CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 884
Five for Five (Five prompts to choose from in honor of TM's 5th anniversary! Follow the link for the details.)
Against the elusively imposing shine of nearby streetlamps and the gradually lightening sky, four people stood, variously wrapped in a sheet or with scant clothing over their previously naked bodies, coats on to protect against the early morning cold. Inside the rundown house in the background, Ecklie moved around an empty living room, save that a few dirty rugs and a dead body. The rest of the furniture was conspicuously absent, yielding yet more information towards the conclusion that something other than a dinner party had been going on within the residence.
The coroner was there, and once the Dayshift finished taking photographs, he continued on with his examination while the CSI took himself elsewhere. As with many murders that happened early in the day, and with only one person actually dead, things were moving, for the man, quite quickly. Within five minutes he had preliminary notes and was starting to look for evidence, taking leads from what was coming in from the homicide detective and cops outside. Things went the way they normally did, and the scene was processed efficiently, just how he liked it to be.
Later, when the body had been taken away to the morgue, Ecklie stepped outside into brighter morning light and took a look around the yard. Having only seen it from the shady luminescence of early morning light, he could now see the depravity of the area in full. Weeds and broken car parts, bicycles or both littered the yard, and there were several items which could very well be the murder implement within five yards of his feet. With a sneer on his face, he set his subordinates to scalp the yard for anything and everything that might be of interest, a task which he knew would take people like them a fair while.
Moving back inside, the Dayshift found the four suspects, now properly dressed and in a lesser state of drug fuelled panic than he had found them in a few hours ago. They were sitting on a group of lounge chairs creamed into an already too tiny kitchen, and were being watched over by a group of wary and altogether bored looking officers. The man arrived, putting down his kit on a grimy tile floor, just in time to hear one of the male suspects speak something which he was obviously, now getting tired of saying.
“Five for five, don’t you know what that? That was what we were trying out man, you know, when you...”
“Enough.” the Supervisor said, holding up his hand in a clear indication that whatever depravity of verbal words was about to be committed it should stop immediately. With a nod and a few words to the nearest officer, the people were carted away, information was passed on, and the day proceeded to continue like any normal day. Like every other day when he investigated a murder, he got to see a familiar or relatively new facet of cruelty that Las Vegas was willing to inflict upon its inhabitants, one person hurting another, causing pain, harm, death, tragedy.
The end of his shift arrived in due course, and when Ecklie had finished the case reports on his desk, and had sat there for a few minutes rubbing his temples, he got up to leave. Heading past the locker room, he heard his name spoken and whirled around, glaring. A Homicide Detective caught up with him shortly afterwards, bounding long and all too youthful strides towards him, as if to tell him something important. The other Man’s face was jovial, and the Supervisor didn’t like it one bit.
“Too much David Bowie and drugs today, yeah?” the man questioned, falling into step with him, even though, now walking, the only indication Ecklie had given of actually participating in the conversation was his earlier pause in step. He gave a noncommittal role of the shoulders and raised his head slightly, head turning as the hand that did not hold his briefcase, found the door handle that would lead him to the outside of the lab.
“We’ll see that when all the evidence is proceeded. Until then, I appreciate it if death is not made light humour of. I doubt whether you would think it very funny if you were the victim.” the Supervisor said, and then he was out of work, his face moving against the fresh open air as he moved towards his car. The day had been like all others, minutes by minutes of work concerning a murder, paperwork related to a murder, the collecting and processing of evidence. That impenetrable vacuum of law and order, which once ridden on was rarely bound to let anyone go until they were old, decrepit and useless.
In his bed that night, Ecklie switched of the lights and sighed to himself before falling to sleep. Five years made no difference to him, it brought nothing back, because if he went back in time that far, his wife would still be dead, his parents would still be dead, and he, he would still be the same. Just the same, like he was now, and would be, forever, a highly intelligent, methodical, clean cut man, someone who could hide everything that had happened to him, and would always, always, come out on top.