Missing Men

First: Wrathful

His eyes scanned over the body bag and the tape that segregated the scene from the rest of the city, hiding the crime from the mostly innocent pedestrians. The detective wasn't planning on coming to work today, he was planning on staying home with his children and his wife, it was an emergency call that brought him in. A young woman, around the age of twenty five, an adult actress, was brutally slashed across her throat, and her body taken advantage of, struggle was obvious. It made him sick, not physically, no, he never had a weak stomach, he always kept a straight face, always plain, always hiding the anger he felt towards the creatures that could create this horrendous... thing, for the deranged to view as a masterpiece.

The detective scowled as the mortician dragged the body away, they had no evidence in the immediate area, there was no need for the body to remain in the sun, where it would surely rot. Shoving his hands in the deep pockets that were half heartedly stitched into his trench coat, then later redone at the expense of his thinning wallet due to rising taxes and prices on simple appliances and food, all of it made him angry. Maybe he was an angry soul, a soul that had pleasure stripped away from it, a soul that was taught that kindness was not an answer, kindness was a curse, kindness only lead to hurt.

He took his time returning to the Mercedes Benz that he'd parked across the street, allowing any of the part time detectives to fill him in on any information. None came, none wanted to speak to such an angry man, a man that would have surely snapped at them, barked orders, doubled the work load, instead they filled in his partner on the information, a laid back man that seemed to just soak in all the insults thrown his way, and shrug it off, yet he wasn't a happy man, he was a depressing creature, didn't want to hang around him for too long for worries that you may fall deep into that black hole along with him.

The detective kicked a lone, off brand, beer bottle that held used cigarettes, litter, trash, another sight to see when you travel to the big cities, their casino housing town in Nevada, being included. The slot machines brought so many, cheery tourists, none cared for what they left behind, their Burger King scraps, or foam cups from the nearest gas station, sad thing was, the locals didn't care much about it anyways, believed they could throw their own trash any which way, they lived here after all, they had the privilege to do so, somehow they expected the city to remain as tidy as the day it was built. The detective's boots thudded against the pavement as he slowed to the car and swung the door open with a grunt.

He hated his work, he hated it so much, but then, he loved it, after he got home from a long day, saw his dreary, tired wife, children that couldn't stay longer than dinner to avoid the presence of their parents, he found out, his work time was much better for his sanity. A growl built in his throat, and he slammed his fists down on the leather steering wheel, caused a loud sound to erupt from his vehicle, the detective didn't care, they always knew he was an anger problem, frustration that just wouldn't release, that he couldn't get rid of. They all knew Wesley Reed was addicted to the feeling of pain, the feeling of pure agony, anger, suffering, yet they didn't peep a word when the psychologist came around after a case was solved, asking if everyone felt fine, wanted to talk, or anything, figured if Wesley wanted help he'd get some.

They also feared he'd lash out on them, he'd make their life miserable, he could, he always had the upper hand, always found himself with more power, more influence than the rest, he could probably be a cornerstone to a revolution, but then again the effects might not stand, they would have to take into consideration that there is a chance that Wesley was somewhat unstable in the end.

Driving under the sky that had long finished to fade to black, he growled again at seeing his one story ranch house, the only one with five bedrooms, and bathroom for each. House had enough rooms for the wife to exclaim her frustration and desire for a house cleaner, couldn't call them a maid since it was a man, a young man actually, his daughter had an attraction to him, as of the moment, Wesley had read it in her diary, the one she locked up and kept towards the back of her bookcase wrapped carefully in white, false, leather product.