The detective's mind buzzed with unanswered questions as he sat at his desk, staring at the dead recorder. Marcus Dew's voice had been a brief but haunting glimpse into the terror of his final moments. The memory of it lingered like a bad taste, twisting the detective's gut into knots.
He needed answers, but every time he seemed close to a breakthrough, something inexplicable happened—like the recorder dying. It was as if the case itself didn't want to be solved. But that only made him more determined.
Deciding to shake off the chill that had settled over him, he stood up and walked to the window. He pushed the blinds open, letting the sunlight flood in, and tried to clear his head. The city outside was buzzing with life, a stark contrast to the dark, suffocating atmosphere in his apartment. It was almost surreal, how the world kept turning while he was trapped in this nightmare of a case.
But he couldn't let himself get lost in his thoughts for too long. He had to stay focused, had to keep moving forward. He picked up the recorder and examined it again, turning it over in his hands. The batteries were fine, the tape inside unspooled just slightly, but no matter how many times he tried, it refused to play. Frustrated, he set it aside and grabbed the case file instead, flipping through the pages.
The autopsy report had been vague, almost deliberately so. Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head. No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. The coroner had noted a strange discoloration on Marcus's skin, something that didn't match any known substance, but that lead had gone nowhere. It was as if Marcus had been targeted by something—or someone—beyond the realm of understanding.
He needed to think, to regroup. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, feeling the smoke swirl in his lungs. He had a bad habit of letting his mind wander, especially when things got too intense, but now wasn't the time for that. He had to stay sharp.
A knock at the door startled him out of his reverie. The sound was sharp and unexpected, sending a jolt of adrenaline through his system. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and cautiously approached the door.
He hesitated for a moment before pulling it open. A middle-aged man stood there, nondescript and dressed in a rumpled suit. His face was weary, and there was something guarded in his expression. The detective recognized him as one of the senior officers from his precinct—an old colleague of his father's, someone who'd been around long enough to know how these things worked.
"Detective," the man said, his voice low. "We need to talk."
The detective stepped aside, allowing him to enter. The man walked into the apartment, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the clutter of papers, the disarray of the space. He seemed uncomfortable, almost wary.
"What's this about?" the detective asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.
The older man sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Look, I know you're neck-deep in this Dew case. I've been hearing things—rumors, mostly. People think you're going off the deep end."
The detective bristled at the implication. "I'm fine. This case is just… it's complicated."
"Complicated is one word for it." The man rubbed the back of his neck, looking like he didn't want to be there. "Look, I knew your father. He was a good man, a damn good detective. But this case—it got under his skin. He spent years trying to figure it out, but it always led nowhere. It was like the more he dug, the deeper the hole got."
The detective stiffened at the mention of his father. The two of them had never seen eye to eye on much, but hearing his name now, in connection to the case, made something tighten in his chest. "I'm not my father," he said, his voice firm. "I can handle it."
"I'm not saying you can't," the man replied quickly, holding up his hands. "But there are some cases that… they just stick with you. They eat away at you. Your father wasn't the same after Dew died. He started seeing things, hearing things—said the case was cursed."
"Cursed?" The detective almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You expect me to believe that?"
The older man shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I don't know what to believe. All I'm saying is, be careful. Don't let it consume you like it did him."
The detective watched as the man made his way to the door. The warning hung in the air like a dark cloud, but he pushed it aside. He had no intention of walking away, not when he was so close to something.
Once the door clicked shut, he returned to his desk. He couldn't afford distractions, not now. The old man's words gnawed at him, but he forced himself to refocus. He'd deal with his father's ghost later. Right now, he had to keep going.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of an old contact, someone who specialized in unusual cases. If anyone could help him make sense of what he'd heard on the recorder, it was this guy. The phone rang a few times before it was answered, and a gruff voice on the other end barked a greeting.
"I need your help," the detective said without preamble. "It's about the Dew case."
There was a long pause on the other end. Then, "You're not serious."
"Dead serious," the detective replied. "I've got a recording, something from the night Dew was killed. But the tape's busted, and I need it fixed."
"Bring it over," the voice said, sounding resigned. "But I'm telling you now—nothing good's gonna come of this."
The detective hung up and grabbed the recorder, slipping it into his pocket. His mind was racing, heart pounding. He had a feeling things were about to get even more complicated.
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