Frisky Friday Flash Fiction
We made to the end of another week! Hallelujah!
How are you?
I’m hanging in there. It’s official. We’re moving back to California, but dear hubby is going first. He was approved for a temporary apartment and bought his plane ticket. Crap just got real. My office looks like a tornado hit it—half packed and half scattered. Two more weeks… Sadly, it’ll be six months before I head out with our daughter.
In the meantime…
My alter ego, SF Benson, has a story in an anthology. It’s coming out this month.
I also have a book coming next month…
He needs to be the best version of himself possible…
But Javier Hernández isn’t sure what is his best.
He’s only ever known his dark side. A convict father and a gang remind Javier daily. Always in trouble with the law, society defined Javier as a no-good man who would end up in jail or dead. Until a chance run-in opens the door to change.
Harper Winslow understands what it means to give his best. The former Marine served his country proudly. Losing his leg ended his career, but it didn’t end his recklessness. The man has a history with random men, but he hungers to find a special someone who would calm his fears and hold him on those long nights when terror set in.
Two men with one goal—to be a better man.
But can love overcome doubt and fear?
Ready for the next installment of Deception?
Before I became a detective, I’d seriously considered joining the FBI and becoming a profiler. I’d fulfilled all the requirements and had my application ready, but my kid sister talked me out of it. Well… Not exactly. Our parents had just died in a home invasion, and Marisa wasn’t handling it well. Although the crime prompted me to advance my career, I realized taking care of my sister meant more to me than chasing a dream.
So I did the next best thing. I boned up on becoming the best detective I could, learning everything there was about investigating violent crimes and dangerous criminals. I amassed a successful track record and earned the respect of my peers.
From the crime scene evidence alone, I had an idea of who our suspect might be—male, possibly in his late 20s or early 30s. He’d also be muscular to overpower the victim. Closeted gay.
I studied the photos of Wright. No blood splatter on the sheets or headboard. None on the wall either. The suspect was most likely a neat freak, maybe even OCD. Scratching my temple, I thought about recent unsolved murders. Was there a pattern?
A vague one.
Two months prior, another vic—A.J. Abernathy—was discovered in the Hollywood Hills. The man was well known on the club scene. Closing my eyes, I pulled together the details of the crime in my head.
The victim was in his mid-twenties.
We found him naked on his sofa.
Date rape drugs in his system.
My eyes popped open. The tox screen would become the key factor. If the drugs turned up in Wright’s system, we might have a serial killer on our hands.
Someone knocked on my open door.
“Yeah?” I said without looking away from my bulletin board.
“Detective Reeves, I have a preliminary report from the coroner’s office.”
I prayed I was wrong.
But as soon as my fingers grasped the file, I knew. No, I wasn’t clairvoyant or anything like that. Personally, I didn’t believe in a sixth sense. I went with my gut. And mine screamed at me. Although I enjoyed my job, solving puzzles for me was a carnal experience, I didn’t relish the prospect of a serial murderer in our midst. Los Angeles had enough strangeness without adding a spree killer to the mix.
The lanky officer shut the door behind him, and I returned to my desk. Scanning the document, I tried to stay calm. Just like with the previous case, Wright had Rohypnol and GHB in his system. If I hadn’t known about Abernathy, I would have just thought our current victim liked to party. And just like the last case, Wright had been drunk. His BAC was 0.08. I’d bet any amount of money that our perp took advantage of the fact.
Alcohol and drugs meant the assailant didn’t have to be muscular. Most likely, Wright was an easy target. Perhaps he met the suspect at a bar or a party or some other gathering. The pair talked, and then Wright invited the stranger back to his house. Maybe the vic was drunk enough to slip the drugs into a drink.
If Wright had passed out, how did the killer get him into bed?
I flipped over the page and found a yellow sticky note—Call me asap. Connie. A red arrow was above the message. It pointed to a key element—succinylcholine. Someone had injected Wright.
Immediately, my mind formulated a new profile. One where the perp believed in overkill. More worrisome was the killer premeditated the murder. Nobody walked around with a vial or syringe filled with Quelicin in their pocket.
Instead of calling Connie, I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door. Whatever she needed to tell me could be said in person. Plus, I wanted to see Wright’s body for myself.
Have a great weekend!