Rating: Green Cortina (for graphic description of violent crime scene)
Word count: 563
Warning: Major character death (Highlight to read) THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC.
A/N: Amnesty's the time for posting fic you wrote ages ago but are still terrified to post, yes?
Sam approached the crime scene with increasing trepidation, watched as a pale-faced Chris came running away from the cordon in his direction. “Boss-“ Chris mumbled from behind a shaking hand, apparently trying to prevent his breakfast from escaping. “I don’t think…”
Sam walked on past him. Now Sam could see the area cordoned off looked very large, though the body was still hidden by more lingering detectives. He took longer strides, mentally preparing himself for another day of arguments, archaic methods of policing and the general uphill struggle that came from trying to adjust to this time. He was, however, determined to retain his professionalism; if only to show a good example to Chris (the others were a lost cause).
But now he found his way blocked by a large moustache. “Tyler. “ Ray held out an arm in front of Sam’s chest and used his own broad stature to block Sam’s view.
“Move out of the way, DS Carling.” Sam said firmly, not in the mood for petulant games. “That’s an order.”
Ray stared him down for a long moment, took one long drag on his ever-present cigarette and finally stepped aside.
Sam could see why Chris’ face had been pale. The blood was indeed spattered over a wide area, specks dotted further out in some form of crude outline while a thicker, darker pool of blood congealed around the body. The victim’s insides had been brutally torn out and strewn across the pavement. The limbs were splayed out at awkward angles; arms raised in a defensive position but then twisted out of shape, the legs both looked broken and battered, trousers more or less shredded from the knee down. The man’s hair was matted and the shirt encrusted with bloody stains.
Sam tore his eyes away from the mess, turning back to Ray who was still puffing on the fag, staring into space.
”Make sure nobody touches a single thing before forensics gets here. Give them chance to do a thorough job, make sure they pay close attention to the way the blood has scattered. From the slash marks on the victim’s arm, I’d say the killer was also right-handed, using a long blade, and would have been of about the same height.”
Ray gave him a glare that could have melted solid steel. “This is your fault. All of it.” He growled darkly, pointing a finger in Sam’s face.
“Ray.” It was a warning. “I suggest you do as I ask.”
“I don’t have to answer to you. There’s only one person I take orders from.”
Sam desperately repeated his mantra: Keep calm. Remain professional. Do your job. Eventually he ground out “Go and get forensics,” injecting into his tone all the authority he possessed, whether Ray decided to heed it or not.
Sam was braced for the punch in the gut, but that didn’t make it any easier when the blow landed.
“You as good as killed him yourself.” Then Ray walked away.
It was the final straw that broke through Sam’s tenuous hold on his emotions, had him turning, tears welling in his eyes, to face the corpse.
He took in the strange angles of the limbs, the torn clothing and the pools of blood, and felt something give way in his heart.
“I’m so sorry, Gene.”
A pair of unseeing emerald eyes stared back at him accusingly.