Faithless…the new start continues…unedited…incomplete…

Flashing lights indicated we had arrived at the right location. Crime scene technicians wearing yellow slickers worked the scene. Ashley Williams, our medical examiner wore a blue slicker that had ‘M.E.’ on the back. She knelt next to the body. 

Chief Janko stood behind the yellow ticker tape and watched them work. He stood with his arms crossed, his massive upper arms and shoulders strained the limits of his polo shirt. At 59, he was built like a linebacker on a professional football team. His gray eyes were narrowed as he watched, his bushy walrus mustache fit his aged face.

“We got here as quick as we could, chief,” Lilly said, as she walked up. I trailed behind her struggling to put on my slicker.

“Yeah, I know.” Janko sighed. “I don’t know how much more this town can take.”

Lilly nodded her head in agreement and said, “it’s been a rough six months.”

“What do we have?”

“A member of the Trinity is dead, Konan. We’re waiting on Ashley to finish up. Go on and do what you do. You might want to hurry though, because the rain seems to have decided to stick around.”

“Alright, chief.”

I ducked under the tape and walked up to the body. Heavy welts covered the face of the deceased, blood oozed from multiple head wounds. Every finger was broken back toward the wrist. Ashley looked up at me. 

“Hiya, Konan. How goes it?”

“Oh, you know, Ashley. It goes. What do we have?”

“This unlucky guy is one Travis Franks. Former member of the Trinity over at the country club if I remember correctly.”

“Yeah, he was one of Tia Mather’s cohorts, but we never found enough evidence to hang them with.”

“Well, someone did a number on Mr. Franks. I will have to do the autopsy, but as of now, death seems to be blunt force trauma to the noggin.”

“Time of death?”

“6 hours ago.”

I looked at my watch, it read 0330, which meant he had expired at 2130. Ashley patted me on the shoulder and stood. Lilly was speaking to the first officer on scene.

“Ashley,” I said, turning to face her. She stopped and raised her eyebrows at me. “Who found the body?”

“That old man sitting over there,” she said, motioning to the crime scene van. “Name is Hopkin or Hodgkins, something. He found it and called it in.”


That chill I felt on the way to the scene washed over me again. Travis Franks was a cog in the wheel of corruption that polluted this town. 

Now, he was dead. Beaten to a pulp, multiple injuries to his head, and discarded like some unwanted thing. This did not strike me as a random killing. Instead, it struck me as premediated aggression toward a focused end.

Another chill swept up my spine, as if Death himself rode on my shoulder, as I walked to the van to interview the witness.

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