7th Precint, New Bath, Canada. Autumn.

Cold. So very cold. Rhiannon had yet to adjust to the climate in her new country and even the inbred toughness that came from being born and bred of the wet Welsh valleys had not prepared her for the biting cold here. It wasn't a wet cold or a windy cold, the kind she was used to and had built a resilience against. This was simply cold. A smile spread across her lips as she thought of her tad would doubtless tell her she had gone soft from her time in south England where it was warm and the people were all rich pansies, at least in his mind. Then he would pat her on the head and call her bach.

Shaking her head to clear the memory and taking a deep breath, she focused on her day ahead. Today was her first official day with this newly created homicide department and she needed to make as positive an impact as possible; she had been warned by the Captain that there were few women in the police force here, even fewer than back in Britain. Amongst the detectives there were even fewer; in fact they numbered in single digits across all departments here in New Bath. And then there was the matter of being an outside. Not that she was from outside but New Bath but she was a foreigner as well. The immigrant bashing wasn't so bad here and no one had thought to term her that seeing as she was a white Westerner but nevertheless that was what she was even if anti-immigration activists were more likely to target those of colour and quietly ignore those coming from English-speaking countries.

She pushed the car door open and instinctively winced as a biting cold wind hit her like a brick wall, removing all traces of warmth the car's heating had managed to pump out over the course of her twenty five minute drive to the precinct. The Welsh woman pushed herself out of the car seat, turning back inside to grab her satchel before shutting the door of her BMW M5, her pride and joy even if it was second hand, and signalling it to look as she hurried towards the old red-stone building and its promises of warmth.

"First day, Detective?" A patrolman wrapped up in heavy winter clothes at the door greeted her as she flashed her badge at him, turning to push the door open for her. "They're a good sort here, ma'am. Well, most of 'em. The Captain chose his people pretty carefully. There was a tone of interest as he attempted to see the reason for why she had been chosen but Rhiannon was more interested in getting in to the warmth than explaining her credentials, merely nodding and muttering her thanks as she stepped through the open door.

It was early and few were her yet, mostly patrolmen and women who looked like they had been working an overnight shift. Some looked up hopefully, expecting to see whoever was their relief but only saw a plain clothes detective and returned to their duties with a sigh without much interest in finding out who the stranger in their midst was. She had been let into the building so there was no need to challenge her, it seemed.

"Detective Jones. Good to finally meet you in person." A tall, broad shoulder man looking to be of Hispanic heritage with short black hair and five o'clock shadow, despite the early hour, strode towards her with a broad smile on his face, hand already out stretched despite the several metres between them as if he was powering up for a handshake. She recognised his voice, gentle but with a firm strength with the slight twang of someone who had never been to the country of their ancestors but had nevertheless picked up some of the accent from his parents and grandparents. She took his hand confidently, smiling back.

"Captain Guerra, a pleasure." She couldn't help but notice the different in their accents, even her Welsh dulcet tones sounding incredibly upper-class British compared to his accent, as broad as his shoulders with its softness presumably inherited from the soft 'th' featuring in many Spanish accents when pronouncing a 'z' or a 'c'. He shook her hand enthusiastically before gesturing at the precinct, old wooden floorboards with a fresh layer of varnish and new partitions made to look contemporary with dark wood and lamps attached to walls and ceilings like something out of a seventies' cop show.

"Welcome to your new home, Detective. Appreciate the character of this place, if you would. Truly, never before has such a place been chosen for the port which well send murders down the river." Again, that grin appeared. Rhiannon noted it was probably more noticeable because of the relative darkness of his skin and the pearly whiteness of his teeth. As he said, the precinct was not like the usual metal and glass functionalism she was used to in her previous posts; it had a certain 'old-school' character which seemed just in keeping with the slightly ebullient Captain who ran it.

"It's certainly got character, sir" She agreed as he guided through the maze of corridors. Through windows, those with their blinds up anyway, she saw conference rooms, offices, a couple of break rooms and a few others while she also noticed closed doors with frosted glass windows, gold lettering on the glass denoting their purpose: Morgue, Changing Room, Shower Room, Interrogation Room (of which there were four) and Interview Room.

"That one's when were inviting someone in for an interrogation but want to catch them off guard, see?" Captain Guerra explained, speaking of the Interview Room. Rhiannon nodded thoughtfully; most precincts had such a room but the Captain had gone out of his way to make this precinct's seem as harmless as possible when there was no case for bringing someone in for an interrogation. From her phone interview she had deduced he was a former homicide cop but this brief tour and the design of the precinct only cemented that theory.

"And this is your office." The Captain had arrived at a door, pushing it open to reveal six desks pushed against the walls of a large room, each with a computer, phone, lamp, paper tray and considerable spare room as well. There was a table in the centre set up on wheels with a projector and computer, the former currently pointed at wall which had a rolled white screen bolted to it. She had to admit, the set up was quite something and, she noticed, had privacy from outside.

"Murder cases are some of the most touchy subjects and I want my teams to have the privacy to do their jobs regardless of who the victim and potential suspects are. That is, of course, after they've checked in with me." Guerra said, still beaming. The undertone was clear: go about your job however you want but check with me first if it's someone important.

