Chapter 1

Travis Jackson was sharply awakened by the sound of the buzzing alarm. It was 3 am. He’d never got used to being woken at such God-awful hours of the night. He initially stuffed his head face-first back into his pillow, hoping it was all a dream. The alarm kept buzzing. Travis was sure he’d told his co-workers to only call him in the middle of the night if there was an emergency. This better be worth it.

With a forceful thump, he hit the clock. Wiping his eyes, Travis got out of bed. He’d only recently moved into the two-room apartment; one room for a kitchen and a couch, and another room for his bed. The divorce papers were yet to arrive, and Travis was unsure what his wife (or soon-to-be ex-wife) was planning to do with their old house. Travis had spent the past five years saving up for a house and to start a family, only for the person he thought was the love of his life to walk out on him. The situation was more like, she walked out on him and then returned home with a new boyfriend and kicked him to the curve. He kept asking himself what he did wrong. There were no answers.

Travis quickly glanced at his pager. The message simply read: “16-year-old male, decease. Possible homicide. Gunshot to the head.”

“Fuck…” Travis said, lingering.

Gang warfare was a common occurrence. Politicians kept saying they were going to solve the problem, but nothing ever got done. It was people like Travis who had to clean the mess, and rarely did they catch the culprit. Some other kid pulling the trigger on a so-called friend, Travis presumed. That was how the story usually always ended. The killer would be sent to jail, only to be released a few months later, now more criminally minded. It was a never-ending cycle.

Travis got himself cleaned up. He splashed some water over his face, and quickly put on his uniform. He hoped one day to reach a level in the force where he didn’t have to wear a uniform – an undercover cop or one of those fancy CIA detectives you see in those TV shows. Travis hated watching them – they never showed the true unglamorous side of police work.

“I will be there soon,” Travis typed into his pager. “Give me 10 minutes.”

More like half an hour. Travis found himself in traffic. The cars lined up as far as the eye could see. Travis couldn’t even use his siren (he kept his police car at the station and drove a beat-up car from the 90s). All he could do was wait and move a few inches per minute. What a fine way to start the day, Travis thought. At around 3.30 am, you’d expect there to be no traffic. But in the Winter City, everything was moving 24/7. The price to pay for the modern world. Travis was surprised no one was ever driven insane while having to wait in a long car queue – although having a cop on the field to sort out any potential homicide could help him get an advancement.

Travis arrived at the station at around 4.10 am. Hopefully, the sergeant wouldn’t give him an earworm for arriving late. Luckily his boss didn’t give him a hard time. The sergeant had already heard about the pile-up. According to him, some drunk fool drove into one of the highway’s railings, forcing all other cars to pass through a single lane like an hourglass. Travis didn’t get to see the accident; he got off the highway before where the accident had occurred.

After making a cup of coffee, Travis slumped down at his desk. The sergeant had already placed the case file on his desk. Travis carefully read the documents.

“Kid tried to kill the mayor’s daughter?” Travis said to himself aloud. “Why put an important case on me? Surely there’s someone with more skill?”

“It’s election year next year,” his friend and fellow cop Holden said. “I think the mayor wants to keep this on the lowdown, so to speak. If people found out the mayor couldn’t stop an attack on his own damn daughter, why the fuck would they vote for him again.”

“Good point,” Travis replied. “So, get me right, this kid tried to shoot the mayor’s daughter, and a few hours later was found dead under an underpass?”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Yeah, talk about balls,” his friend continued.

“So, where’s the body? I mean the kid,” Travis asked. “The document doesn’t seem to have the autopsy report yet.”

“Because it hasn’t been done yet,” Holden answered. “Ask the Serge. I think the body is currently in the morgue.”

Damn! Travis thought. The morgue was on the other side of town. He wasn’t too keen to drive there again. At least this time he could drive one of the police cars. If he came across any traffic, he could at least turn on the siren. Although they were only meant to do that in an emergency, it was a rule that was commonly discarded.

“I think I better go see the body,” Travis remarked “Get a better picture.”

