Couch Detective

Chapter 1 Blood Spatter

The car was in pristine condition the day it came off the lot. That was six years and three-hundred-thousand miles ago. Detective Bobby Cox inherited the unmarked cruiser from a detective whom he replaced eighteen months ago when the department promoted Cox. The aging air conditioner rattled in a futile attempt to cool the interior of the car as stagnant air trickled from the vents.

Temperatures hovered in the mid-nineties. The asphalt jungle was congested with cars, trucks, and vans. A faded yellow school bus cut in front of him, black smoke bellowing from the tailpipe.

His grip strangled the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. The interior of the Caprice was still lukewarm. Maybe he should've taken his gray sports coat off before sitting in the car. "Okay, people. Enough is enough," he grumbled. Although the person he was going to see wouldn't be in any hurry, Cox turned on the lights and sirens. "Now get out of my way."

Fifteen minutes later, he parked on the curb to 1992 Comstock Avenue. Not a great neighborhood, but not the worst, although the dozen or so neighbors and spectators gathered along the sidewalk and street might disagree. Murder had a way of bringing people together, even if to bear witness to someone else's misery.

This was the fourth homicide the detective had been called to in as many weeks. The media dubbed the serial killer The Slasher. Each victim had been murdered in their home with their throat slashed. What the media and public were unaware of was the killer used a kitchen knife from each of the victim's residence. After committing each crime, The Slasher left the knife in a bathroom sink filled with bleach.

The house, if you could call it one, all eight hundred square feet sat on a tiny piece of land. Many of the homes on this street resembled each other. They'd sprouted up after the second World War. Most still resembled the original design, but several had a room or two added or a garage installed.

The bushes outside the windows needed to be trimmed, unless it was the resident's intention to use this as some sort of criminal deterrent, although Cox didn't think so. The barred windows should've been enough to keep the riffraff out. Apparently, it had not—at least at this address.

He cut the engine and the tailpipe backfired, resembling a gunshot. Normally, when this happened and it seemed to be more often as late, people within earshot of the blast flinched or gasped. Everyone appeared to be immune to the noise in this neighborhood.

Cox got out and walked across the dirt lawn. Tiny dust bombs floated into the air with each step. The city hadn't seen a drop of rain in the last three weeks, not that rain would've helped anything in this yard grow.

Perspiration dripped from his brow by the time he approached the front door. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat before stepping into the tiny dwelling.

Two paramedics, a woman who looked young enough to still be in middle school and her partner, who resembled Tom Wopat stood in the corner awaiting further instruction. They were probably the first on the scene, he figured, and most likely contaminated the crime scene trying to revive the body, which turned out not to be very successful. Otherwise he wouldn't have gotten the call.

The living room had sparse furniture—a flower patterned couch and matching love seat. A small television leaned at a downward angle from a warped metal TV tray in a corner. Smoke wafted from a cigarette in an ashtray. The three-inch trail of gray ash indicated it hadn't been smoked in a while.

"The victim is in the bedroom, Detective," a patrolman said. "Looks like The Slasher struck again."

Cox retrieved a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his sports coat. "Who discovered the body?"