"I understand, sir. Who else is on the team? And who is the lead?" Rhiannon asked, acknowledging she had understood before moving the topic on to prevent any sticky subject areas to arise. Looking surprised, the Captain raised an eyebrow at her.

"Was it not clear, Detective? You are the lead. Informally, of course. You're the one with the most homicide experience on this team but the others are, mostly, longer-serving. Still, I think you'll be able to make a workable team. I hope so anyway, my reputation is riding on you people." With that he left, nodding his farewell and leaving Rhiannon to the empty room.

Pain. The only thought that flashed acrosss Enrique Romero's head as his consciousness started reacting to the white light of the room being turned on, in contrast to the dark blue of the sky outside of his window. He rubbed his aching back, affected by the cold of a New Bath night; even under two sets of blankets. Enrique opened his eyes and reacted to the sound of steps going out of the room, explained by the empty spot beside him in the small bed.

The medium-sized room seemed all too small sometimes, the wooden walls and floor creaked at times, the water leaked on one of the corners as the melted snow accumulated on the roof. Enrique used his hands to sit himself up, removing his ineffective barrier against cold, immediately extending his arm towards the small nightstand filled with framed pictures of his family, pills and creams. He picked up the smartphone he had acquired a few months before to the check the hour: 5:00 AM. He pondered for a moment whether it would be a good idea to turn on the TV in front of him; he no longer had to respond to his old weekly schedule, no longer reporting at the precint in the early hours in the morning as he had once done in the past. Enrique sighed.

He stood up to welcome the day once again and went to kiss his wife in the kitchen; he didn't know at what time the 5"6 woman had dressed up but she was in her usual attire: a solid dark blue dress which had grown with the years but remained as new through the magic of the needle. The years they had been together didn't change the beauty of the soft features in her face (now with wrinkles added), or the kind, deep brown eyes that stared back into his. He quietly walked up behind her and locked in a hug with the woman with a cofee pot in her hand. With a short kiss, they exchanged "Good morning" and had the microwave break the embrace with an incessant beeping. She caressed Enrique's hand and pulled it away, pointing at the white door at the end of the narrow hallway that led into the bathroom. Enrique ruffled her short dark hair and nodded, going with a tired step.

His son hadn't awakened yet to go to his high school, although the teenager hadn't welcomed him (or even talked to him) yesterday. At 5:30 AM, Enrique was dressed and eating breakfast, although the usual cheerfulness of the situation was gone. The demotion he had recieved wouldn't have affected the couple ten years ago but they had a son now. They had more costs to cover and they were both aging. Enrique found himself quiet at a question asked by his wife, looking at the scrambled eggs resting on the decorated plastic plate in front of him with a frown in his face. He felt his wife's soft hand going over Enrique's. "You did the right thing, boo." Her soft voice, changed by the Argentinean accent inherited from her parents, didn't match the ambience of the room. Doesn't feel like it. After finishing his cold meal, Enrique hugged Maria's figure once again and heard his son rustling awake as he closed the front door to get into the old blue 92 Crown Victoria covered in water from the rain in the past night.

The car's exhaust loudly exploded every once on a while as he drove along the highway. The precint wasn't too far from Enrique's neighborhood but it was far enough for any unsuspecting car to get trapped in the morning traffic jams, only a further reason to go out this early. The few homeless people and immigrants under the bridges, looking for a roof and a fire to heat their abandoned souls looked at the cars passing by with stares that matched the cold of the city. Enrique looked in the rear-view mirror every time he passed a bridge, looking at some faces he recognized from his years; addicts, drifters and thieves, all too human in a concrete jungle that didn't care about their situation. He almost didn't step on the brakes on time, having ignored the line of cars in front of him. The local radio immediatly warned the man caught in traffic about a vehicular accident three hundred feet ahead.

7:30 AM - Enrique closed the door of his car, feeling the changing temperature of the day as the clock advanced. Shouldn't have brought my jacket. The radio had switched to the morning news, bringing the echos of a hundred days past; the same shit: thievery, growth in the economy, a drive-by, an artist marrying and people fighting whether the people under the bridge deserved food or not. The usual order of the parking lot, usually filled with familiar cars, had changed that day. In front of the usual red-brick building, with security cameras on its sides, there was a car unusual to the area. Although it didn't look as new as the Chief's red Range Rover, it contrasted with the patrol cars that surrounded it. Must be a higher up.

Opening the door, he walked into the familiar building. The eyes that had quickly darted at the door moved away as they recognized the short Hispanic man in the brown suit, although a few did a double take. Some rumours about the reasons of his demotion had been flying around the local police force, a few knowing the truth. Enrique walked past the reception desk, merely waving at the perpetual figure of officer Carl Pavlov sitting behind it. The bald, fat man looked up through his glasses at the figure walking quickly down one of the hallways. "Officer Romero." The nasal voice, almost surreally monotone for a member of the police force, caused Enrique to stop on his track and look back at Pavlov. "Your new office is that way." said the bespectacled man, pointing down a different hallway on the opposite direction. Fuck you, Pavlov.. Enrique imagined that the man, at his retirement age, was imagining smugly that this was one of the few victories of his miserable day. For some reason, the frustration that had accumulated through the morning was expressing himself through the light reflecting off Pavlov's glasses and blinding Enrique. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the headache that was starting to plague him. "Sorry, force of habit." said Enrique, walking past the reception desk once again, looking directly at Captain Guerra walk out of an office that, up until recently, was closed for refitting into one for a new a division.

