Simon could hear the very defiant, looming sirens of police cars and ambulances flooding through the streets as a herd of buffalo would through an open prairie. The sun streaked across the San Francisco area, being a particularly scorching day in this generally chilly city.
“I thought I came here for the cold and wet, not this nonsense,” he muttered under his breath, taking off his gloves and scarf. See, Simon Bailey was a homegrown Englishman. Being raised in Liverpool, but later moved to London for work. The London office was doing nothing interesting to serve his needs, so he transferred to the San Francisco FBI Unit instead.
A suspiciously tan woman had trodden over to the thin man, her high heels clicking feverishly. “agent Bailey, is it? You look... different than your picture,” she bit the end of her pen, over her previous marks of gnawing.
“Yes, well,” he looked this woman up and down, dressed no less for the weather than he was. “My hair isn’t shoulder length anymore. I decided if I was going to be moving all around California, I might as well become acclimated to the weather here,” he had to look down to speak to her, even with her 15 centimetre heels on. He gave a weak smile, trying his hardest to be as polite as he could. Simon needed this job, and he was not willing to go back to London and deal with all the useless suicides and single homicides. Oh no, America had much crazier people in their midst. How delightful.
An older, stout man had wandered after the woman. “Ah there you are Detective. I was wondering if you had a pen I could borrow? Our techie is hogging all of them for his pen collection. Even though he works on computers! It’s just ridiculou--” He was interrupted by the woman, who had stuck her ballpoint into her pocket from her mouth.
“Sergeant, this is agent Bailey. He will be collaborating with us on this case, along with agent Boyd and agent Reynolds, whom you have already met.”
“Oh, right on! Fantastic,” he gripped Simon’s hand, unintentionally knocking the tan woman out of the way. “I’m Sergeant Addams, here to help. Haha! I knew you were the Bailey kid! I could tell by the funny accent.”
“I do not believe I am a kid--,” he was interrupted by the quick and antsy officer.
“Oh right, yes of course, sorry about that. At my age, everyone looks twenty! Right on,” he smiled, his darkened facial lines moving with every twitch in his face.
“A-anyways,” the woman said after a bit of a pause where Sergeant Addams just smiled in Simon’s direction. “Are you ready to have a look agent?”
“Yes, I am ready, thank you,” he hesitated, seeing the man before him as quite bizarre. And Bailey has seen some bizarre things.
“Sir, the pen you asked for,” her heels clicked as she handed him the torn up pen. Even though he definitely noticed the teeth marks, he showed no sign of any expression other than a slight smile.
As Simon followed the Communications officer into the crime scene, he glimpsed back at the Sergeant, who was still dazedly smiling to where he stood only moments before. “Um, excuse me, miss?”
“Call me Kim,” she clicked her tongue while she stepped under the police tape.
“Alright. Well, Kimberly, is something wrong with your boss? He seems a bit… bedraggled,” his hooked nose breathed in the odd smell of plastic and chemicals upon
entering the patio.
“Please, I would rather not you worry about him when you have a case. He’ll be fine, probably just had a bit too much brandy last night. You know how old men are,” she made circular motions with her finger around her ear as they entered the home.
“agent Bailey! Finally, you have arrived. Come, take a look at this one, it’s a doozy,” Diane Boyd, a brown haired young woman came rushing in to greet Simon. Handing him gloves, they entered the room.
Again, Simon breathed in that same smell of chemicals and plastic that was even more potent than on the patio. Just by looking at the crime scene, he could tell something was a little off. “Can we identify the man?”
“His name is Fredrick Turner. We found an ID in the living room on the coffee table,” a short man entered the room, snapping his Cobalt gloves against his bulky hairy hands.
“Oh, agent Reynolds! Finally, we have the whole team here!” said agent Boyd, a tall and slender woman, as she did a little jump with enthusiasm and a grin.
“Diane, a crime scene is no place to smile! Didn’t they teach you this in like, training? How the hell are you able to talk to the families of the victims without bursting into laughter? You know you scare me some--.”
“David! How rude! I, personally, am fantastic at speaking to families. I’m a great actor! If I wasn’t in the FBI, I would be actr--,” the sounds of the agent's voices became fuzzy and faded as Simon began processing the scene.
Smashed glass table, broken mirror, snapped off footboard of oak bed. With each breath he took, he spotted different portions of the scene. Walking around to the different parts of the bedroom, he processed what kind of person Turner was. Empty bottles by the right nightstand, probably vodka given the size and dimensions. Alcoholic but cheap. Simon stuck his nose into the end of the container, smelling the putrid stench of summertime highschool parties. Treading to the dresser, he opened up the rusty knobs, which fell off when he touched them. Really cheap. Looking through all the drawers, every article of clothing was at least twenty years old, so appearance wasn’t an issue with Frederick Turner.
