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TW: Death body description

Prolouge | Nolan

"Death took him around five twenty, approximately." Diana says as she looks over the corpse. "Maybe I'm off by an hour or two, but it definitely happened in the early hours; rigor mortis is just starting to set in now... If those drivers hadn't noticed the boy, I don't dare to think about what condition he would be in."

The lifeless body's eyes are wide open, cracked, with bluish-purple lips separated. His skin is turning gray. The grass gently embraces his slender form; he lies on the ground like Jesus on the cross. His hands are raised as if reaching out, and his legs are tightly closed. Red streaks line his forearms—deep, thick, thin, short, straight, scratched lines.

Nolan shivers, and at the same time, a cold, sharp autumn wind begins to blow.

"What do we know so far?"

"The boy was only nineteen, named Anderson, grew up in Louisiana, recently came to Idaho." Diana takes out a pack of cigarettes, extends the open box towards Nolan, who declines, even though he could use a little spinner device. The temptation isn't strong enough.

"Go on."

"They say it's suicide. The cops found razor blades at the scene. All of them were bloody." She takes a drag from her cigarette. "True, they haven't fully examined the body yet, but the blades provide a pretty clear answer, don't they?"

"I don't know."

"No?"

"It's just weird to me that he's in such a perfect position. Okay, he killed himself and had time to arrange himself, but it's still too perfect."

"Anything else?" Diana asks, rolling her eyes. "This doesn't mean anything. The fact that he committed suicide is much more plausible than your theories. If you'll take advice from a rookie detective, don't overthink it."

Nolan sighs deeply. Rookie detective. That's what everyone calls him. Just because he's been in the business for two months doesn't mean he should be treated so condescendingly.

"I'll call Ian to have them take the kid to the morgue." Diana walks away, but turns back for a moment. "Meanwhile, search or do whatever you want, I don't care. Keep the gloves on; you don't want to end up arrested."

This woman is very terrible. Nolan thinks as he snaps on his latex gloves. He leans down to the boy; the smell of death will likely be something he'll never get used to. He's seen a corpse before—the death of his grandmother, brother, and father were enough for this specific scent to embed itself in his memory.

Andy's leather jacket is muddy; it has been raining a lot lately. Non-stop from nine last night until nine in the morning.

But what if he struggled with someone?

Okay, maybe Diana is right; he needs to stop this unnecessary overthinking.

However, his jeans and brand-name shoes are entirely new, not dirty at all.

He takes out a black notebook from his back pocket.

Pants, shoes intact; the jacket, however, is dirty. - He writes in ugly handwriting.

He starts with the pockets on the jacket.

A mobile phone, battery at fifty-six percent. Bingo!

A pack of gum and a house key.

In the other pocket, he finds a used tissue.

He places the phone, gum, and key into separate plastic bags.

Then he reaches into the pants pocket. In the right pocket, he finds only an expired bus pass; the left one is empty. Slowly and cautiously, he begins to turn Andy's body to the side.

His heart skips a beat, loses balance, and falls backward, plunging his hand into the wet grass to steady himself.

An X is carved into the boy's back, and the bare skin is bloody. Only the front part of the jacket remains; the back is missing.

Is it really a suicide?

As Nolan's gaze lowers, his heart starts pounding in his throat. In the boy's back pocket, he sees a folded piece of paper.

With trembling hands, he reaches for the letter, but he can't take his eyes off the X, where bugs and ants have settled.

The letter is yellowish and dirty.

He doesn't want to invade someone's privacy... Is he sure this is the right thing to do? Is it a good idea to read this letter and find out why the boy committed suicide?

He bites his lip. I'm sorry, Andy, but I need to know the truth. I need to know what happened to you.

Nolan unfolds it, expecting to read a heartbreaking story about why this boy took his own life. Instead, he is confronted with a text that sends chills down his spine. The wind picks up, awakening the dried wheat, Nolan's jacket gently caressed by the cold breeze, his face completely pale, holding the letter with trembling fingers. He swallows. His swallow echoes through the desolate plain.

THIS LETTER CAN ONLY FALL INTO THE HANDS OF NOLAN DAMIAN TURNER!

Nolan, let's play a game, okay?

I am the judge, and your task is to win this competition and make sure no one dies! Especially that you are not the next victim!

Your first task:

Wait until the autopsy.

Regards: X