Home is where the Heart is (Detective Stone, Open to H.O.M.E. Applicants)

by **Detective Stone** November 1st 2017, 7:16 pm

[Highland Park Medical Center]

Ronald tried to smile as the phlebotamist came into the room, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. Ever since his disability leave, he'd avoided doctor's offices like the plague. But now that Special Investigations was being federalized, there was no avoiding it. The entire department had been asked to undergo a complete physical to assure their health status for the Feds' medical and life insurance programs. Being something of a cynic, Ronald thought there might be more going on. Whatever the case, there wasn't much he could do about it. He was staring down a tunnel, watching the bright light come towards him as the horn blared.

"Do you prefer your right or left arm," the man asked. He was a big fella, round and happy-looking, as though drawing blood was the fulfillment of his life's ambition. Hell... maybe it was. If so, the man was to be envied. Most did not find contentment in their careers so easily.

"Doesn't matter to me," Ronald replied, "Dealer's choice."

In the hospital, during his medical isolation, the nurses had frequently broken or bent needles while trying to take his bloodwork or insert an I.V. They'd written it off as bad luck. But Ronald knew his 'condition' had progressed even more since then. He braced himself for what was to come.

The phlebotamist smiled as he prepped Ron's right arm and pressed the needle to a vein that was visible through the skin.

Then the man pressed a little bit harder.

The tip of the needle gained slight purchase into his skin, but the rest was slow going. Too slow. The entire needle bowed as the man pushed harder and harder, glancing at Ron and then back at his work.

Finally, rather than continue to press, he withdrew the needle. The man's cheery nature seemed to have largely dissolved.

"Mister Stone, I've been drawing blood for ten years. I'm pretty good at it."

Ronald nodded, "I'm sure you are. This happens to me a lot. I've got a thick skin, maybe. Try a thicker needle?"

The phlebotamist narrowed his gaze. "Detective... is there something you maybe forgot to disclose on your medical history questionnaire?"

********************

City Police Station, Chief's Office

"You do realize you can be terminated for a failure to disclose?"

It had taken just 24 hours for Ronald to find himself called into the Chief's office. He found himself fondly remembering the decades gone by, when complicated medical tests might take weeks to return a result. Modern technology wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Some things had become too quick and too easy.

Of course, that was all fine and good when a CSI team was testing evidence at a crime scene. Less so when that same wonder-technology decided to level its uncaring scientific gaze upon his own personal affairs.

"There's been no failure to disclose, Chief. I found out when you did, just today. Hell, I was medically cleared for a return from disability by a city-mandated physician. I thought I was fine. Quite a shock to find out I'm some kind of metahuman."

"A shock, eh? Is that how you want to run with this?"

Ronald shrugged, "Well... what's the alternative? Should we believe that this was apparent from the start? That the city medic is incompetent and gave me and you bad medical advice? Sounds like a liability to me, Chief. Best we all just call it even, don'tcha think?"

The chief's jaw set, and it was clear he was holding back an outburst. The man's gaze drifted to the other two chairs in the room, where Ronald's Union Rep and an H.R. representative sat, observing the interaction. This was tricky business for both of them. The Union hadn't done squat to fight for metahuman rights in the department, but they were obligated to make an effort to defend any Union member. The Human Resources department knew the city could find itself subject to a lawsuit if Ronald was discharged. But they didn't really want a metahuman on the books, because supers carried liabilities all their own.

But as uncomfortable as this was for everyone in the room... they all had a way out.

"Well," the chief said, "with the Federalization of Special Investigations, this really isn't going to be on my desk for long. And it turns out that the Feds are taking Class D metas like yourself into their new organization. So if we all just sit tight for a few days, this is a problem that will actually solve itself."

Ronald nodded, "And in the meantime?"

"It was my intention to put you on paid leave until then," the chief said, glancing again towards the older woman who was sitting in for Human Resources. "But after a consultation with H.R., it was felt best if you continue your usual duties until the re-organization of your department is complete."

Ronald suppressed a smile. "All right, Chief." He started to stand, but then paused, "If that's all?"

"You are dismissed, Detective."

********************

When Ronald returned to his desk, he found it littered with cheap superhero action figures. That wasn't particularly bad in itself. But the word 'Freak' had been scrawled across his desktop in red lipstick. And someone had removed the wheels from his office chair, depositing them in the trash.

He'd spent months concealing the truth about himself, fearful of just such a response. Now the cat was out of the bag.

Well, if this was as bad as it got...