Enrique's relation with Captain Guerra was one of quiet respect; they hadn't talked to each other a lot through the years served, seeing as he had spent most of his times on the patrol cars outside the building. However, Enrique had seen the young man's meteoric rise through the force as a series of visits to crime scenes. The first one, he was merely listening to orders and obeying his superior officer. Half a year later, he had started directing some officers around, although with supervision from the same commanding officer. As their steps neared each other, Enrique looked up to the detective who had preemptively stretched his hand out. Enrique's expression change into the usual calm smile he presented himself with, shaking Guerra's hand (which was twice as big as his). "Officer Romero, it's a pleasure to meet you face to face at last. I know you're more used to the field but we could use your help with the new operations." said Guerra as the couple of officers met each other in the middle of the hallway, just next to the Morgue door. The smell of the chemicals used inside the room, usually camoflauged by Glade, had to be ignored by Enrique. "My move to this division surprised me but I'll help however I can." retorted Enrique, making way for a person or two rushing down the hall with paperwork in their hands.

"I don't really know the circumstances but, whatever happened, I believe the lead of the division will need your help along with the other officers moving in." said Guerra, lowering the volume of his voice nearing a whisper. "She's foreign but she's experienced; you guys just help her around the city." Enrique raised his hand to scratch his chin, listening closely to the Captain's words and looking directly at the word "MORGUE" printed on the glass in front of him. "She's waiting in the room down the hallway. I'll leave you two to speak." Before Enrique could express any of the doubt he was feeling at the moment, the Captain walked past him with a smile and a tap to Enrique's back; the opening of a division would keep a person busy most of the time. Enrique touched the door, watching a few blurry shadows move past the glass. Can we really help?

Enrique took a moment to turn the knob on the door labeled "HOMICIDE DIVISION", considering what his future would be from that point on. The metal was cold. For some reason, for the first time in a long time, the morning of Bath, the knob and the air conditioning above him felt really, really cold. So damn cold. He pushed the door slowly, his attention immediatly drawn to one of the desks on the left side of the room. The contents of his old office had already been moved. He sighed, without realizing the blonde woman, slightly taller than him, staring at him. He walked towards his new desk, setting the phone on top of it (just next to the picture of his wife and son) and turned around, with a hand stretched out for a handshake and a calm smile. "I believe you are the new lead. My name is Enrique Romero, native to this place, been in the force for... around 20 years, give or take. I hope you are finding the city well. What's your name?"

The alarm clock's sudden, harsh beeping didn't take Isembard by surprise. He had been laying awake, staring at it for 28 minutes. He'd been counting. Quickly, he reached out and turned it off, stretching out his legs and throwing his blanket aside. The pair of cats formerly asleep at the foot of the bed quietly protested as they too were tossed to the floor. "Oh, don't complain We talked about this." He mumbled; shuffling through the open door of the bedroom, through the narrow hallway and into the small bathroom. Pulling the shower curtain aside, he sighed, looking down at his feet. "Homicide. Yeah, I can do that." He muttered to himself, "Come on, just don't fuck it up Izzy. Don't fuck this up too. You can do this. Come on." He grew louder and more determined, looking up and reaching for the knob that controlled the shower. Turning it and stepping into the near freezing stream, he cried out, only standing in it long enough to vaguely lather up his body and scalp with a bar of soap and rinse himself off. He didn't choose to shower like this, but the boiler was broken. It was cold showers until a week tomorrow because of some part that needed to be flown in from god knows where or something. Whatever the reason; Izzy was forced into having the fastest possible showers, and shivering his way through brushing his teeth and shaving.

This morning he was especially careful not to cut himself, it was technically his first day after all. He knew that his new superior was, well, new. She didn't know all the reasons why he needed a "new assignment" (demotion) in the first place. He assumed, at least. How could he have got the post otherwise? No, he knew how much his old boss had wanted rid of him. "Not very nice of him to dump me, who is apparently such a problem, on the new guy, was it?" He muttered, venomously. "Fuck him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Pawning me off on some new team run by some newbie. Like he's embarrassed of being associated with me. Like I'm a liability. Fuck him." Striding back into his bedroom, he grabbed a coathanger from the doorknob, pulling the light grey shirt out of it and tossing it onto the bed. The shirt already had a thin, black tie tied loosely around its unbuttoned collar, and Izzy straightened it a little before pulling the shirt on over his head, tightening the tie a little as he opened the tiny wardrobe, pulling out a much darker grey suit. He lazily continued dressing himself, leaving his shirt half untucked and wearing odd, brightly coloured socks underneath his battered loafers. He roughly smoothed down his hair with one hand, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and perching them on the bridge of his nose.

