The shutter of camera lenses and flashes ricocheted off the alley walls. It was a dreary, cold morning. The heavy grey clouds lingered above, looking as if they would burst any moment to wash away the blood from the cobblestone.
An older gentleman stood in solitude, his hands pressed down into his trench coat pockets, narrowed eyes staring at the corpse spaces away. They were a hazy blue, almost silver in the dull light, and surrounded by a weathered and aged exterior. A large hand emerged to stroke an unshaven chin, his brows knitting together and a grunt escaping his thin lips.
Ballard had seen this type of case too many times during his police career. After 35 years, he was close to retirement. Once brown hair was now greying, and it was clear he had slowly let himself go. At one glance, it was clear he had been blessed with handsome features. A strong jawline, thin and straight nose, and silken strands of outgrown hair falling carelessly in his face and framing his pensive gaze. And despite his age of 59, his body remained in shape. A wrinkled and loose dress shirt hung on his broad frame beneath his camel colored trench coat, top buttons either missing or left undone to allow a peek at his weathered and tanned hairy chest.
"Ballard! You're here!" The firm tone snapped Ballard's gaze away from the dead body and towards the alley's mouth. A young man in his mid thirties emerged, ducking under the police tape and walking into the active crime scene. He was the polar opposite of Ballard; smartly dressed in slacks, a starched dress shirt and grey tweed vest with well-groomed facial hair. He even wore a tie, an article of clothing Ballard hadn't touched in years.
"Ah. Officer...excuse me, Sergeant Clarke." Ballard's rough voice, from years of smoking, greeted him, "Congratulations on your recent promotion."
The man smirked, "Keep calling me James." He ran his fingers through his thick chestnut brown hair, pushing the long bangs to the side.
"And if I didn't know you better," James began, olive eyes glittering. "I'd say you're jealous. But I'm well aware of your disdain for hierarchy and office walls."
"Working in the field has always been my preference."
"I wonder how well you'll do next year with retirement. I give you one month before you come back wanting to work again!" He laughed, a deep and throaty laugh. Ballard responded by simply shaking his head.
It was just last week that James had received a promotion. He was now the youngest Sergeant in the history of their station. 'Call me cynical, but it happened far too fast to be done properly.' Ballard thought to himself. But whether James had occurred his position through hard work or connections, was of no interest to him. He had his own reasons for staying as a detective all these years and turning down promotion after promotion. And his well-honed intuition was saying that today's case would be one to remember.
"What have we got here?" James questioned, pulling on a pair of gloves and moving closer to the large and crumpled body.
"Based on the state of the crime scene this wasn't a body dumping. The killing happened here. It was also more than just a victim and perpetrator. Blood on the far wall. Shuffling of the debris and wreckage here…" Ballard began to list off what CSI had found. "There were additional witnesses, or accomplices. Of course, it's hard to say since the weather and passerbyers could have affected it."
James nodded, his gaze moving around the alleyway as Ballard continued his synopsis. "Identification found on the body reveals his name is Clive Owens. He's a 32yr old factory worker. Harry is currently examining him, but estimates the time of death was somewhere between 11pm and 1am. A blunt force to the back of the skull, multiple times, was the cause of death."
"Weapon?"
"An iron bar was found in that wreckage." Ballard thumbed backward over his shoulder. "The victim's blood and hair on it. They'll dust it for prints and run it through the AFIS back at the station."
"Detective Kinsley, Officer Clarke, look at this." Their conversation was interrupted by a young man dressed in a white forensic suit kneeling by the body, it was Harry. His head arched upward towards them, eyes bewildered behind thick framed glasses.
Ballard and James stepped forward and stood on either side of Harry, their forms stooped over as they peered where he pointed.
"Something bit his neck. There are signs of struggle." It was a ghastly wound, with two large puncture marks surrounded by vertical tears in the flesh.
"What sort of animal?" James questioned, his thick eyebrows arching upward in a puzzled expression.
"Not 'animal'. My hunch is this wound was made by human canines." Harry corrected looking upward at the two men. "These impressions in the skin above and below the bite wound are too flat to be from an animal."
They both stared at the coroner in disbelief. Ballard's face grew dark. Suddenly your typical homicide had turned into a conundrum. James stood silently, his face turned downward in an expression Ballard couldn't read.
"His lips and fingertips are blue making me deduce he entered a state of Hypovolemic Shock before passing out. Of course, I'll know more once I conduct a full examination." Harry's statement left Ballard in a cold sweat.
"You're saying he lost almost 20% of his blood. Yet the amount surrounding his body is hardly enough to reach that volume!" Ballard was in a state of disbelief. It had been years since he had seen a case like this. Back then his colleagues called them, "The Cases of Dracula." A series of unsolved Homicides caused by siphoning blood out of the victims, leaving nothing but empty shells.
"What a bloody mess." He mumbled under his breath. Just when he had dreamed of retiring and putting his family legacy behind him – they were back. His intuition had been right.