic. Running in high heels was never a good idea, this much was obvious. But stopping to break off the heels was an even worse idea. Too many movies viewed in the place where movies are made.
She'll never forget the police officer. Over six-feet tall, black, eyes that never see anything surprising. His voice was soft, cautious, and like his eyes... unsurprised.
"Next time," he started, "just kick off the shoes."
At least he hadn't put the cuffs on too tightly.
The Detective stares at her through the one-way mirror. Her prints are all over the machine gun, but the forensics team found no carbon residue on her fingers. Gloves are the obvious answer, but her hands were covered in dirt and oil, as if she had been changing the oil in her car. A witness had seen her bolt from the yard where the gun was found, and there was only an estimated four or five seconds between the witness losing sight of her and the officer locating her. Sure, a lot can happen in four or five seconds. But how did she get her hands dirty? There were no fibers or powder caught in the soot, and her hands weren't smudged. Near as anyone could tell, she hadn't been wearing anything on her hands.
"Where are the bodies?"
She smiles. Very attractive smile - it almost lights up the room - on a very attractive woman. 5'7", athletic yet curved body. And green eyes. Wicked green eyes. "What bodies?"
The Forensics officer smiles at the approaching woman. Most of the patrol units - both LAPD and BPD's - have already left, and he was used to curious neighbors coming up to ask questions. He couldn't stand the CSI shows on television, but they at least gave the viewing public more respect for forensic departments.
"Excuse me, officer?" She's an elderly woman, at least 70. His mother, an uptight English woman, would have called this one a blue-hair.
"Has anyone checked on Phyllis and Henry?"
The question confuses him, but on a night like this, with a crime like this, it isn't an alarming state of mind. "I'm sorry, who?"
She points to a residence three houses down the street. It looks like every other house on the block. Built in the 40s, serene under its trees. Except... its lights are off.
He glances up and down the neighborhood. Every single house with lights on. Hard to sleep through a war zone, after all.
"The lights are off."
The Patrolman pukes. A lot. The smell didn't get to him; it rarely ever does. But the scene is the most disturbing he's ever bore witness to.
A bathtub full of lye. Two chemically burned - indeed, partially dissolved - bodies thrown together. Evidence of dismemberment. No blood anywhere else in the house. Stranger still, no shell casings or slugs.
They now had two bodies. And, perhaps, a new crime.
"Burbank taking this one?"
The Detective's partner shrugs. "They want to know what we want to do. This isn't exactly run of the mill."
Staring again through the mirror, a single thought races through his mind. Wicked green eyes.
*To be continued...
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