Chapter Text
Detective Patrick sat at his desk, pen in hand as he filled out a police report. His hand was starting to cramp, the words getting harder and harder to materialize onto the page. Day after day after day it was the same thing: he got assigned to a case, he investigated, he arrested a perpetrator, then the next 15 hours was nothing but endless stacks of paperwork.
Don’t get him wrong, he enjoyed his job. He enjoyed being the one to solve the case, to bring those bastards to justice. He relished in the look on their faces when he pulled those cuffs out, the metal clink of the mechanism as they snapped over a wrist. He adored the thrill of the hunt, the fight for clues and indicators as to what the hell happened in the case. This job was his lifeblood, the very crimson liquid that flowed through his veins.
Or at least it was. But that was before Everlock.
Everlock had done something to him, and to this day he wasn’t sure what. It had been almost a year since that fateful night, and he was still finding things that aren’t the same since he returned. He didn’t sleep the same, didn’t talk the same. His work ethic was a little less precise, his concentration askew. He developed migraines, his head constantly throbbing in one specific section of his skull. He looked the same, but everything about him was different. Everlock chewed him up and spit him back out a changed man. He’d even go as far as to say he wasn’t right.
Still, Detective Patrick tried his best to continue his work as usual. If he was struggling, he was damn sure not to let anybody see it. Especially not his coworkers. He didn’t know what they’d think, and he wasn’t about to find out. The station depended on him. He was the best—that was just a fact. Everyone knew it and no one denied it. Matthew Patrick was the best detective at the precinct. Not a single case went past him, not a killer his hands couldn’t catch. If there was a crime that needed to be solved, he could crack it within the hour. He was just simply that good. People depended on him and his intelligence. He couldn’t let anyone down.
So here he was at the ass-crack of dawn, filing the case report in the low light of his desk lamp, his pen continuing to glide across the information tables despite the consistent pain in his wrist. One of these days he’d develop a carpal tunnel, if he hadn’t already. But he needed to get this done. People depended on him.
He let out a sigh of relief as he jotted down the last little bit of data, placing his signature at the bottom of the page and shoving it in a folder. He’d have to actually label it later, but for now he wrote “CSE-3199” at the top and slid the folder into the file cabinet next to CSE-3198.
Another one down, Matthew.
He got up out of his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. He grimaced a bit as he heard the various popping noises of the joints in his back. Clearly, he had been sitting for far too long. That’s fine. He’d do it all again tomorrow.
Grabbing his blazer off the coat rack he stepped out of his office, making his way down the cubicles and towards the front desk to clock out. He had been working for nearly 24 hours. He was tired, down to the bone and frayed to the wick. All he wanted was to sleep, but of course, the Universe had other plans for him. The moment his hand touched the doorknob—
“Good morning, Detective!”
Matthew’s head whipped around at the sound. Standing before him was his Chief.
Grant Johnson was a tall, stout black male in his mid 50s. His hair was dyed black, but the dye had faded slightly, tinging the thick, small black coils grey. His uniform was a bit wrinkled, but nonetheless clean looking. He was wearing a grin too wide to be anything but authoritative. Truthfully, Matthew felt he should retire, but the man insisted on working, despite the fact that the most he could do was sit at the station and boss everyone around.
“Morning, Chief,” Matthew replied, trying his best to sound relatively cheerful despite the slight irritation he suddenly felt. If the Chief picked up on it, he didn’t say anything, much to Matthew’s appreciation.
“Ah, I’m sorry to catch you on your way out, Patrick, but I’ve got a call I need you to take.”
There it was. Matthew straightened up immediately. He was so tired, he didn’t know if he had it in him to take on another case. He opened his mouth to say no-
“Of course. What’s the situation?” He said, the ‘no’ dissolving in his mouth.
The Chief hummed. “We’ve got a body out on Henderson. I haven’t gotten much information from dispatch, but it appears to be a homeless man. It’s looking like a possible homicide.”
Matthew nodded, taking all this information in and storing it away. He silently hoped it was a natural death or self defense, and not an act of cruelty. What kind of sick bastard would kill a homeless person? They’re in enough of a horrible position as it is.
“I got it. I’ll head there now.”
“That’s the spirit!” Chief Johnson laughed, a deep, hearty sound, as he clapped a hand to Matthew’s shoulder. The man rubbed it a bit, wrinkling the orangeish leather just a tad. When he pulled away, he immediately brought a hand up to smoothen it. Professionalism. Right.
“I’ll have one of the responding officers radio you the precise location. Report all your findings back to me, got it? All of them.”
As the Chief spoke, Matthew couldn’t help but notice the look in his eyes. As cheerful as he ever was, there was something about his expression that didn’t feel right. The subtle furrow of his brow, the twitch of lips forced to stretch too wide, too unnatural. Something was wrong, but what?
“...Got it,” Matthew replied, already heading out the door.
