A Case Gone Cold

Ian raced through the warehouse, trying each door along the hall. The lights flickered above, casting shadows ahead. His boots slipped on something wet. Blood. A flash revealed corpses scattered across the floor.

Fighting back the urge to vomit, Ian stumbled away from the door and tried another. Locked. Sweat dripped down his face, and his breathing came in ragged gasps. He grabbed another handle and pulled with all of his might. Nothing. The door didn’t budge.

Dammit! Why are all of these doors locked?

The floor shook violently, forcing Ian to hold the wall to stay upright. Shit, I have to move faster, he thought, speeding up.

He continued, splashing through red puddles. Ian kept trying new doors until - a click. Finally! He yanked the handle open, throwing himself into the room.

The place was a total mess. An overturned desk lay on the floor, with papers scattered around it. Ian ignored everything and slammed ‌the door shut, locking it. He backed away from the frame — praying he was far enough from whatever was hunting him.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. A pipe dripped nearby, a rat squeaked in the dark, and both sounds made him jump. Listening for footsteps, he breathed in before exhaling, doing his best to stay calm

Just need to hide until Paul gets here with backup. He hoped his partner would come soon; his eyes never left the door.

The wall next to his skull exploded, sending debris flying over him. An ice-cold hand clamped over his face and hoisted him in the air. The man had golden hair, gray skin, and a twisted face. “Did you think you could hide from me, little human?” the man whispered, his voice muffled. He leaned closer to Ian’s face.

The hand slowly squeezed tighter, making Ian cry out in pain. He tried to get a good look at the man, but his face was shrouded in fog. Eventually the pain became too much, and the world turned black.

***

Ian shot upright in his chair and gasped for air while his heart slammed against his chest. His eyes cleared to show his messy desk and the stack of open files. Phones rang, and boots scraped across the tiled floors while officers movedaroundd‌ — the loud voices helped to wake him up.

He bit his lip and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. I can’t even sleep without thinking about this case. The crime scene photos took on a life of their own in his dream. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair, debating what to do next.

A few weeks ago, Captain Drake assigned him a murder case that’s gone cold. He’s been scrambling to find anything, and it didn’t help that Drake wanted to keep things quiet and avoid FBI attention. It was only a matter of time before media outlets got a hold of it, and he could imagine the trouble that would bring.

Ian leaned back in his chair and glanced up at the ceiling. I could get help from Paul, but I knew he’d just hold it over my head or worse, get himself put on the case.

Finally, Ian made up his mind. He stood up with a frown and grabbed the two files and hurriedly navigated the maze of cubicles until he reached his mentor's desk.

Paul was a burly man who should cut back on burgers. His red hair showed gray streaks, and rough stubble covered his chin. His boots sat on his desk, and he held a half-eaten donut in his hand. Lazily, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

Ian marched right up to Paul’s desk and got straight to the point. “I need your help with my case.”

“Ahh, finally coming back for help, eh, kid.” Paul joked, “Now you want to remember your old teacher, huh?”

Ian scowled as he threw the folder onto Paul’s chest. “Can’t you be serious for once? I’ve been losing my mind trying to find some connection or reason someone would go after the suspects.”

“Fine, but you'll owe me a favor,” Paul agreed and finished off the donut. Grabbing the folder off his chest, he sat up and planted both feet firmly on the ground.

He inspected the documents closely with sticky fingers. “The first victim, Jacob Ryder, age 38; I arrested him a few years ago.”

Ian picked up the folder, his eyes wide open. Looking over the documents but didn’t see anything about an arrest.

Pushing Ian’s knee aside, Paul leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He quickly found a folder and placed it on the table. “His ex-wife filed for domestic violence, but later dropped the charges. After the divorce, she moved away, and he was fine until he went missing.”

Ian shook his head. “When I asked around, nobody mentioned this.”

“The domestic violence charges were dropped,” Paul explained, rummaging in the drawer again.

“I’ll look at reports submitted in the last few years and cross-reference them to the victims.”

“I might save you a little work.” He thrust documents at Ian and shooed him away. “I helped. Now get the fuck away from my desk; I’m busy.”

Ian looked around Paul’s desk and saw nothing important. The only thing was an empty coffee cup and a wrinkled newspaper. Yeah, I bet you have a lot of work to do, he thought, shaking his head.

He grabbed the files and hurried back to his desk. The pit in his stomach moved slightly—excited at finally finding information about the victims. He plopped into his seat and took a sip of his now-cold coffee, cracking open the top folder.