A brutal murder. A rational Detective. An Agent with OCD. you decide what happens next!

Everything in this story is entirely fiction. All characters and events that took place are in no way real. In no way did I intend to offend anyone; I was just experimenting and having fun. Just enjoy!


With a single glance, he knew her thoughts immediately.

The tears that had rolled down and dried on her face. The deep crimson blood that had poured from he puffed check muscle like a red waterfall. The lymph in the bruising above her eye was a dark purple plum ripe for picking. Her olive skin and her eyes of hazel were pale and lifeless.

He gained her thoughts from her cloudy glance as her struggle for breath seized.

She was dead.

Estimated time 7:30am

It’s a sunny day in Joshua County. Not a cloud in sight. The weatherman was very specific that it would be crisp and dry all day.

Her name was Maria Silverman. A girl in her mid twenties, judging by her taste of fashion mostly worn by her age group, copying a style once used thirty years before. And her dental records, her face too disfigured from swelling for identification.

Her purple dress with pink polka dots was stained with congealed blood that had seeped its way through the velvety fabric. It was torn in two places, revealing her breast bruised with an ape like hand imprinted on its naked flesh.

Suffocation. A struggle for breath as well as shattered neck vertebrae. The slit indented around her neck. Possible murder weapon; A Garrotte, most likely discarded at the crime scene.

He climbed over the yellow police tape surrounding the Kingston Motor Inn. Bed and Breakfast. No Vacancy.

Passing over the broken glass  window on the gravel pavement, he made his way to her broken and bruised body, dodging and averting his eyes from the forensic teams flashing of the camera. Her body was lying on her back in the doorway of flat room number 7. Her fore body  on the inside, and her legs and pink stilettos  pointing out onto the entrance tiling.

7 is supposed to be a lucky number.

His name was Seth Ambrose. The name was clearly printed onto the neatly presented name tag. It shone proudly; he made sure there were no dust or dirt marks on its plastic finish. He wet his finger and dabbed the cold card lightly in an attempt to make it more presentable than it already was. Underneath his name, it had the words ‘FBI’ in bold blue letters.

“Homicide, and possibly rape,” Said the detective Lewis who was crouched down , examining the body.

The crew from the Westwood forensic institution in their light blue bag costumes and white cupped face masks held small sealable plastic bags, looking for any evidence that linked to the murdered and the murderer.

Detective Lewis wore a simple suit and navy blue tie. pinstripe, with his metal Police star badge revealed on his waist pocket. A well worn pair of aviators hanging by the lip of his jacets front pocket.

Walking around, being cautious, he stepped his leather sole shoes into a foul smelling liquid on the kitchen lino.

“Oh, shit.” He cursed.

Not quite.

Searching around the room, he spotted a clean white towel on a metal shelf trolley. Without thinking, he grabbed it and began wiping his now soiled shoes. Agent Ambrose saw all of it, and knew it was a break of protocol.

“Detective Lewis...” He asked.

The detective looked up at him and huffed in frustration.

“It’s not a bloody problem! I’m wearing latex gloves aren’t I?” He said bluntly.

“Yes, but possible evidence is now drenched in urine.”

He ignored the remark, dumping the towel on the stained kitchen floor. He looked back at agent Ambrose curiously when something struck him. His young hazel eyes were lead at the agents rather clean cut plastic badge pinned on his front pocket.

“Agent...Agent Ambrose? You with the FBI?”

“That’s correct Detective Lewis.”

“Oh yeah? And what business does ole’ Hoover have with this here murder case?”

Agent Ambrose sniffled at this comment. “Get your facts straight, Detective Lewis. I’m here on my own ambition. This murder case is of some.... significance to me personally.”

“Well as far as I am concerned, I didn’t call no FBI Agent. And as far as I can tell, we don’t need one. This is my case Agent Ambrose, and I would appreciate it if you would get of this here premises immediately.”

Ambrose breathed calmly. His collected expression grew to understand this command. He began to walkout of the building, graciously avoiding contact with anyone or anything. He gave Maria a final glance. He turned to the detective.

“Oh, Detective Lewis,” The Agent began, smiling slightly. “Be sure to check that towel...make sure its not stained.” And with that, he left the Detectives sight, walking back over the yellow police tape.

Curious, The Detective picked up the soaked towel and realised that yellow and red make an odd tint of orange. Unravelling the white towel, his heart sank in disgust.

The murder weapon. A rusty garrotte wet with blood was hidden in its folds.

“Huh...” He smirked.

Disregarding protocol once again, Realisation creeping over his face, Detective Lewis, still holding on to the towel and the garrotte, ran out of the building in attempts to catch up with the Agent, bumping into a few of his fellow colleges, and crashing into the yellow police tape along the way.


What happens next? Does Agent Ambrose help Detective Lewis in solving the murder? OR does the Agent have something to do with the victim? You decide!

The End

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