Page 8 of For Fear

"Looks peaceful," she muttered under her breath, an edge of irony lacing her tone. Peaceful didn't belong in this kind of place, not after what had happened here. A discarded newspaper tumbled past their feet, its pages heavy with rain, headlines blurred into illegibility. Just like the evidence they desperately needed to collect.

"Right?" Derik sighed, scanning the scene. His normally immaculate appearance showed signs of wear, his tie loosened and shirt wrinkled from the long night. "You'd never guess a girl died here." He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, disheveled by the night they'd had. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he, like Morgan, had been up since the first call came in at 2 AM. "At least it wasn't a total rain washout."

"Yeah, well, blood doesn't wash away so easily," she shot back, her eyes fixed on the ground. The words came out harsher than intended, but Derik knew better than to take it personally. They approached the blocked-off area, and her stomach twisted at the thought of what lay beneath that tarp. Lila had been stabbed multiple times, left to bleed out in this narrow alley. A dark corner of the city where hope went to die, wedged between a defunct laundromat and an aging apartment complex with boards where windows should be.

"Look," Derik said, pointing toward the forensic team. "They're still collecting." The technicians moved with practiced precision, photographing and bagging even the smallest pieces of potential evidence. Their methodical approach seemed almost ritualistic in the gray morning light.

"Good." Morgan took a moment to collect herself, inhaling the chilled air deeply before moving forward. Each step was measured, conscious of the weight that had settled in her chest.The smell of wet garbage from the nearby dumpster mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that she'd never quite gotten used to.

As she neared the scene, the smell of damp concrete mixed with something metallic hung in the air like a heavy curtain. The sight of officers crouched down, meticulously picking through remnants of the storm, sent a jolt of determination through her veins. They were looking for answers, but would they find anything meaningful? Would they uncover the truth behind Lila's death, or would it slip through their fingers like the rain-soaked evidence? A police photographer's flash punctuated the gloom at regular intervals, documenting every detail of this makeshift grave.

"See anything?" Derik called to one of the techs, breaking her focus. The young woman looked up from her work, her face partially obscured by a protective mask.

"Not yet," the officer replied without looking up, her gloved hands carefully swabbing a section of wall. "Just traces of blood washed away. But we're checking every inch." She gestured to a series of numbered markers placed strategically around the scene. "Found some fibers near marker three, might be from the perpetrator's clothing."

"Great," Morgan said, rolling her eyes. "What a start." She pulled out her notebook, its pages slightly damp from the morning air, and began jotting down observations. The violin drawing they'd found weighed heavily on her mind – a deliberate signature that seemed to mock their efforts to understand.

"Hey, it could be worse. At least we're not the ones stuck cleaning it up," Derik quipped, managing a small grin despite the grimness of the situation. He'd always used humor as a shield against the darkness of their work, a trait that Morgan had come to appreciate over the years.

"True. But I'm betting they wish they were somewhere else too." She watched as another tech carefully photographed a section of wall where blood spatter told its own violent story. The pattern suggested a struggle, but the rain had washed away too much detail to be certain.

Morgan's boots crunched against the rain-slicked pavement as she stepped deeper into the scene. The damp air clung to her skin, a stark reminder of what had transpired only hours ago. She could feel Derik's presence beside her, his voice low and steady as he spoke with a local officer, but all she could focus on was the dark ground beneath her feet—the same ground that had witnessed Lila Sanchez's final moments. A nearby security camera hung uselessly from its mount, its wires exposed – another dead end in what was becoming a frustrating investigation.

"Known to us," Derik said, keeping his tone neutral as he flipped through his notes. "Addict. In and out of the system." He paused, scanning the page. "Last arrest was six months ago, possession charges."

Morgan nodded absently, her gaze locked on the faint traces of blood etched into the asphalt, washed away by the storm but still whispering the tale of violence. It felt like a cruel joke—a life reduced to mere remnants. Sure, Lila had struggled, but this? This was no random act of desperation. No, it was too methodical, too personal. Morgan's instincts prickled at the back of her mind, reminding her that sometimes the worst monsters wore familiar faces. The violin drawing kept coming back to her – an artistic touch that seemed completely at odds with the brutal nature of the crime.