His phone rang. Picking it up, he announced, "Detective Stone-" but didn't get any farther before a long stream of profanity flowed forth from the handset. He set it back down onto the cradle and sighed.

It was going to be a long day.

by **Detective Stone** November 2nd 2017, 2:11 pm

City Police Station

The day had been dead as a doornail. Not so much as a single confirmed metahuman crime had been reported, leaving Ronald with little to do. In one way, this was a good thing. He'd had plenty of time to clean off his desk, clear out the action figures, and re-assemble his office chair.

In another way, it was somewhat depressing. He'd had plenty of time to brood on recent events, and to consider how the revelation of his metahuman status was impacting his professional relationships. Absolutely no one had spoken to him all day, unless he included the expletive-laden phone call he'd received this morning from an 'unknown caller.'

There were many people who despised metahumans, and unfortunately a lot of them worked for the police. Even open-minded individuals had trouble remaining open-minded once they'd had a call where a meta tossed energy bolts at them. Or encountered a meta who invaded their minds to take control of their bodies. Or fought a meta who could rip off a car door with their bare hands and use it as a shield. It was the skewed perspective of the peacekeeper. They only met the worst examples of any population, and those examples insidiously perverted their perception of that population.

Racism. Classism. Sexism. Every 'ism' you could think of was fostered by peering through such a lens at the world.

And now that lens was intensely focused on him.

Eventually, Ronald occupied himself by reading 'Department Attention' notices. These were notices about crimes that didn't land within a particular department's purview, but which a different department wanted to make them aware of. Sometimes a Homicide occurred during a robbery. A 'Department Attention' notice would be sent to Property Crimes so that they would stay on the lookout for the stolen merchandise while conducting their ordinary duties.

In his case, every unusual crime investigated by every other department caused a 'Department Attention' notice to land in his email box. Sometimes he even got notices about non-crimes that had nontheless been suspicious.

Some kid stole a bike, but was able to somehow out-pedal a police cruiser that pursued him? Department Attention: Special Investigations. This was was probably a meta, but there wasn't enough information to be sure. It might have been a lazy patrolman who didn't feel like engaging in a proper pursuit.

A woman reported willingly handing 100 dollars to a homeless man, but later couldn't account for her sudden impulse of generosity? Department Attention: Special Investigations. Probably a meta using emotional control or some kind of pheremones, but there wasn't even proof that a crime had been committed. It might as easily have been charitable remorse. Ron would need more examples before he could look into it.

The Apex University Research Hospital had a multi-million dollar experimental tissue regenerator stolen? Department Attention: Special Investigations.

That was the report he was reading now. Whenever any exotic tech got stolen within city limits, he got a Department Attention notice. There was an unfortunate tendency for tech-based villains to steal unusual technology for use in their crimes. But until they actually unfolded some kind of nefarious technological plot, or made a confirmed display of exotic superhuman capability, it was a case for Property Crimes.

In this case, the University's experimental hardware had been burgled by a man dressed in a Japanese Kendo outfit. That was pretty strange. But not a case for Special Investigations. Not yet. Lots of ordinary criminals wore lots of odd things during the commission of their crimes.

Ronald finished reading his notices, and then glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes left in his shift.

"Close enough," he muttered.

Putting on his long coat and hat, he left the building and put this miserable day behind him.

by **Detective Stone** November 3rd 2017, 1:54 pm

The Black Russian

The air was steeped in music, laughter, loud talking, stale beer, sweat, and desperation. In other words, it was a normal night at The Black Russian, the best drinking hole in Brown Town.

Despite the concerns of some university activists at protests last year, 'Brown Town' was not a racial epithet. It was true that the majority of its residents were black or hispanic, but it had earned its name for other reasons. Cornelius Brown, a wealthy black developer, had designed and built much of the neighborhood in the early 80's. He'd hired some remarkable architects, and the neighborhood had several visually interesting buildings in it. Unfortunately, time had not been kind to the neighborhood, and it was now considered to be the dark underbelly of the city.

Even underbellies needed food and drink, and the best place to get both was at 'The Black Russian', an establishment that had an overtly ethnic and racially-inspired name. The owner of the bar was Dasha Pavlova, a mixed-race child of communist African revolutionaries who had emigrated to Russia in the 70's and then moved again to the United States in the 90's after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Dasha was a mocha-skinned beauty in her early forties, often manning the bar and always greeting her customers with a bright smile and a jolly "Dobryy vecher!"

"Privet," Ronald called back to her, using up almost his entire Russian vocabulary in the process.