“Oh,” he said, looking at the top of the dresser. Simon found a pile of papers with blood on it. A few bills, some letters, a ticket to the theatre, an advert for men’s deodorant and a resumé. Looks like he was applying to an Engineering company.
“Um, excuse me, sir,” he tapped one of the CSI detectives on the shoulder. “Bag this.” After going through the dresser, he moved down to a shelf beside it. He noticed all the picture frames of Turner’s family had been facing the centre of the room, even if this meant turning the picture frames completely to the right or left. Thinking nothing of it, he ambled around the room, within minutes getting the whole 360 view. “Sorry, ma’am?” he had to clear his voice from the dryness in the room. “Do you mind handing me one of those surgical masks?”
An older woman with dark and white hair from the Crime Scene Investigation Unit passed a blue mouth mask over to Simon, matching his gloves.
Stepping closer to the body, the unidentified fumes reeked even more than anywhere else in the house. Simon crouched next to the victim, who laid face first in a pool of blood. “Reynolds, Boyd. I need you here now.”
“Ohhh Bailey’s the demanding type, I like that,” Boyd said, biting her lip. She trotted over with her colleague, who hit her on the arm.
“Are you serious?! Jumping from excitement at a crime scene and now flirting? Get your act together, Diane! And Jesus, what is that horrible smell!”
Tossing the agents face masks along with replacing his, he cleared his throat of any rasp that had accumulated since the last time he had cleared it. “I know I’m not a mortician, but I can analyse this body pretty quickly,” he began, still hunched over the body. “Multiple lacerations to the arms and limbs, but not a whole lot to the rest of the body, besides one fatal wound to the heart,” using his thin little finger to motion all throughout his arms, where the cloth was stained with blood.
“Somewhat symbolic don’t you think?” David twitched his nose, the surgical mask not quite doing the trick to block out the smell.
“Boyd!”
She perked up from spacing out, startled at her name being called. “What? I mean, yes? What do you want?”
“Could you roll up this man’s sleeves?” he moved aside so Diane could step in closer.
“No! Why can’t you do it? You’re already down there covered in, uh,” she gulped, “covered in blood.”
“I want to show both of you something. Just come on hurry up and fold them over,” Simon said.
Hesitantly, she attempted to perch herself over the body, but failed to keep her shoes clean. Moving the man’s jumper up his arm, Boyd’s eyes were widened, if they couldn’t get wide enough. “B-but where are the stab wounds? Why--,”
“Why would he have blood all on his arms if he wasn’t stabbed there?!” agent Reynolds had taken a step further to inspect the body, snapping a picture on his mobile before stashing it in his suit pocket.
“Precisely, agent. Now, what can you conclude from these unnatural signs?” Simon smiled, finally having a genuine reason to.
“He was in a struggle making him smear blood all over the rest of his body!” Boyd shouted out, interjecting David’s train of thought.
“Shut up Diane, and let me think!” the frustration on his face manifested into sturdiness, clearing his throat. “It has to be the suspect’s blood,” he finished strong, waiting for a word of approval delivered from Simon.
“Congratulations, David, you are very incorrect! Prize goes to the lady in red!” pointing his finger in Diane’s direction, she did a little hop and a skip, winking to the pretend crowd.
“Excuse me, how? It has to be the suspect’s blood! How else could it have gotten on his arms if it wasn’t already… oh.”
“Finally realised it?” Simon got up, towering over the short yet bulky man. Grimacing, he snapped his gloves.
“But how… How could the blood already be there?” his face contorted in his state of unknowing, concentrating hard to understand the impossible.
Simon smiled his clever little smile, stepping down again next to the pool of blood. David followed, his hands on his knees like a child looking for bugs.
“Ah, isn’t it so comforting?” he gestured at the mass of blood next to their feet, which slowly crept after the three agents. Sticking two fingers into the ever growing accumulation, his hands moved slowly in front of David’s scrutinising face. The red liquid looked a lot lighter and more vibrant than usual, it dripped down Simon’s finger in a thick matter instead of quickly gliding down.
“Fake blood. What a charmer,” Diane was smiling at Reynolds, whose confused face morphed into a slight frown.
“Does that answer your question, agent?” Simon stood, tall and thin like he is, quickly ripping his gloves off and into a nearby trash can.
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