Entering the kitchen-slash-living room, he walked past the kettle, flipping a switch to turn it on as he stopped to open a cupboard and pull out a loaf of bread. Taking two slices and just eating them dry, Izzy replaced the loaf and closed the cupboard, turning to a new one. Pulling out two pouches of cat food, he called out; "Morse! Frost! Food!" And was greeted by the scurrying of eight paws as the cats came bounding into the room. They purred and rubbed themselves around Izzy's legs as he filled their bowls and set them down. "Duck today, yeah. Lucky you." He straightened up again as the kettle announced itself with a loud click. Tossing a teabag from an open packet into a mug already sitting on the counter, he picked up the boiling kettle and poured himself a cup of tea. He had never liked the taste of coffee, and while tea had less caffeine, Izzy could rely on alternative stimulants when necessary. He waited a while; rubbing his eyes gently with one hand, his other resting on the counter, for it to brew. Pulling a spoon from a drawer, he lifted out the teabag and tossed it into the trash. Turning back to the open drawer, he picked out one of dozens of packets of sugar he had pocketed from cafes and diners before closing it. Paying for sugar (or salt, or any kind of sauce) was a sucker's game. After tearing the sachet open and emptying its contents into the mug, he tossed it onto the counter. It didn't need to go in the trash right now. It could wait. He stirred the rapidly cooling tea vigorously with the spoon before tossing it blindly towards the sink, missing, and sighing as it clattered along the counter. The tea was a little hotter than lukewarm, and pretty sweet, so Izzy threw the mug back in seconds.

Licking his lips; he turned and strode through to the living room portion of the room. On a battered low wooden coffee table, surrounded by an equally battered couch and armchair, were the tools of his trade. His holster, his gun, his car keys, and his badge. Temporarily removing his jacket, he pulled the holster on over his shoulders and picked up the pistol. He paused for a second, feeling it in his hand. They didn't give officers this gun any more, there was a newer standard issue now; lighter, smaller, more efficient. Izzy had tried it and his aim was all off. He was too used to the weight of his old gun. There was probably something deep and meaningful about that, he thought to himself, sliding it into the holster and clipping it shut. As he put his jacket back on, he felt the subtle, familiar weight of the gun underneath it and it was almost a comfort. He dropped the keys into one of the side pockets, and slid the leather wallet holding the badge and ID into the breast pocket carefully. As well as all those things, though, there was another group of stuff on the table. Next to the badge and the gun; there was a frameless square mirror with a small mound and three narrow lines of white powder on it, an out of date bank card encrusted with the same, and a tightly rolled banknote, held in place with a small strip of masking tape. Izzy pulled the mirror and the banknote slowly towards him on the table as he sat lightly down. He craned his head to one side and exhaled hard. Simultaneously looking back and lowering his head, he quickly picked up the note and brought it to his nostril, tilting his head and holding the other closed as he sucked up the thin trails of cocaine. He dropped the note gently onto the mirror, screwing up his face and snorting as he sucked air in through his nose, the bitter drip of the coke starting to sting the back of his throat. Snorting and clearing his throat noisily, Izzy took to his feet. It was time to go to work.

Spinning round on the balls of his feet, he took off through the room into the hallway, stopping to take a thick, black, fraying overcoat from its hanger and drape it over his arm. Bidding farewell to the cats, who were full of food and had returned to sleep, Izzy flew out of the door and took the stairs three at a time: he was starting to feel those lines. His car was parked close to the front door of his building: a battered Subaru painted an ugly dark green. Idling the engine, he popped open the cigarette case, pulling out a dented, scruffy white tube. Replacing the case, he took out his lighter with one hand; rolling down the window with the other. Taking a drag as he pulled out into the street, he smiled for the first time that day.

Izzy parked, quickly and messily, as close to the front door of the station as he could, grabbing his overcoat from the passenger seat before he stepped out into the cold air once more. He shivered a little as he pulled it on: he wasn't feeling the same invincible rush he was twenty minutes ago. Trudging to the entrance, he pulled another cigarette from his case. He stopped just outside the door, nodding in greeting to the officer standing there. "G'morning, Daniels." He muttered, flicking his lighter alight and bringing it, with the cigarette, up to his mouth.

"Detective Keith." The patrolman acknowledged him curtly, barely looking round.

"Oh come on, you're not freezing me out too, are you?" Izzy growled, staring the man down, smoke pouring menacingly from between his teeth. Daniels didn't react. "Well, fuck you very much then. Is there anyone left here who'll have a damn friendly conversation with me, or am I just totally scarlet letter'd now?" Daniels looked away, shuffling awkwardly. Izzy drew deeply from his cigarette. "Oh, what? Am I embarrassing you?" He snorted derisively, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." He snarled, taking a final draw of his cigarette before tossing most of it away. He stormed off into the building, leaving Officer Daniels to pick up his litter: that would teach him.

"Good to meet you, Enrique. I'm Rhiannon Jones, transferring in from the UK. I was in the Serious Crime Unit before so I'm looking forward to some garden variety homicides." She greeted the older detective with a smile, her expression wavering slightly as images from her last case flashed through her mind but she quickly quashed them. Victims and their families would need her at her best and the Captain had put a great deal of faith in her, despite her young age.

"I'm not overly familiar with this city so when it comes to local knowledge I'll be very much in your hands." She took his proffered hand firmly, shaking the formal greeting to its conclusion. Barely had they finished their exchange than the phone on the desk at the far end of the room began to ring. Rhiannon didn't respond to begin with until she realised it was the phone on her desk. So new was the entire situation she had yet to become acclimatised to the office. Striding towards the desk she picked the phone up, noticing it as a corded set but with a multi-function base with a clearly laid out keypad and options menu for which she was grateful; it never looked professional when one was struggling to find the blasted 'Hold' button.

