Blair

That Fateful Day...

It was a horrific scene Schmidt Fitzpatrick saw when he arrived at 23 Ashley Lane on that crisp, cool August morning. A scene he still sees every time he closes his eyes. It had been a calm morning not unlike any other for Mr. Fitzpatrick. He arrived at work a few minutes late do to the seemingly unending construction on Little Creek Road, poured his third cup of coffee for the day, and had just been starting on the mound of paperwork spread across his desk when something he heard caused him to perk his head up and tune into the slightly scratchy and broken conversation of two officers over his vintage police radio (a gift to himself after accepting his job as department head of the FBI's Cyber Security Unit). The two officers were both on their way to a 10-67 but were being slowed by the same construction traffic he had gone through that morning. Suddenly he heard it again, his son's address, panic washed through him as he remembered that his son, who also worked for the CSU, had failed to show up for work that morning. Everything became a blur and next thing Schmidt knew he was in his car speeding towards his son's house. Upon arrival he jumped out of his car, almost forgetting to put it in park, and rushed into the house. Frantically, he ran through the house shouting his son's name  "Ashton! Ashton! Where are you?!" but he received no response until he started to approach the kitchen when he began to hear a small cry. He quickly opened the kitchen door and there, in that spacious french countryside styled kitchen which was carefully and thoughtfully adorned with marble countertops, custom cabinets, and family photos sprinkled at various spots on the wall, sat his son holding his newborn daughter in one arm and a phone in the other hand. Below them, sprawled across the floor and soaked in her own blood, lay his daughter-in-law, Katherine.