As he walked up to the counter, she nodded to him, switching to accented english. "You look unhappy tonight," she told him.

"Just tonight," Ronald asked, his lips curling in a slight smile as he sat down.

"Eh," she shrugged, "More than usual." She poured him a shot of The Kraken, sliding it forward.

"Something happened at work to make me unpopular with my coworkers," he said, not sure he wanted to say more. Instead of elaborating, he downed the shot and slid the glass back towards her.

She must have been expecting this, as she hadn't made any move to put the bottle away. Instead, she poured him a second shot. "I do not see any girls tonight for you to work things out on," she said, her expression a mixture of gentle mockery and half-feigned remorse.

"You pay way too much attention to my activities, Dasha," he told her. He downed the second shot, passing the glass back in her direction.

She shrugged, "Old KGB habit," she said, and refilled his glass. Then she put the bottle back in its place behind the counter. A subtle suggestion about where she thought he should take a break.

Ronald studied her face for a moment. "I can never tell when you're joking," he said, taking up the third shot and downing it as casually as the first two.

"Russians never joke," she stated flatly, and then they both cracked smiles. "So, you want to talk about it?"

He thought about that. "I think I do," he said. Then he sighed, turning the shot class over and setting it on the counter. He fished out his wallet and took out a tenner and a five.

She nodded in understanding. He wanted to. But he would not. She accepted the cash, "Come back soon, Detective. I hope we have better fishing for you tomorrow."

Ronald slid off the barstool. The warmth of the rum was working its way into his system, though he was a distance yet from being impaired. "I could come back when it's closing time, Dasha," he suggested it only half-jokingly.

Dasha tugged her earlobe, "These are the only holes I have for you to fill, Ronald." She smiled a kind smile. Kind enough for Ronald to tell himself that the idea wasn't repugnant to her. "Tomorrow is Friday. Always a girl here for you on Friday. Married. Stood up. Slumming. Angry. Depressed. Lonely. They all come on Friday. Until then," she shrugged, making a tugging gesture with her hand.

"Always a class-act, Dasha," he said, shaking his head as he went to the door, "See you tomorrow."

He didn't get in his car. He knew that he wasn't impaired, but a breathalyzer might disagree, and right now he wasn't the most popular man in the department. Leaving his car in The Black Russian's parking lot, he walked the two blocks to his apartment.

With the day's events on his mind, it was a long time before sleep found him. In the end, he was forced to follow Dasha's parting advice in order to calm his thoughts.

Hopefully, the morning sun would dawn on a better day.

by **Detective Stone** November 6th 2017, 6:27 pm

A home near 23rd Avenue and Madison Street

The call had come in early. It seemed they usually did. Early or late. Murder and Meyhem never seemed to pencil themselves in for an appointment at a decent hour. The autumn chill was in the air, just a few degrees above freezing. Ronald's suit and coat- stiflingly hot during the summer- now kept him reasonably warm. In another month, the temperature here would dip well below freezing. Cold enough that he'd have to layer in some thermal underwear underneath everything to endure even brief walks outside.

The sun was just barely peeking up over the horizon, but not yet far enough to clear the buildings of the neighborhood. Morning's gloom was intermittently interrupted by the flashing blue lights of the squad cars parked nearby. The otherwise quiet neighborhood was pierced by radio squelches and dispatcher remarks coming in through a dozen radio sets.

This cacophany of light and noise intensified as he approached the house with his coffee in hand. He squinted at everything he saw. His brain was still an hour away from being ready for all this nonsense.

Crossing the threshold of the home, he nodded to the officers and crime scene techs on the scene. Nobody spat at him. His friend Chris seemed to be supervising the CSI guys at the scene today, but Ron didn't interrupt his work. The techs from CSI were still marking and photographing blood spatters, and probably would be for another hour. It was fairly clear that someone had been brutally murdered here.

Only one problem...

The body on the floor didn't seem to have a single wound on it.

The naked body of a man in his sixties was sprawled out, his clothes carefully folded next to him. Professional clothes.

The clothes were covered in blood.

The man was covered in blood.

The floor was covered in blood.

The walls were covered in blood.

The man had several large angry scars on his chest, but they were apparently from wounds that had healed some time ago.

One of the officers on scene approached Ronald. "Detective Stone, I presume?" he asked.

Ronald nodded, "Yeah. What's the damage here, exactly? He get stabbed in the back?"

