Detective Frank Massey reckoned this was his slowest walk toward a crime scene. He dabbed his forehead from the icky sweat building on his skin. The last of the ambulances were just rolling away down the street. Massey respectfully waited until their sirens died away within the traffic. He sighed he steeled himself to what was to come. Up front, cameras flashed as the crime scene investigators took photos of the site of the massacre. Massey refused to call it the Madison Park Massacre, but he had no doubt that that title would live in infamy until some other scandal rallied the attention of the sheeple. Flashes of light from the screaming bunch of reporters coalesced with the CSI ones making Massey walk through a white-lighted field of blindness.
Things had happened fast: the massacre, the news spreading, and the closing of the crime scene. Massey felt as if he was arriving at something done and over. Massey had baggage and a few nasty ones under his belt, but this tipped the lavish carriage into the ditch. Just minutes after Major Globe’s concerned and heartfelt speech, this had happened. It proved his point, he thought, and Massey wondered whether the major himself hadn’t set it up. But his optimistic soul refused to believe that there could be someone so cruel. He silenced the nagging voice in the back of him mind that laughed at his naiveté.
Patrol officers struggled to keep the crowd further away, but they were in no viewing distance to the playground, so Massey was thankful for that. He hated being shown Facebook posts and Twitter messages with photos from the scene, and he had developed real hatred toward people who tagged themselves not present at the scene. It was all fake condolences and pretend concern these days and Massey couldn’t help but think that that simulation of care was the leading epidemic of modern society. Perhaps that they couldn’t let a crisis go by without making a statement, or without being a part of it. Tragedy was the new mortal gods. Posting how sorry they were didn’t help anyone; it only made them feel better about themselves.
Maybe the years on the force had turned him into a cynic. He shook his head; maybe he was just old fashioned and didn’t understand what a comment section on a social media platform could do for the dead. It only served to turn them into virtual ghosts. No doubt, tomorrow these children would be the poster faces for Jacob Globe’s mayoral campaign. If that had truly been Globe’s idea, to begin with, Massey couldn’t wait to prop a gun to his forehead and watch him being cuffed.
Returning to the present, Massey took a steady breath of the humid air to calm jitters he thought he vanquished years prior and rushed the rest of the distance. Nearing the murder floor he noted that the area was a few degrees lower, casting a chill upon him that prickled his skin. Massey bit his lower lip. The report he glanced at did confirm that Miles Jensen possessed the ability to temper with ice, but the ground surrounding the epicenter of the event didn’t feel just cold… It gave him the notion of something still, stopped, paused. Massey knelt for a closer inspection. There were no blood stains, not a drop anywhere. Usually, when there were this many casualties, the scene was painted with the blood of the victims. The scene he encountered was pristine, and he doubted they’d find DNA evidence different than the victims. There were no peculiar smells either, just the faint scent of fading feminine perfumes. The crime scene guys always debated when and what an olfactory sampling of the air yielded. Not at this crime scene. Massey traced a latex-gloved hand on the ground. There was noticeable discoloration on the entire playground, an almost bluish imprint where the bodies had been. He brushed his finger against it and lifted light-blue residue. He stood up and asked the CSI team whether they had taken samples of it. He wanted to know as soon as possible what it was.
If Anne knew about this why hadn’t she warned them about this extremist? She sounded hurried on the phone. Maybe she had tried to but was interrupted.
Massey looked around and found the familiar face of Officer Felix Wallas. He beckoned Wallas to follow him as he walked around the playground taking in the surrounding.
“One jogger and a newspaper stand seller. They said Miles had appeared out of nowhere near the playground and stared at-” Felix coughed nervously before continuing, “-the victims for a few seconds before, uh,” Felix paused flipping through his notebook, searching for the right words, “before making his hands turn blue, a glowing blue and aiming them at the people. Then his victims just sort of dropped to the ground according to the witnesses.”
“I want any CCTV surrounding this area to be checked first,” Massey said taking in the information. Miles hadn’t just appeared there. There was an explanation, and it was somewhere on those tapes.
Felix nodded again.
“We located one camera across the street at the ATM and one at the intersection. A small pizza place on the opposite end of the park has two cameras one at the front entrance facing the street and one at the back, but I reckon we need what’s on the front facing one.”
Massey raised an eyebrow.
“Owner says they had a few nasty robberies in the past, so they put the CCTV.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Massey murmured. “Get the tapes and give them to Ray. Tell him to look for anything out of the ordinary not just the suspect.”
Officer Wallas paused, notepad in hand and the pencil halting above the paper. “Suspect sir?”
Massey turned around to face him. “We don’t know whether this man did anything wrong. Until we have enough evidence, he ain’t guilty. And to do that we’ll start with you bringing Ray the tapes from the CCTV.”
Felix tried to say something else, but Massey clapped his hands.
“You’re not on vacation, Officer Wallas. Today would be good.”