"Jones, homicide." She said after a small pause, ensuring the connection had been made properly. There was a similar wait on the other side until a male voice came through from the other end of the line.

"Morning, Detective. Welcome to the force, it's your division's first day right? Anyway, we've got a reported homicide on Queen's Street, Number 13. A call came in less than an hour ago and an officer has just arrived on site confirming the murder. The ME is already en route. Good hunting, Detective." There was a click as the switchboard operator hung up, presumably moving on to the next call; it seemed like New Bath was a busy city for the police.

She placed the phone back into its cradle carefully and then turned around to Enrique.

"Looks like we already have a case, Detective Romero. Number 13, Queen's Street. How about your direct us there, I'm not too keen on getting stuck in rush hour traffic because of the bloody sat nav." She picked up her winter coat, barely removed from her shoulders, and shrugged herself back into it before striding from the office without waiting for her fellow detective to reply. Now they had something to do she felt more confident, this was her job, her life; what she was damn good at.

As she strode through the halls of the precinct several officers and detectives grinned, giving her and Enrique a thumbs up or some other sign of approval and support. She tried to smile back, grateful for the thought but her mind was already on the case, scenarios running through her head and how to approach the situation depending on the witnesses present and the nature of the murder. As they passed the front desk she stopped for a moment.

"We've got a case. Could you please direct any Homicide Detectives to the scene, 13 Queen's Street, if they arrive? I don't have any of their contact details yet." She asked the officer behind the desk, noticing the look he gave Enrique, before passing by him and plunging out into the cold once again. Just like when she got out of the car earlier it was like walking into a brick wall but she consoled herself with the fact her car would still be reasonably warm as she hadn't been out of it for long.

"Enrique, let's take my ride. I'll drive and you can direct." She called over the roof of the car before climbing into her pride and joy, key in the ignition and heating blasting out within seconds of her sitting down. Once they were out of the parking lot and on their way she glanced at Enrique.

"So, that officer at the desk didn't seem terribly fond of you. Any history I should be knowing of there? The Captain put this team together but if we're all working together we better know a little about each other before we head into any of these cases."

Enrique followed Rhiannon into the BMW outside, comparing it in his head to his old crummy car. For one second, he felt envy but the seriousness of the task at hand brought him back to focus. "That's just Officer Pavlov, a bureaucrat of sorts. I don't know if he even ever worked on the field, but I would be surprised if that man didn't hate everyone in the station. Including you, in a couple of days. That's just the way he is, don't mind him." The temperature in the car was considerably warmer compared to the outside, almost as if they were in a beach. "Nevermind that, I am glad to meet you too, Miss Jones." His hand started searching for a lever to roll down the window slightly, given his discomfort due to the heat, finding himself with only a small button; Enrique immediatly pressed it and thanked the cold air coming into the car.

As the outside was clearer through the open window, Enrique spotted the exit ramp into the central highway of New Bath. Albeit the traffic from twenty minutes ago had cleared, the artery of the city kept flowing through it to lead further into Canada. "Take a right here, straight until we get to the 15th Street ramp." The engine of the car roared as the woman behind the wheel followed Enrique's instructions, joining the swift river of various cars streaming below bridges and between high-rise buildings that seemed to close on the vehicles. "I'm glad we have someone with experience in homicides and what-not in this division, let me tell you, it was more than late for this thing's creation. I don't know what kind of political hoops Guerra had to jump through to make this happen but it's not like homicides weren't happening here before. It was long due." The car ventured into the maws of a tunnel and the lights on the ceiling started flashing on the officer's faces every couple of meters they drove by. The grafitti on the walls, written under the guise of the night seemed fleeting before the spinning wheels. Dumb kids. Can't see the shit they tagged here.

"It is my first day on the division too but as I said before, been working here for a long time. The move was a little sudden but I guess they need all the hands they can get, right? I can think of at least three better choices for the spot but I ain't telling the Chief to move me from here." said Enrique, priding himself in not revealing anything compromising as to why he was really moved. He glanced out of the window, remaining silent as they drove past the tunnel, into a new landscape of identical houses. The bustling city center faded in the rear view mirror as the suburbs now surrounded the highway; some sections were projects were the poor and the vagrants spent their days, others were the perfect model of the 50s dream neighborhood, down to the trimmed identical grass and the smiling repressed housewives. The folks with enough money to get something above one floor, three rooms usually lived in Hillsbury Heights, far away from the noise and violence that could be found in the central areas of New Bath.

"Okay, this is the exit. Just a bit further." The screech of the tires suddenly finding themselves thrown into the narrow exit surprised Enrique; she had fast reactions. A secondary road opened towards the duo inside the vehicle, as a row of houses with perfect gardens stretched far into the horizon; the withering cedars decorated the road with an unusually eerie feeling, accompanied by the lack of people on the street at this hour. The only car on the road was the BMW. "Y'know, when I heard you were foreign I expected an American. Coming from across the ocean is a really long way. Why'd you move to this place? I know Canada's pretty but this city can get real ugly, real fast. I mean, it's no-... Ah, wait, we missed 13 Queen's." Enrique looked to the back of the car; the police cruiser parked on the corner behind them indicated the location of the Division's first crime scene. For one moment, he chastised himself for not paying enough attention to his job. It would be a waste of time to drive around the block. "Take a left, Ms. Jones, we'll just drive around." But the body would not run away, unlike a normal perp. There might be some things I like about this. Kind of wrong to like someone not moving for this reason, though.

