
Johnathan Hartman
I walk up to the scene and I'm greeted by an all too familiar sight. A body slumped over one of the rails in the train yard. Holes dot the back and the blood stains still damp, still red, line his back like a dripping pen on a pad of paper. They run down his back from where the lead burst through.
He died on his feet. Blood was running down from his wounds before he fell. Taking a closer look I notice his piece is near his right foot.
This wasn't an execution. It was too messy, but not messy enough to send a message of some sort. This guy spooked someone. Got caught. His piece barely made it to his hand before it hit the ground, with him following shortly after. That's when it happens. Whether the small breeze, the cold dampness in the air, something made my back realign sending a chill from my neck to my shoulders. It's when I roll over the body I realize I should have recognized the suit. No need to call in someone to ID him, everyone on the scene knew him. Brown, Samuel. Age 34. Beat cop. Guy was so clean he squeaked.
He had a German wife. Maybe they tried to extort her. Sam finds out, goes to confront them, things get out of hand, they dump his body here. As far as familiar sights go, I'm sick of one of them being dead friends.