"Doesn't fit," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. She kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the alleyway. The sound echoed off the brick walls, momentarily drawing the attention of nearby officers.

"What's that?" Derik asked, glancing over, his green eyes narrowing in concern. He'd learned to trust Morgan's intuition over the years, even when the evidence seemed to point in a different direction.

"Just thinking. If they thought she was an easy target…" She trailed off, thinking back to the evidence photo of the violin drawn and left behind. The detail in the drawing had been remarkable – clearly the work of someone with artistic talent. "Why leave the violin photo behind? It's not just a memento—it's a message. But what does it mean?"

"Could be a taunt," Derik suggested, crossing his arms. His jacket was spotted with rain, giving him a disheveled appearance that matched the grimness of their surroundings. "Or maybe a signature. You know, like some sick calling card."

"Yeah, but a violin?" Morgan scoffed, shaking her head. A gust of wind sent a plastic bag tumbling down the alley, urban tumbleweed in their concrete desert. "It doesn't match the brutality of how she died. It feels…personal."

The rain-soaked asphalt glistened under the muted morning light as Morgan stepped further into the alley, her boots splashing through puddles that mirrored the chaos of the night before. The forensics team moved like ghosts around her, buckets and cameras in hand, their faces set in grim determination. She could feel the weight of Lila's story hanging in the air, a thick fog of tragedy and loss that wrapped around her like an unwanted shroud. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed – the city's constant reminder that death never took a holiday.

"Another one bites the dust," the local officer said, his voice low and resigned as he approached. Officer Martinez, according to his nameplate, wore the weary expression of someone who had seen too many lives unravel in these streets. His notebook was as worn as his expression, pages dogeared and stained withcoffee. "Lila Sanchez. Twenty-six. Addict. Been struggling for years."

"She was clean for a while, though," Derik interjected, shifting beside her, his brow furrowed as he consulted his notes. "But recently fell off the wagon. Last known address was a halfway house on Eighth Street."

"Yeah, well, isn't that how it always goes?" Martinez shrugged, his tone dripping with defeat. "Just another sad story in a long line of tragedies." He gestured vaguely at the surrounding buildings, their facades marked with graffiti and decades of neglect. "This neighborhood's been going downhill for years."

Morgan clenched her jaw, irritation bubbling beneath her skin. The casual dismissal of Lila's death made her blood boil. Addiction didn't explain the brutality of this murder. This was different—too calculated, too personal. She stepped closer to the tarped-off area, swallowing the bitterness rising in her throat. "You think this was just a random act of violence?"

"To be honest? Most likely." Martinez's eyes betrayed the hollow truth behind his words. He'd already written this case off, filed it away in his mind under 'unsolvable.'

"Doesn't feel right." Morgan shook her head, glancing at Derik. His brows knitted together in agreement. They were both thinking the same thing. There was more to this than met the eye. The violin drawing nagged at her consciousness, a detail too specific to ignore.

"Look, we need to get moving," Morgan said, firing off her thoughts like bullets. Her mind was already racing ahead, plotting out their next moves. "I want to talk to her family. Find out who she really was, beyond the headlines." She pulled out her phone, checking the time – barely 7 AM, but this couldn't wait.

"Good call." Derik nodded, already pulling out his phone. His fingers moved quickly across the screen, pulling up addresses. "Maybe they'll know what the violin means. Could be something from her past."

"Exactly." The drawing had haunted her since she first saw it. Why leave such a symbol behind? Was it a taunt or something darker, a reflection of Lila's lost potential? The precision of the artwork suggested someone with training, someone who knew their way around a pencil and paper.

"Let's go," she commanded, turning on her heel, the damp air clinging to her skin as she walked away from the horror of the crime scene. With each step, a sense of urgency surged within her. Time was slipping through her fingers, and the answers lay somewhere waiting to be uncovered. The morning traffic was beginning to build, the city awakening to another day, oblivious to the tragedy that had unfolded in this forgotten corner.

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