The officer, named Stametz according to his nameplate, shook his head. "We haven't figured out what killed him, yet. The blood doesn't seem to be his. We thought it was, but apparently this guy doesn't have any wounds. Not recent ones, at any rate. But there's enough blood here that someone ought to be dead, somewhere. It's pretty weird. I know we don't have any confirmed metahuman activity, yet, but it seemed odd enough to warrant a call."

Ronald nodded, crouching down to look at the body more carefully. The clothes folded beside the body were absolutely soaked in coagulating claret, and it looked like the victim's shirt and suit had been sliced through by something sharp. Ron had an impulse to unfold the shirt from the pile and press it to the corpse to see if the cuttings in the shirt matched the scars in the body's torso... but he resisted the urge. The techs still had a lot of work to do before he could indulge such whimsy.

"That's fine. I think you're probably right about this being S.I. material. But tell Detective Carter that I won't be nicking this from him just yet. Not until the autopsy results come back and all the evidence is logged in."

Stametz nodded, "He'll be glad to hear that, I think. He was grousing that we'd called you."

Ronald shrugged, "Well, I guess I'd grouse, too." He recalled his recent work with Recluse and how the E.C.L.I.P.S.E. agent had taken pains not to make Ronald feel obviated. He wondered if he ought to pay it forward and suggest a joint investigation with Homicide for this one.

He'd think on it.

"Make sure I get copied on all the info for this. Victim data, interviews with friends, family, neighbors. Everything."

Nodding again, Stametz smiled, "Sure thing, Detective. You taking off, then?"

"Yeah. Gotta get a Mcmuffin to go with this coffee. Take heart, officer. This could be you, one day, living la vida loca."

"Not too soon, I hope," Stametz said, and the pair shared a smile.

After the desk incident and prank call, it was nice to have a fairly normal job interaction. Maybe the sentiment that had seen his workstation vandalized wasn't as widespread as he'd feared.

He made his way back to his car and got inside. Starting it up, he decided he'd probably want to order some cinnamelts, too. He was almost sure this case would be Special Investigations material, and once he started digging in to its details, he'd probably forget to eat lunch. Best get his calories in, now.

And maybe another coffee...

by **Detective Stone** November 9th 2017, 10:10 am

Medical Examiner's Office

"What do you mean there's no heart? You mean the attacker removed it?" Ronald squinted at the body, remembering that there had been no obvious recent wounds at the scene despite large quantities of blood.

Doctor Firth, who was standing next to the examiner's table, gestured to the body which had been surgically opened. Firth was one of the better M.E.'s working for the city, and Ronald had specifically requested that he look into this case.

"Maybe? But if so, I don't see how. I mean, let me be honest... this is a weird case. I can see that this man previously suffered some pretty egregious wounds. Fresh scarring on the torso. Evidence of recently healed ribs. Healed lacerations to one of the lungs."

As Doctor Firth spoke, he gestured to the different affected organs. "But based on the state of tissue repair, these serious injuries occurred at least six or eight weeks ago. I'm probably not revealing any medical secrets when I tell you that there is no way to survive without a heart for that length of time."

Ron frowned, taking a sip from his McDonalds coffee cup as he tried to put the pieces together.

Shortly before coming here, he'd pulled the victim's medical records. The quality and frequency of those records was above average. The victim, Argyle Price, worked at a local research hospital as a researcher and a member of its board of directors. The last time he'd had a checkup was just four weeks ago, and he'd been the picture of health. Above average for his age, even. He certainly hadn't suffered any of the recent injuries the M.E. was describing.

Friends and family had also confirmed the subject's good health. The scars and recent damage found on the body were as much a mystery as the lack of a heart. Well... maybe not quite as much. But close.

"Well... but is that true? I mean, could he be a meta?" Ron glanced about for the trash bin, tossing his empty cup into it.

Doctor Firth shook his head, "Not as far as we've been able to tell. We did a quick genetic workup, and none of the usual markers are present. That genetic test did reveal another oddity, however."

"Let me guess," Ron said, "the blood on the scene?"

Firth nodded, "It definitely belongs to the victim. But don't ask me where it came from. He had no open wounds. There was a fair quantity of blood in the lungs, but not enough to account for the volume and... trajectory, of the blood photographed on the walls, floor, ceiling... or even deposited on the clothes."

"About those clothes..."

Firth turned, picking up a plastic bag from a nearby countertop and holding it up. It contained the victim's blood-soaked clothes, which had been carefully folded and laid beside the body. "Yes, thank you for reminding me. I did as you suggested, and compared the clothes to the scars. The scars on the body largely match the cuts in these clothes and the healed wounds to bones and organs beneath the skin. Some sort of large, sharp cutting implement, like a very sharp machete or sword, may have caused them. These may have been the clothes the victim was wearing during the original injuries, but I can't rule out that the clothes may have been purposefully cut to match the previous scars for some unknown ritualistic reason."

