Prophecy (working title) Chapters 4-5 (rough/WIP)

CHAPTER 4.

If there was one thing Izir hated, all cops hated, it was forced psychiatric counseling. Detective Hamad Izir was truly grateful that he had never been in a position to shoot a suspect, and had only drawn his service weapon three times as a uniformed officer. Those moments of abject fear, uncertainty, and overpowering adrenaline surges had faded over time, as had the majority of cases he had worked as a violent crimes detective. Salt Lake City wasn’t a haven from crime by any means, but it wasn’t the south side of Chicago, the housing projects of Baltimore or New York city, or the wild west of border towns in southern Texas where the cartel wars sometimes spilled over onto American soil. But like any large city, it had its share of disturbingly inhumane crimes, and Izir had been front and center for enough of them to have a dim view of his fellow humans.

He had nearly come apart at the seams after working a case where a twelve year old girl had been brutalized with ruthless efficiency, almost as if the girl’s killer had lost a bet with Satan and had been forced to make even the devil quake in fright. Three months of counseling sessions with the department’s resident psychiatrist, Dr. Emile Hesh, had been extremely helpful in purging the burned-in images of that nightmare, but he had resented it as a mandatory step to keep his position within the VCD. Myra, his wife of twenty years, had threatened to leave him if he didn’t get help, which made his resentment burn even hotter. Izir hated that he knew he had become a detached, emotionless, angry shell of his former self, and for some unexplainable reason, hated even more than Dr. Hesh and his wife had been both right about his need for counseling, as well as the primary drivers of his emotional recovery. Continue reading

Prophecy (working title) – Chapters 1-3

CHAPTER 1.

“Listen, asshole,” Detective Izir growled to the frightened man on the other side of the interrogation room table. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with your brain, but you better jumpstart it quick because you’re completely fucking boned.”

“I…I don’t kn—” George stuttered, his voice cracking as if he were going through puberty a second time.

“Bullshit!” Izir thundered, slamming both palms down on the table hard enough to make both the suspect and his partner jump in fright. “We’ve got you on fucking camera and so much DNA evidence you must have bled, shit, jizzed, and fucking spit all over her!”

George Krotus began to cry. Detective Franklin took a step toward the table but her partner held up a hand to keep her on the periphery. Izir rose from his chair, eyes bloodshot with rage, his breath coming in raspy gasps as he fought to control his temper.

“I’m going to ask you one more fucking time,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything!” George screamed. “I was at home! I swear it on Heavenly Father!”

Detective Izir opened his mouth to lay out a number of threats he planned to turn into promises but his partner grabbed him by the bicep. He looked back at Franklin with just enough sanity to keep from lashing out at her. She shook her head then gestured with a hand to step away and let her work on the suspect. Izir closed his eyes, counted silently to five, then stepped away from the table and took up a position near the two-way glass.

“Mr. Krotus?” Franklin asked, her tone as gentle as a mother’s when comforting a child after a nightmare. “I’m Detective Dakota Franklin, the co-investigator on this case. I apologize for Detective Izir’s outbursts, but you have to understand that he’s extremely upset.”

Franklin slid a manila folder from the edge of the table to the middle. She opened the cover and spun the folder around so George could see the crime scene photographs. She did her best to keep her eyes on the suspect. The glossy 8×10 photos were too disturbing, too inhumane for even the most jaded, desensitized investigators to look at without feeling sick to their stomachs.

“Look at the photos, Mr. Krotus,” she said gently, separating four of them from the stack then spreading them out on the table.

“I-I-I-c-c-caaan’t!” George wailed, closing his eyes tightly before turning his head away.

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