“As the Serge if is ok, first,” his friend advised. “You know what he can be like.”

“Sure will.”

Travis didn’t arrive at the morgue until 5 am. He decided to use the back roads and avoided any arterial roads. Much to Travis’s dismay, the morgue was near his apartment. Why couldn’t they send him straight to the morgue, and not be forced to trek across the city? Travis pondered.

Unlike the precept, the morgue was unassuming. It was in the basement of a tower block. Travis bet the tower’s occupants were unaware that a dozen, or so, corpses were being stored underneath them at one given time. It was nothing that Travis would want to think about as he went to bed. No wonder the morgue was kept a secret. It mostly stored the bodies of the homeless, criminals, and the mentally disturbed – sometimes all three at the same time.

Travis made his way into a cold and clinical room, the air heavy with the scent of disinfectants. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered violently, casting stark shadows onto the stainless-steel autopsy tables. Travis could hear the constant hum of refrigeration units. Hopefully, they still had the body he was looking for. It was quite common for bodies, especially of poorer people, to disappear. There was an underground body harvesting industry that no one seemed to be bothered cracking down on. Every time Travis brought this issue up to his superiors, they would laugh it off. They would tell him there were bigger fish to fry.

Distant echoes of footsteps reverberated down one of the morgue’s hallways. A woman of no more than five feet approached the police officer. Kaley was Travis’s neighbour. Although she didn’t look like it, the older woman spent most of her time prodding corpses. The two never discussed their jobs when encountering each other outside of work. As a matter of fact, Travis barely talked to her at all.

“Robert Sandifer,” he said simply. Kaley simply nodded her head.

“The negro,” she replied.

Despite being white, he hated hearing their word. Summarizing a person to the colour of their skin was degrading. Travis always told himself whenever he inspected a murder victim that the person was someone’s son or daughter. No matter what caused a person to go down a dark path, someone still loved them. Or so he hoped so.

Travis followed Kaley down another corridor. The cold greenish wall tiles seeming absorbed any hint of warmth. The Winter City was cold, but inside the morgue, it was even colder. They soon came to another room, containing several metal drawers stacked up against the wall, each drawer housing the remains of a once-living soul. Kaley directed Travis to the drawer near the end of the room. She opened the drawer – the sound of metal wheels turning created a haunting creaking nose that surely would wake the dead.

The body was of a 16-year-old boy. Short scruffy afro. The typical kid Travis would pass on the street and not give a second thought. Although the bodies were usually stripped of any clothing, the boy was still wearing the jacket and jeans he was murdered in.

“Shot to the head,” Kaley explained. “Shot from the side, execution style. Nothing else to say about it. Victim of gang fighting.”

Travis stared at the body. Something seemed off. Putting on some gloves, Travis carefully lifted the boy’s chin.

“A cut to the throat," he remarked. "Are you sure he was killed by gunshot?"

“Positive,” Kaley replied. “The killer even left the gun. Sadly, no fingerprints.”

No fingerprints? Travis thought.

“Family come to claim him?” Travis asked.

Kaley shook her head. “I’ve been told to cremate him tomorrow,” she said coldly. “Dumb the ashes in the lake.”

Quite cruel, Travis thought. He would have at least tried to get in contact with the family. Again, something didn’t seem right. Travis was about to leave when he decided to check the boy’s pocket. To his surprise, he found a letter.

“You didn’t check his clothing?” he asked the woman.

“We’re not some kind of funeral home.”

Ignoring her remark, Travis open the letter and read it. It appeared to be some sort of suicide note.

The note read “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. Save me from the wretched world.” Travis checked at the bottom of the page. The address of a homeless shelter was printed at the bottom. The boy must have got the paper from there.

“I think I’ve got a lead,” Travis remarked. “Recognise this place.”

“Damn trouble I think,” Kaley responded. “I’m surprised the mayor hasn’t shut down that place. Cause nothing but troubles. Full of hobos and negros.” There was that word again. Travis tried his best to keep his mouth shut.

“Well,” he said, “I think I should give this place a visit.”