Ronald nodded, sighing. "Thanks, Alfie. I guess this settles it. I'm off back to my office to file the paperwork. This is officially a Special Investigations case, now."

"You do bring me the most interesting bodies, Detective Stone."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "It's become a real bad habit."

by **Jeannie Rose** November 9th 2017, 8:15 pm

huh, Jeannie wondered if it was vampires again she took care of the ones doing the kidnapping awhile ago. but you never can tell how many vampires there are in the world. or it could be that weird cult that did odd murders before.

she thought they got them all. or aliens maybe, anyway this funky murder seemed like the thing she should check out. being a bit odd herself strange cases where her specialty. now where she put that cop costume so she can sneak in to look at the crime scene.

Rolling Eyes

by **Detective Stone** November 10th 2017, 9:57 am

The Crime Scene

When Ronald got back to his desk to file the paperwork to take over the case, he thought a new representation of the department's disdain had become manifest: His desk was missing.

However, that turned out not to be the case. His desk had simply been moved. To the new H.O.M.E. office.

The department was getting a hundred-thousand dollar grant to house H.O.M.E. agents at their facility. Theoretically, this fee would go towards outfitting a special office space or renovation on behalf of the Detectives who would be assigned there. Not unexpectedly, the department had cashed the check and cleared out a twenty-by-twenty storage room, sticking Ronald's desk in there with three others. Essentially, he'd been shoved in a closet.

At least they'd put a sign on the door that hadn't come out of an office printer. It was an official-looking plastic rectangle, stuck on with double-sided tape. Very professionally done.

His phone and desk computer were still disconnected, however. Their cables drooped out from the back of the machines and coiled on the floor, having nothing to plug into. A note on his desk suggested that a tech would be by tomorrow to hook everything up.

So, he sat in the storage room for an hour, working on his portable datapad and submitting the paperwork that way. It was slower going without a proper keyboard, but not a major inconvenience. Soon enough, Homicide was raising a stink about losing their case. They were caustic enough that Ronald abandoned all thoughts of a joint investigation.

When that was accomplished, he decided to take a trip back to the crime scene. Most likely, there weren't any further answers to be found there. Still, on a case as odd as this, it couldn't hurt to take a second look.

He arrived in the late afternoon after stopping for coffee. Bypassing the yellow Police tape, he stepped inside...

by **Jeannie Rose** November 10th 2017, 9:34 pm

huh yup somebody got whacked here, what a mess Jeannie looked around the bloody room hey where's the dead guy? huh maybe it was Freddy Krueger sucked him in the bed and splated him out, but there no bed.

well, guess he could have sucked him into so thing else a blender maybe. huh nobody makes this tricky she looks around for clues, then notices someone comes in oh hello there did they send you to make sure we didn't miss anything too?well besides the body, all this blood but nobody how strange,

don't look like a bomb so how else do you blow someone up,
I think the murder weapon was a giant blender maybe

by **Detective Stone** November 13th 2017, 9:05 am

[Crime Scene]

Ronald stopped in his tracks when he saw that an officer was inside the house. It was so unexpected, he actually blinked to make sure the figure wasn't a figment of his imagination. Then the officer spoke.

"Oh, hello there! Did they send you to make sure we didn't miss anything, too? Well, besides the body. All this blood but no body. How strange. Don't look like a bomb so how else do you blow someone up? I think the murder weapon was a giant blender maybe."

He blinked again. Was she making some kind of joke? Who was this girl?

He looked her up and down. He wondered if she might be some flavor of impostor. Perhaps even the culprit, returned to the scene of the crime?

And yet... if her uniform was a costume, then it was an impeccable one. Everything about her said that she was legitimate... except for the words coming out of her mouth.

Stepping to one side, he placed his coffee cup on a pedestal near the front door, nudging the bowl on top slightly to make room for his beverage. Keys in the bowl jingled slightly as he displaced it. Once he'd set the coffee down, he reached down to his belt, unclipped his badge, and held it up for her to see.

"Detective Stone. The body is in a fridge at the M.E.'s office. I'm with Special Investig-"

He paused in mid-syllable.

It wasn't Special Investigations anymore, was it? That was in the past. He'd made the jump from municipal to Federal. He was a H.O.M.E. Detective, now.