As the car pulled up, the flashing lights above the two cruisers parked in front of the house shined on the otherwise usual neighborhood's windows. The house that now faced the task of being examinated, at least twice as big as the ones surrounding it, was closed off from all its sides by police tape. Aside from that, it didn't seem very out of the ordinary. It was a one story house, several windows on the front and sides and a single front entrance decorated by a small porch; the white paint that coated its wooden walls seemed to have worn off a bit, perhaps with the pass of time and weather but the sturdy tiled roof looked as good as new. A fence separated the open front yard from the back one, which had an entrance of its own, a wooden shed and patio furniture that decorated the otherwise empty piece of land. The front yard had a few dying potted flowers in front, possibly due to yesterday's tremendous rain. Albeit the street was deathly silent apart from the radios and chatter that came from the cruisers, a few old women could be seen peeking from behind the curtains of their own houses; curiosity that would turn to gossip for years to come in the neighborhood, perhaps.

Enrique climbed out of the car, feeling the usual New Bath cold hit his face like the scene and situation that now faced him. He had always been the man in the cruiser, that secured the area; the men who would come after that were always tired cops, clearly not up to the task. Now he was supposed to be up to the task. He recognized one of the men inside the police cars: a short Asian man who had been around 3 years patrolling in the streets, divorced and with one girl, rowdy drunk and avid fan of hockey; Officer Lewis. The man sat silently in the driver's seat, with his head looking directly at the pedals below him. Enrique briskly walked towards him, with the air feeling heavier by each step he advanced. Something's wrong. His fears were confirmed as he saw the vomit formerly hidden by the door of the patrol car, dripping off Lewis' pants into the cold pavement. The smell of breakfast in the morning coming back in the afternoon was not a pleasant one. Enrique's steps stopped as he directed his eyes to the house yet to be explored, his heartbeat rate increasing; he continued onwards towards Lewis. "Lewi-" "This is going to be one bad first day for you guys." said Lewis, as soon as he recognized Enrique's raspy voice. "A couple of witnesses are in the other car with Lieutenant Harper... It's a mess in there, man."

Enrique took a deep breath. "Alright. You rest, man." Lewis just moved his wrist to motion his desire for Enrique's retreat. Enrique spun on his heels, passing past Harper's car, not looking up to the windows as he already tried to piece together a plan to initiate the investigation, with a somewhat shaken resolve. Usually an officer sees and deals with some pretty messed up shit in the day to day. It's not like you can choose to ignore what is fucked up. Either the crime was repulsive or brutal; or Lewis hadn't responded to a murder yet... but I doubt that. Maybe we could split? One interviews, one searches the house... I don't know that much about forensics. Agh, fuck. Enrique brought his hand up to his head, the cold sweat from his forehead sticking to the palm. He finally reached Rhiannon, who had stood besides the car for the couple of minutes Enrique had traveled to Lewis. "Okay. The house is secure, the guys have already checked it. There's two witnesses in Lt. Harper's patrol car, four if we count the two responding officers themselves... Ms. Jones, I don't know what you've dealt with before but this one don't seem too nice. It messed up one man and that ain't very normal in this parts." Enrique wiped the sweat from his forehead and attempted to regain some of the compposure he had lost, standing up straight once again. "What's the procedure to follow, Jones?"

"I guess there'll always be cops like that around." Rhiannon said, answering Enrique's description of the desk officer. Even across the pond it seemed like things were pretty much the same; a few cops trying their best to make the city they worked in a better place, a few on the dole from the bigger fish who always escaped the nets and those who turned up for work hoping to get through the day as quickly as possible. Sadly the former group were the least numerous and rarely did their enthusiasm and passion survive for long before giving way to cynicism and defeatism like those around them.

She noticed that Enrique had opened one of the windows, presumably finding the temperature of her car too high. She flicked a few switches, turning the air con to face only the driver and turning off his heated seat. "Sorry, I'm still used to British temperatures. It rains a hell of a lot but it's not nearly as cold as here, even in the dead of winter." She spun the wheel to the right, pressing down on the clutch as she shifted into a higher gear before hitting the accelerator a bit harder. The engine roared throatily as the car shot forwards smoothly and without the jerkiness of lesser cars; she had always enjoyed the smooth transition between luxury road car into sports speedster that her BMW represented. It had come in a handy a few times as well, when the traffic in London wasn't completely gridlocked that was.

"It's the same in a lot of places. Back home I worked in the Serious Crime Unit but that mostly just meant homicides. Any whiff of a serial anything and the landed on our desks too. Arson, rape, murder. Just about anything that looked to be the start of the spree and we were the ones to get to the bottom of it. I've seen my share of humanity's dark side and I'm glad to get down to some more garden variety murders. It'll be a holiday from the work I'm used to but at least I can still give closure and justice for the victims." As they entered a tunnel the sound of the engine echoed in the nearly empty space, rebounding endlessly until it sounded like a pack of mechanical lions was powering them back into the morning light.

