Page 3 of Darkness

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Morrisey put the finishing touches on his depiction of the living room, his sketchbook laid out on the car’s hood. He’d add dimensions later when those who’d actually measured turned in their results. Plus, he’d view the photos taken before the paramedics moved the kids. The facts wouldn’t differ from his memory: major room features, furniture placement, and where they’d found evidence. The pictures never did. Still, no use flaunting abilities he couldn’t rightly explain. To think he’d taken a buttload of art classes to capture such horrific images on paper.

His teachers would be so proud of him going from sketching still lifes to no lifes. They’d once bragged about his talent.

Will waited inside the car, looking far worse for the wear. No need to ask why. One glance at his haggard gray features said, of course, he wasn’t all right. He’d see the scene in his dreams, picturing his dear Linda and his own kids. Hell, this incident would’ve sent Will to therapy if he hadn’t already been there.

Morrisey quietly climbed into the passenger seat. He would have offered to drive, but to do so would insult Will. The man was a cop. Had been a cop for many years. Pointing out how badly he’d lost the stomach for the job wouldn’t help.

Run, Will. Save yourself. It’s too late for me.

"What sort of monster does such a thing, Morse?” Will pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “No robbery. No apparent motive. Who just goes into a birthday party and starts slashing?”

Morrisey kept his voice calm, holding back a fuck-ton of emotions demanding release. “You know what kind. We’ve met enough of them.” Pressure built behind his eyes. What he’d experienced today couldn’t be unseen or unfelt. None of the remaining victims offered anything solid, just fear, pain, and terror for the kids. A cigarette would taste good right now. Pushing down emotions took every ounce of Morrisey’s being.

Damn, he’d love a drink.

Unlike Will, at least Morrisey didn’t see innocent lives cut short while thinking it could’ve been his own loved ones. The last person Morrisey loved died years ago.

Will wiped a hand over his face. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why, suddenly, are we getting such god-awful calls? Where’re the simple reports? The drug deals gone wrong? Store robberies that got out of hand? Drive-by shootings? When was the last time we got a call that didn’t make us want to drink?”

“I dunno, Will.” Lord, Morrisey wished he did. Then maybe he’d stand a chance of stopping or at least slowing the deluge.

“Those poor kids.” Will started the car and pulled onto the street, firmly gripping the steering wheel. “Did they have to watch their mothers die? Why were they unconscious? Are they going to be okay? What am I saying? Who’d be okay after living through a nightmare?”

“Don’t think about it.” Morrisey tasted the futility of the words even as they left his mouth. How could a family man like Will not obsess over what he’d witnessed in the last couple of hours? Hell, he’d already started therapy to cope with the shit they saw on the job on a normal day. “Come to think of it, why did you even come into the backyard? I told you to stay away.”

“I… I don’t know. I didn’t intend to. I just started walking and wound up there, like I was sleepwalking or something.”

“Well, I wish you hadn’t. You didn’t need to see that.”

Will’s voice could’ve climbed to the level of a whisper with a stepladder. “That could have been Linda, the twins, or Junior.”

Uh-oh. Time to yank someone out of a tailspin. They paused at a stoplight. “Will, look at me.”

Will did, then looked away.

Morrisey ignored his own horrors in favor of his partner on the verge of a breakdown. “I’ve got your interview recordings with the woman. How about the man?”

“Couldn’t find him. Apparently, he doesn’t live around here, and no one admitted to knowing him.” Will’s knuckles whitened from his death grip on the steering wheel.

Not good. Not good at all. “Look, Will. That wasn’t Linda or your kids. They’re safe. In fact, take me to the precinct and get on home to them. I’ll start the reports. You can add anything I missed tomorrow.”

The traffic light switched to green, and Will eased through with his normal caution. “You don’t mind?” So much hope poured into three small words.

“Not at all.” Nobody was awaiting Morrisey back home, not even a houseplant. Not a living one anyway, though he still watered the wilted peace lily occasionally for old times’ sake.

“Thanks, man. I owe you.” Will’s relief came through in his sigh.

“You’d do the same for me,” Morrisey lied. He wouldn’t mention the many other favors owed. More and more lately, Will faltered. He’d been a good cop, a damned fine detective before the job burned him out. Especially with the calls they’d gotten recently, each more vicious than the last.

Morrisey and Will weren’t strictly homicide detectives, but mass killings in their district, growing from roughly nine annually to twenty-four so far this year, left them little time to investigate anything but murders. And they still had seven months to go.

They didn’t talk for the remainder of the ride, Will tapping his wedding ring on the steering wheel, muscles flexing in his jaw. At least he hadn’t barfed his guts out like the officer on the porch. Just as well they didn’t speak. Morrisey needed the quiet, getting lost in his own head.

Flashes of emotions from the dead adults played on repeat in Morrisey’s mind. They’d known their assailant, which made their horror so much worse. Morrisey wouldn’t have had the nerve to look into the children’s minds. The department employed a counselor who specialized in interviewing children, taking a load off Will and Morrisey’s plate.

Morrisey would work on reports tonight, and he’d consult the captain first thing tomorrow. Since Will was struggling, maybe he needed desk duty, or at the very least taken off homicide for a while.

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