"...That is, I'm with HOME. I filed the paperwork today to pick this case up from the city's homicide division, Officer...-?"

He trailed off, waiting for her to introduce herself.

by **Jeannie Rose** November 13th 2017, 7:38 pm

oh yeah that's a good idea it gets stinky if the left it out have to check that later. home huh are you guys new?
well nice to me you detective stone, I'm Jeannie, Crime Scene Investigation, and what a Doozy this one is, looks like something from a scary movie or a high budget hunted house, so there is a body, huh maybe it was not what killed the victim.

but what happened to the body after that caused the interesting interior decorating, huh cult sacrifice maybe? have to check the body for strange markings that might go along with that.

by **Detective Stone** November 15th 2017, 9:08 am

Crime Scene #1

Ronald wondered how it was that anyone in the department hadn't heard of H.O.M.E. But then she said she was in CSI, and it occurred to him that the egg-heads in that department might have their heads so far up their microscopes that the upheavals of the wide world had escaped them. Plus, he'd never seen her before. She was probably a recent hire.

"Yeah," he told her, "Just opened shop. HOME is replacing S.I. in most municipal departments. Everything is being Federalized."

Odd duck, this one. Pretty, though. And her odd sense of humor was growing on him. He smirked as she made another joke about the state of the crime scene. He supposed that if your job involved scraping up murder-goo all day, you had to have a sense of humor about it.

At that moment, a text pinged Ron's phone, and he took it out to have a look. There was another murder victim... and another strange crime scene.

"Hmm... speaking of haunted houses, it looks like we've got another ghost. Why don't I give you a ride over there? I can tell you about all the details of this murder, and you can tell me about yourself on the way over to the new crime scene. I'm guessing you just got hired on? They always send the rookie to do follow-ups."

Sliding his phone back into his pocket and re-clipping his badge to his belt, he picked up his coffee and headed to the door, pausing briefly to see if she was coming along.

by **Jeannie Rose** November 15th 2017, 8:25 pm

a hunted house? neat yeah, I want to to see that! she skips along excitedly following him

by **Detective Stone** November 16th 2017, 9:27 am

On the Road

The CSI tech excitedly skipped along to his car, and Ron wondered if she was flirting with him. Her behavior was... odd. Her behavior might be explained by nervousness. A new employee, meeting a new coworker. Anxiety often made people crack odd jokes and behave in strange ways. Though... had she not been wearing an utterly convincing uniform, he might have doubted her identity.

Speaking of identity...

"What did you say your name was, again?"

He unlocked his Volkswagen Beetle, getting in. It was not a large vehicle, but it was surprisingly roomy inside. As he buckled up, he turned to face her, waiting to hear her name before starting the car.

by **Jeannie Rose** November 16th 2017, 9:14 pm

I'm Jeannie like in the bottle! neat car I like beetle cars their tinyness and fun colors make them cute huh Jeannie wondered if he had old guy forgetfulness she just told him her name two minutes ago oh well

by **Detective Stone** November 16th 2017, 10:23 pm

On the Road

Reaching into the back seat, Ron grabbed his tablet and logged into the police network. He pulled up the employee listing for CSI, scrolling through the list until he found her. "Hmm... here you are. Genie. Like the bottle. Viscotti, eh? Is that Italian?" He tapped the name, opening a menu, and logged her in as a 'ride-along.' It was just another bit of bookkeeping and red-tape that the modern age insisted upon.

WIth that accomplished, he tossed the tablet into the back seat again and got them on the road.

"So, here's the situation with the previous murder back at the house there. A Doctor and board member at a local research hospital was killed yesterday evening, some time close to midnight. The cause of death appears to be cardiac arrest and bloodloss, most likely connected. The clincher is, the heart was removed. Like, cut right out of the man. However, there's no current wound anywhere on his body that would allow that to be possible. The guy had some scarring from previous wounds, but they'd had at least six weeks of healing. Nothing is fresh. No wound for the removal of the heart. No wound for the loss of blood. And here's clincher number two: The guy's clothes had cuts that matched the scars."

"So, we've got a missing heart, old wounds, new clothing, cuts on the clothing that match the old wounds, blood everywhere, and no way for any of it to fit together or make any kind of sense. You can see why I had to pick up the case. It's no ordinary homicide. Oh, and I thought the victim might be a meta, but no dice. He's as human as Adam. So... well, if this next murder scene is connected, maybe it will make more sense. It had better, if we're to have any hope of solving it."

He nodded to the car radio, "Feel free to put on any music you like, if you like music. We should be there in about ten minutes."

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