Enrique began speaking again but stopped short of revealing... something. The half-hearted question and the lack of mention from where he had been before suggested to her there was some back story there but seeing as they were only just starting out as partners it would not be prudent to pry, Rhiannon decided. Sometimes it's hard for a cop to turn off. I guess that's why so many of the vets are divorced.

He directed her off the highway and she shifted down a gear, spinning the wheel sharply. The nose of the car complied swiftly, shooting them down the exit ramp with no drama at all, the roar of the engine dulling into a low growl as it retreated back into a leisurely pace. There were no other cars, everyone from this kind of neighbourhood would have already travelled into the city centre for their identical office jobs; a perfect match for their identical houses and eerily similar housewives. Rhiannon wondered whether that was why there always so many affairs in this kind of district; did they just mix up the houses and faces and only realise later they were in the wrong bed with the wrong woman or man?

"I'll just turn around up here, there's no rush." She said, mulling over what to reveal to her fellow detective. The obvious reason was trauma but that would hardly foster much in the way of expectation from a leader, no matter how experienced. "I guess it's more common for you and the Americans to exchange staff. I have family out here and the London job was getting a bit... weary. This place is tiny compared to back there and far less corrupt; mostly because it's not quite so rich. I think I'll be able to cope with a little bit of dirt." Her words were meant as a mild reproof for his patronising words, whether they were well meant or not. As a woman she had had to cope with disrespect, whether intentional or not, everywhere in her chosen career and had learned to deal with it in a measured way.

The BMW slid gracefully to a stop just outside the house, two official police cruisers outside with lights flashing. One of the cops was sitting in the car with the door open while in the other were two civilians, a man approaching middle age and his young daughter, who were presumably witnesses or family members to the deceased. Enrique apparently knew the officer in the first vehicle, heading over to talk to him. Rhiannon took her time, observing the area and trying to get a feel for what kind of neighbourhood it was. All she managed to get was a sense of plain; there was no character whatsoever to the place. It was a bit numbing.

Enrique returned, his face a little paler and his speech less sure as he gave her an update before asking what their next step would be. That was the first major show he had made in accepting her leadership and it pleased Rhiannon that her experience was giving credibility to her position.

"We go in, Detective. Gloves on." She replied, handing him a pair of blue gloves before striding towards the porch, pulling her own pair on as she did so. The officer at the door also looked slightly queasy but managed to nod a greeting before pushing the door open. "Where's the ME?" Rhiannon asked the officer who shook his head.

"Inside, ma'am. Not sure with which bit of the body though."

Ah.



Rhiannon was beginning to get a sense of why these supposedly veteran officers were all looking shaken and ill. Steeling herself she pushed on into the house, stopping short to observe the wood-floored hallway. It was wide and open, a staircase directly ahead wide enough for two people abreast like a cut-price grand staircase. It had a landing on the first floor which led into corridors on both the left and right. The ground floor had three doors leading from it, one on either side and a small door at the rear. The place had a feeling of attempted class, trying to show wealth and power but on a small budget and miniature-size.

Hearing sounds of movement from the room to the right she headed towards the doorway, stepping around a red splatter on the ground marked with a yellow sign with the number sixteen upon it. It was very rare for those signs to go into double digits which concerned her.

Inside the living room a woman; pale, brunette and looking to be in her late thirties wearing uniform scrubs; was kneeling on a once cream-coloured rug now splattered with a deep red-brown colour. A stony-faced assistant was stood in a half-crouch next to her holding an open evidence bag open for her. At the sounds of footsteps they both looked up, the assistant apparently relieved at the distraction.

"Detective, you got her quick." The woman had a hint of an accent, the softness usually denoting someone who spoke a tongue like French as their first or dual-first language, but still spoke with matter-of-fact tone suggesting she had been in the job for quite some time. Rhiannon nodded a greeting, joining her by the body part they were studying. It was the lower arm and hand of a white woman, pale with a slight hint of blueness. Glancing at the blood stain Rhiannon noted the darkness of the colour.

"Rhiannon Jones, pleasure to meet you, Doctor." She said, pressing on the carpet and observing the stain. "I'm guessing we don't have a particularly accurate time of death yet?" She spoke with experience and the ME raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

"Guess you didn't just come up from patrol then, huh?" The ME gestured to the dismembered arm, pointing to the ring on the finger. "I won't be able to give you much until we're back in the morgue but the victim's a white female, Caucasian. One of the patrolmen has the statements but I can tell you that this was all done post-mortem." Rhiannon looked up, a little surprised.

"But she's been dead for a while, right? Judging by the colour of the blood and the corpse..." She trailed off as the ME raised an eyebrow at the interruption but still looked mildly impressed.

"It's difficult to tell because of the rapid loss of blood but I can give you a rough time of death of about... three to four days. Once I get the body together and on a slab I can give you more information. As for cause of death... I haven't found that particular body part yet. I don't have an identity yet but it seems likely to be the wife of the house owner, out in the cruiser with his little daughter."

"Alright, thanks. Let me know once you've got something more." Turning to Enrique she gestured that they leave the room and the ME to do her job. Once out in the cold, fresh air she exhaled heavily; letting the tension out of her body. "Your friend was right, this is a nasty one. I'll take a look around at the rest of the house in a minute. Why don't you start by talking to the the house owner and his daughter?"

