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Creative Writing: The Three Crimes

Decent Essays
"You need to call in Lila."

Detective Tom Reilly let the photo slip from his fingers, and ran his palm over a scalp adorned with light brown hair, shorn in a buzz-cut, then lifted his deep-blue eyes to stare at his colleague. "I'm not sure, Jarrod," he replied slowly, and drew his gaze back to the image of the bruised, battered and naked woman that had landed face-up on his desk, located in a office on the second of the Police building in the ninety-sixth precinct. The woman who, by appearances, could be his wife's sister. Not that you could tell from the crime-scene photo.

In that, Stephanie Davis barely resembled a human being at all, however, beside it sat another, obtained from her next of kin, and taken two years prior, where she stood on a beach, dressed in a modest blue sun-dress, with hair flowing in the wind, and
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It had simply been the connection between the three crimes, and the eerie resemblance of the latest victim to his wife, that had momentarily spooked him, however, with Jarrod's persuasion, he quickly swept his concerns aside. Reilly had been brought up the hard way. Raised by a violent, sadistic, alcoholic Father after being abandoned by a cheating whore of a mother at age three, he'd scrapped his way through childhood, and escaped home at age eighteen by joining the army for a tour of duty, then applied to the force when he returned; forever proud of the commendations he garnered, and the fact he'd outrun the genetics of his father. Except for one trait. Tom was also a fighter, and this asshole had gotten on his nerves. There wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell he'd hand the investigation off.

With a nod of agreement, he motioned for his younger colleague to vacate the office, then stretched his six feet, two inches, broad-shouldered, athletic frame, and reached for the phone to text his wife. "Hey babe. Whenever you've some free time, can you call by. There's a case I'd like you to take a look
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