It was odd to be called by name rather than the ‘You’ or ‘Cop’ or even ‘Hey’ that happens back home. Still in the fog of self-awareness it took a moment to realize the woman was still speaking.

“I’m Captain Alicia Bennett. While you are conducting your investigation and assisting my people you will report directly to me. Have you been briefed already?”

“No, only for when to arrive,” I—or rather Lewis—replied. Captain Bennett snorted and tossed a folder over.

“We think we have a mole in the force tattling to our local serial killer.” Lewis hadn’t been aware there was a serial killer around here. Didn’t pay much attention to the news past the weather report. “We’ve been working to close in on him, but every time we get close the guy disappears. Last time he even left us a condolence card and we weren’t able to match the handwriting to anyone yet.”

While she kept on explaining the details of the assignment, Lewis couldn’t help but wonder why she was trying so hard. Back home people go missing all the time. You put up posters, contact the police in case a body turns up, move on with life or quit trying all together. Looking too deep means you could go missing as well. Lewis shifted, feeling the telltale pops that meant it was past time to get up and moving.

“Where will I be working?” Lewis cut in. Hopefully some back room or storage closet away from prying eyes. This wasn’t a long-term placement; they shouldn’t have space carved out for an outsider.

“Follow me.”

---

“You’ll be partnered with Darrell Wyatt for the duration of your stay with us. Darrell, this is Sergeant Lewis, our loan from 73rd to help catch our killer. Play nice, you two!” Captain Bennett waved her fingers at the two before gliding back to her office. The two just stared at each other, cataloging.

Wyatt seemed relatively average. He had cop hair, blond, parted neatly and cut short enough to keep out of a hat’s way. Tanned in a healthy way rather than from a lamp, he was not overly muscular nor were his clothes particularly well fitted. If he stood up he’d probably be average height with an average voice and average gait. The only thing striking about him were dark blue eyes that held a hint of intelligence.

“So, is Lewis your first, last, or only name?” Perhaps not so intelligent after all.

It’s the first, last, and only name you’ll be given.” Lewis turned to the file folder, ignoring the snort from the other side of the desk. The whole bullpen could be seen from here. Not a popular station; the desks were furthest from the break room, bathrooms, and any open electrical cords. Perfect, though, to keep an eye out without being needlessly interrupted. A list of names was also given, as well as a basic description of physical features and relevant histories.

“You’re rather quiet. Is the case really that interesting to you or was my impression that poor?” Wyatt laughed at his own question. There were light freckles dusted across his nose Lewis hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Tell me what you know about…’Our Friend’?” Surely that was a typo, some misguided attempt at humor when faced with gruesome photos of the scene. Leaking entrails and skull-fragmented brains did not seem overly friendly even to someone of Lewis’ background.

“That’s seriously who the card was signed by: ‘Your Friend’.” Wyatt shook his head. We don’t have any clue about his identity so it’s not like we could call him anything else. I think the Tribune dubbed him the ‘Gala Gasher’, but the Times was fond of the ‘Guttersnipe’. Must be slow news days with how much speculation they’ve drummed up.”

“Those sound…excessive,” Lewis said. Wyatt laughed but didn’t disagree.

“When someone targets the richest snobs in the city and drags their entrails out in a bank envelope only to drop the dismembered body parts in the sewage system, I think they’re a bit extra already.”