She turned to go back into the house, pausing for a moment to offer a brief piece of advice.

"With homicides... just treat them like any other case. Only the motives are different. Don't give them any more details than they need to know, let them give up as much information as possible. And remember, we don't know the victim's identity yet, it might not be his wife. Probably is though." With that she went back in the bloodbath of the house with a thoughtful expression.

David sighed, the low rumble of a v6, and the reflection of the lake shore accompanying him. He was called in, for what exactly he didn't know. The phone call taking him away from work and a few strange looks.

Victorian esque homes and oak trees dotted the neighborhood. Somewhere that one would expect quiet, and peace to permeate. It wasn't too long until the Yellow tape, precinct enforcement vehicles, and an oddly out of place BMW came into view.

David parked across the street, getting out of his white Ford Explorer. He walked towards the Officer on perimeter duty. Discretely he took out his wallet and showed the consultant ID before the officer could say the word, walking past just as quickly to avoid conversation.

He entered the home, an stale aurora of dried blood and dust filled his nostrils. He heard from the precinct his first job was going to be rough, but he didn't think he would be thrown into an homicide right off the bat. Words certainly can't prepare anyone for the sight of death.

He entered the living room to find an female forensic specialist dutifully at work. David asked in a polite tone "Excuse me, may I know where the acting detective is?". The woman looked up for just a moment and pointed across the foyer to a slightly ajar door "In the kitchen". She went back to her work as she was near finished at that point.

Before David traversed any further he quickly took in the room, and the blood spattered carpet the Forensic specialist was hanging over. Blood spatter could be point of death, or first point of wounding. Either way I should get going, not much investigating I can do until I meet the Boss.

David opened the wood-panel door to find a the Boss at last. But not quite in the way he would expect. The blonde stout woman was deep in thought as she eyed an pale bloodless leg nailed to an cupboard. Well, first impressions aren't everything I guess. David spoke over the silence.

"Ah, here you are Boss". The lead Detective turned calmly in response. A curt smile spreading from her lips, which in contrast to the cadaver's limb behind her seemed quite the unneeded juxtaposition. "You are?" she asked. For a moment there was a pause as David lost himself in the sight before him, This is one hell of wake up call, from the month spent in peaceful bliss. Let the games begin.

The lull of inaction ended as David noticed the smile on the Boss's face turn into a frown. David proceeded to pulling the ID out "David Faber Consultant advising on the case, and any capacity you deem necessary of course".

"Boss, huh? I like that." Rhiannon crossed the room and shook the Consultant's hand enthusiastically. A lot of detectives disliked working with 'laymen' but that was a foolish attitude; in murder cases, especially ones as unusual as this, having an outsider could help bring things down to earth or come up with refreshing new theories. "Good to meet you, David. Rhiannon Jones. I look forward to seeing what you bring to our team."

She turned back to the leg and eyed it thoughtfully before walking towards it and gesturing to the limb casually.

"So, David, what do you make of this? There's so much theatre here and this is just the beginning of it. There's blood where there's no body part and no trail and the way the victim was crudely hacked apart... we're either dealing with a serial killer, someone who's suffering a psychotic break or someone who wants it to look like one of the two to throw us off their trail."

David looked between the Kitchen limb, and the foyer with a stoic outlook. “Well for first impressions, this killer might actually be more methodical than psychotic. Notice the lack of blood trail? Perhaps he or she killed the victim in the foyer, bagged the body , cut it up then hang some around like ornaments. As to why I don’t know, art? Justice? Revenge? Not much to go on so far.” David paused for a moment scratching his chin. “Or our killer may have killed the victim before he or she set foot in this house, perhaps the scene was a setup for us. To confuse us. But we don’t know enough yet. I doubt any of my conjectures at this point will actually turn it out to be what actually happened”.

Rhiannon nodded her head in agreement, a slow smile spreading across her face. "So we agree - to me this looks to be purposefully done although the motive behind it I don't see just yet. Also I expect the body was... dismembered off-site and then staged here. Once the ME and CSU have done their stuff we'll have a clearer picture."

She leaned in close and looked at the leg, observing the feminine shape of the muscles and tendons. All the evidence certainly seemed to point to the identity of the victim being the lady of the house. But then where the hell was the head? And why hide it when displaying all the other parts so overtly? The whole thing was designed to unsettle those investigating and that in itself worried her; it showed either a crazed mind or a coldly calculating one.

"I think it might be an idea for you and I to talk to the neighbours... well, the neighbours' wives. This kind of community they'll go to all those pointless community clubs. Knitting and whatever which they hate doing but their husbands expect them to do. No wonder they say the Suffragettes suffered in vain."

David nodded, letting Rhiannon take the lead.

She swept out of the room and out onto the porch, nodding to the still queasy-looking patrol man standing guard outside. After looking up and down the street she decided to start with the house to their left and strode past the identically painted wooden fences and up to the neighbour's identical door, knocking with her badge at the ready.

Eventually a wizened old lady pulled the door open and peered over the rims of her half-moon spectacles.

"I suppose you're here to ask some questions about the lady next door? Come on in, I've prepared the tea..."

Rhiannon was left speechless for a moment as the elderly lady turned and whisked back into the house with surprising energy, glancing at David with an expression that emphasised the novelty of the situation, before accepting the lady's invitation and entering the house.