Splintered

The dew glistening on the grass in the early-morning light gave the impression that each blade had been infused with brilliant, flawless diamonds. The sun just beginning to crest above the horizon cast the field in a stunning orange glow. Special Agent Todd Hutchinson, known simply as Hutch, stood on a slight rise and looked down at the beautiful sight before him. It reminded Hutch of scenes he’d seen in photography magazines. He’d tried his hand behind the lens, but found he didn’t have the eye for it. Still, he enjoyed looking at the work of others. Hutch could get lost in imagining being there; it was calming. The only thing keeping the sight before him that morning from being postcard perfect was the easterly breeze bringing the stench of rotting flesh to his nose.

Turning back to the forest behind him, Hutch scanned the area. He saw no indication of any disturbance in the foliage, no signs of a struggle or that the body had been dragged here. He was convinced the murder had occurred elsewhere, and whoever the killer was, they were fit and strong. They’d carried the body some distance to dump it.

The body was that of a naked man, face down in the center of a small grouping of trees. He was thin, weighing no more than about one hundred-twenty pounds, and small of stature, approximately five foot six inches. His hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red with black streaks running through it and medium in length. He had ligature marks on both wrists and ankles as well as on his neck. Insects feasted on his pale skin.

Granite, Hutch’s best friend and associate, bent under the yellow crime scene tape and made his way toward him. “Glad you could join us this bright early morning. How ya doing, Hutch?”

“Well, other than a little disgusted at the fine men and women in blue of Jefferson County traipsing all over, fucking up the crime scene—” He took a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit up, and blew out a long stream of smoke. “—I’m good, what have ya got?”

“Not much, other than the obvious,” Granite drawled. He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes and flipped open the small notepad he always carried. “Woman, one Florence Carmine, fifty-four years of age, local resident, came upon the body while walking her dog. Body appears to have been dumped at the site. Still waiting for the coroner to get here before we can fully check out the vic, but the dark blue color on his wrists, ankles, and neck make it pretty obvious he didn’t do this to himself.” He shrugged, closed his notepad, and returned it to his pocket. “Then again, I’ve seen some pretty messed-up shit. Remember that guy with the gasmask hanging from the bedpost by his tie? Fuck, after that scene, nothing really surprises me anymore.” Granite shuddered.

Hutch shook his head as he remembered the accidental death. Young guy alone in a sleazy downtown motel playing autoerotic asphyxiation games. Poor bastard had a dildo up his ass, hand on his dick, and had hung himself from the bed by his own tie. Probably wasn’t the way the man ever imagined leaving this world. Hopefully, for his family’s sake, those crime scene photos wouldn’t make it onto the World Wide Web, though in this day in age, they were more than likely already there.

“Got an ID on the vic?” Hutch took another deep pull from his smoke. It was a nasty habit, but the world was a lot safer for others when he got his fix of nicotine.

“Not yet,” Granite responded as he scratched his head. “Unless he’s hiding it beneath him, we’re not going to know who he is until they run prints. It’s like whoever dumped him here flew in and flew right back out. Hell, maybe he was teleported here, who knows? We’re not going to get shit for evidence with this one.”

If Granite said there wouldn’t be any evidence, then Hutch wouldn’t waste his time looking. Granite was rarely wrong. To look at him, it was hard to imagine that beneath the unusual outward appearance was an intellect that few would ever come close to matching. His straight jet-black hair was cut long so his bangs were always hiding one eye. He had a propensity for anything gothic, including his wardrobe. That morning he wore a Pure Psycho black T-shirt. Granite’s shirts were always black; only the words or pictures changed. Black skinny jeans, a Crombie three-quarter black wool jacket, and heavy-soled black boots completed his ensemble. He looked like the poster child for the Goth Nation. The old adage “Don’t judge a book by its cover” was written with Granite in mind. He might have looked like a punk kid, but that was just a flash of frosting to cover what lay beneath, and what was under that crazy façade was impressive as hell.

Granite’s real name was Travis Green. He graduated from Simon Fraser University’s School of Criminology in British Columbia, Canada, top of his class, specializing in geographical profiling. He had soon surpassed his professors, and now, if not the best in the field, he was damn close to it. The guy was an absolute genius, which was one of the reasons Hutch wanted Granite on his team, despite his freakish appearance. Hutch also respected the hell out of the man. They had connected the instant they met. Anyone who could sit in the room with Hutch for more than an hour and not piss him off was a hell of a guy in Hutch’s book. Granite was one of the few. Although to be quite honest, Hutch wasn’t sure Granite could say the same thing. Hutch had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. It was a gift.

Hutch spotted the coroner’s van pulling up and stabbed a finger at it. “Well there’s the man of the hour. Hope he’s not one of those who take ten hours to process a scene and weeks to pop out a prelim,” he grumbled.

“You wanna go assist, get a closer look?” Granite asked as he watched the older balding guy step out of the van.

“What the hell for? You said we’re not going to get anything out of this one. I’ll wait for the photos.” Hutch snubbed out his cigarette on his boot. He started to toss the butt but thought better of it and pocketed it. He watched as the doc pulled his kit from the van and moved to the scene, before turning and heading back to his car.

“Hey! Where the hell are you going?” Granite called out. “Don’t you want to know if I was wrong? What if the doc finds his ID, the perp’s signature, social security card, and a formal invitation to his house under the body?” Granite asked slyly as he chased after Hutch. “I have been wrong before, ya know.”

“Really? When were you ever wrong?” Hutch asked dubiously.

“What about that time I set you up on a double date with Carrie’s girlfriend from college?”

What a clusterfuck that had been. Carrie—Granite’s girlfriend—was nice enough, and Hutch was sure she was just trying to be helpful. Hell, her friend, umm… he couldn’t remember her name, was nice enough too. But friends should not let friends set them up on blind dates. Not if they wanted to remain friends. However, as soon as Granite learned Hutch was gay, he didn’t try a second time.

“Okay, let me rephrase it. You’re never wrong about a case,” Hutch amended. He pulled opened the car door and raised a brow at Granite. “Look, you go play nice with Dr. Coroner, find out what you can, and I’ll see you back at the hotel.” Hutch slid behind the wheel.

Granite opened the passenger door and stuck his head in. “You’re not staying? Why the hell do I have to talk to him? They called you, not me,” he complained.

“Because I have a three o’clock meeting with Jefferson’s finest. Why should I have all the fun of dealing with these yahoos?” He gave Granite a dismissive wave.

“Great, now we’re even sharing yahoos,” Granite muttered before slamming the car door and stomping back to the crime scene.

There was still plenty they weren’t sharing, but Hutch didn’t see any need in pointing it out. He grabbed his shades and slipped them on, then started the car and headed back to the hotel.

Coming to Dreamspinner Press September 2014

Bio:

SJD Peterson, better known as Jo, hails from Michigan. Not the best place to live for someone who hates the cold and snow. When not reading or writing, Jo can be found close to the heater checking out NHL stats and watching the Red Wings kick a little butt. Can’t cook, misses the clothes hamper nine out of ten tries, but is handy with power tools.

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