Chapter Text
Pete Martell's throat flexed as he gulped down his coffee, the bobbing of his adam's apple continuing until the mug was empty, leaving small, undissolved clumps of coffee grounds drifting at the bottom of the cup. Pete set the still warm mug down and its found its usual spot on the counter, rings of the the liquid overlapped on the surface having accumulated over time from Pete's chronic inability to remember to use one of Catherine's hundreds of coasters. Whether it was pure forgetfulness or a silent protest, it did numbers on their countertop.
His aforementioned wife was still asleep, as Pete had gauged from the lightly snoring lump he'd woken up next to. She'd been out late again. "Problem at the sawmill," Pete imagined her saying listlessly, voice smothered by her own cup of black coffee, eyes focused on the swaying trees outside their window. Then, of course, she would start to criticize Pete's "ridiculous" amount of creamer in his mug. Pete let out an amused huff at the thought, silently priding himself on knowing her so well.
His hands found his worn, tried-and-true fishing hat lures dangling all around the rim, fake fish clinking together—Pete found the decoration charming, Catherine thought it was impractical—and his tackle box, which he bunched under his occupied arm, which was holding his rod. Rubber boots dipped from wood paneling into the uneven, wet earth as Pete walked outside, the morning fog almost instantly saturating into a thin sheen of wetness on Pete's face.
As he waddled out to the shore, the sound of the wind running through the firs that surrounded him like music, he looked over the vast expanse of Sattler Quarry, end only in sight due to that end being the tall, mountainous cliff overlooking the water below. The morning mist rising from the quarry seemed endless, in constant motion forward, carried by the wind.
The quarry looks as it always does, with the increasingly rickety dock a short walk to the left, the water's stillness only betrayed by a small ripple from a fish underneath the water's cover. There is the unusually thick fog, which is different, but the most striking addition is the lump wrapped by plastic sheets and tape that lies on the edge of the shore. The wrapping is shoddy and rushed, the tape only holding because it's layered over and over, one end of the mass lifted slightly by the water that end is still floating in, slowly brushed forward toward the shore—which the rest of the lump lies dry on—by each lapping push of water.
If shown a picture or told of the scenario he found himself in now and asked what he would guess the lump is, Pete would easily know it was a body. He's no stranger to a crime scene—at least in concept—, having occasionally read Catherine's murder mystery novels once she's finished them and discarded them on their bedside table. He knows that a human-sized mass is more than likely to be human in this case. And despite that common sense that he'd have in theory, all he could feel in the moment he saw the lump was a sick, droning numbness that smothered all thoughts in his head until they faded behind the cold buzz in his skull.
Maybe that was why he edged forward after discarding his tackle box and rod on the ground without thinking. He did a lot without thinking in those few minutes. Nothing felt conscious, really. He only thought a clear word once, and it was "Oh", which was in response to getting close enough to the lump to see dampened brown hair splayed out from the cylindrical end of the plastic wrapping.
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The Hawkins Police Department was warm, both in temperature and from the lighting by the thrifted lamps that Andy had brought as a present for Sheriff Hopper last year on his birthday. Hopper had thanked him while chewing on a seemingly stale bagel when Andy had announced it, even though this "gift" was clearly just an excuse to get rid of the sporadically flickering fluorescent lights that lined the ceilings and drove everyone nuts. It drove Hopper nuts too, however, so it might've been a present specifically for him after all. A lot of things drove Hopper nuts, really. And one of those things seemed to be actively doing so, Lucy thought, judging by the stern baritone of his voice that permeated the walls despite the man's office being a long hallway away from her reception area.
Lucy stretches the phone's red cord, straightening it from its tight coil. Mornings are always slow, she's learned, and playing with the wire from her phone has proven time and time again to be a good pastime, even if she does have to take it out of her paycheck if she stretches the cord too far.
Just as she's recoiling the wire, the shrill ring of the phone startles her into attention, grabbing the phone with an uneven grip instinctively before straightening it out with her other hand. Calls this early aren't unheard of, obviously, but they are unusual. And when they do happen, it's usually pretty important. The thought gives Lucy a rush of curiosity.
"Hawkins Police Department, this is Lucy speaking!" She answers, the words practiced but her voice endlessly chipper, as her mind wanders elsewhere. She almost felt guilty for how exhilarating the speculation was, but her imagination supplying her with the image of Sheriff Hopper half hanging out of his truck window while in a car chase with a perp was impossible not to find fun.
Could a cat be stuck in a tree?
Was there a robbery downtown?
Had someone gone missing?
Pete Martell's boldly inflected yet shaking voice gave her the answer: "He's dead... wrapped in plastic."