The rising sun shone bright in his face, causing him to wince and bring his arm up to shield his eyes. He quickly extracted his aviators from his pocket, donning them to help with the light burn. His aviators were more of a fashion choice than anything of proper substance, but they sufficed until he got to his car—an old, beat-up Honda Civic with lights on the top that he had to attach himself. He had brought up the lack of funds for police vehicles to the budget department at the station, but they never got back to him, and Matthew had enough on his plate to go and hound them about it. It was a waste of time. He had better things to do, like investigating the potential homicide he was assigned just moments ago.
Starting up the car and pulling out of the parking lot, Matthew drove in almost complete silence. The only noise that could be heard was the sound of tires against rough gravel, wind rushing past metal barriers as he sped off toward the scene. He glanced down at his GPS just to make sure he was still on the right track. He trusted the dispatch team to give him the correct location, but he was a natural overthinker. If something wasn’t double checked, Matthew couldn’t rest until he was certain it was right. It was a compulsion, a need for reassurance. He glanced at it once more for good measure.
Eventually, he approached the crime scene, putting the vehicle in park and taking the key from the ignition. He quickly surveyed the scene: the CSI team had already arrived, the lead investigator ordering the other two officers around as they took photos and sketched the crime scene. Tents were set up, forensic investigators setting up camp inside the perimeter. He could very faintly see the outline of a body on the ground through the crime scene tape. Thankfully it was still early morning, so there weren’t as many civilians around to try and poke their heads into the potential homicide. This meant less headache for the team, and less eyes on Matthew. This was good. He could work with this.
He got out and shut the car door behind him, the chill of the autumn air biting at him despite the thick leather blazer on his arms. He pulled it tighter against himself as he walked, heels thumping against pavement as he stepped onto the sidewalk. The scene of the crime was a bit perplexing to him. It appeared to be located near a building’s front entrance in broad daylight, which was an odd placement for a murder. This comforted the detective. At least this was an accident. He hoped.
As he approached the officer manning the perimeter, he prepared to flash him his badge, already reaching for the emblem on his hip. The officer’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Oh-oh hello, Detective! Step- yep, just step right in!”
The officer lifted the tape for him as if it was a grand opening, like he was stepping into a cinema show and getting front row seats to witness it. How’d he even know it was him? It only confused Matthew further as he stepped under the yellow, waltzing past the various police officers and forensic experts studying the scene. He felt like he was being watched. He could’ve sworn he heard whispers from the others on the force, ceasing the noise as soon as he got within earshot. Maybe he was just paranoid. Maybe this felt too personal. He wasn’t sure yet.
He made it to the CSI table, grabbing a pair of gloves from the box and sliding them onto his hands. They clung tightly to the curve of his fingers, the latex squeezing his skin as he reached for a mask. Dead bodies had a horrific smell, and as much as he didn’t like admitting it, Matthew was particularly sensitive to the scent.
The detective quickly made his way over to the secondary crime scene tape that surrounded the body, squinting to try and get a better look. It didn’t look like much from where he stood, he was struggling to pinpoint where the body was. It wasn’t until he got closer did he distinguish a person among all that red, and the sight made an involuntary sound bubble up from his throat.
Laying before him was a corpse—face down and sprawled across the concrete. From what was left of him, Matthew could see that he barely donned any sort of clothing, except for a meager cloth around his waist, covering any sensitive parts. His hair was wild and untamed, but what stood out the most was the state his body was in. Covered in soot and the goopy essence of blood, a gaping hole was visible in the man’s back; an exit wound, blood having spilled in thick pools of crimson all around his body. At first glance, the detective could assume that this was a through and through penetration, but he couldn’t even begin to wonder with what. It was so large, so…violently. Nausea curled tight around his gut as he stared at the desecrated corpse in front of him.
He suddenly became aware of all the eyes on him. The other responding officers all stared at him: some looking scared, others looking wary. Shit, that sound must’ve been louder than he thought it was. He’d been so focused on the man before him that he didn’t even notice the men around him.
“What?” Matthew said, a bit harsher than he meant to. Eyes burned into his skin and down to the bone, staring at him as if he was an alien. He was just starting to get a little irritated at the lack of response when one of the CSI investigators spoke up.
“Just…look at him.” She said, voice wavering as her gaze flickered back between Matthew and the corpse on the ground. He squinted, brows furrowing in confusion, but he obeyed nonetheless. He stepped under the cautionary tape that blocked the body off, crouching down beside him. The metallic, pungent scent of drying blood filled his nose, the copper aroma causing him to gag while he reached for the mask he had acquired.
Putting it to his face, he used his free hand to move the matted hair from the man’s face. It was smushed against the hard surface, but he could faintly see the edge of his cheeks. He felt guilty for some reason. This was the worst part of the job, the bodies he had to uncover—but there was no time for pity. He had a job to do.
As gently as possible, Matthew turned the man over, revealing his features to the detective. He had expected blood, expected the cuts and the bruises that adorned the skin.
What he hadn’t expected, however, was to be met with the sight of his own face: blank with death but unmistakably his, as the man’s glazed over eyes reflected back the same features.