Writing Prompt #16

The waves slapped against the stones in the dreary early morning light, the slow heavy crunch of footsteps and vicious caw of circling seagulls the only sounds that could be heard for miles.

The detective stopped and dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets with a sigh.

He overlooked the body on the beach, face up and lifeless on the shingle, swollen from the sea water. Undoubtedly, the body would have no easy traces, fingerprints would have been washed from the body and even from this distance he could see the empty gums, the teeth had been pulled.

This was organised, planned, and stunk of professionalism. Someone wanting to cover their tracks.

It made the detective’s stomach turn, the cold murder and not to mention the smell of the rotting corpse that had found its way up the police officer’s nose.

He had his theories. The deceased was a young boy, barely in his twenties, he was covered in scars, a clear sign that he had been tortured before his untimely demise. He’d seen cases like this before, too many cases he would argue, and it usually led to the underground group, a bunch of shady crime lords who were, unfortunately, brilliant at their craft. So far, they’d given him nothing. Not even a whiff of proof that could be used legally against them.

There wasn’t much else he could go on from the body as he’s suspected. The corpse had been stripped and cleaned of anything that was forensically useful. All he could do now was look at his surroundings, in the hope inspiration would strike.

Only the waves stood in front of him, proud and sure. There were no obvious drop-off points, like a bridge or a cliff edge within sight so he was led to believe that the suspect used a boat. But they were near a harbour and finding the right boat would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

He saw the blue flashing of the ambulance lights behind him, distracting him from his thoughts.

They would try their damned hardest to find any clues but as far as his job went, he had other priorities that demanded his attention.

His footsteps took him further up the beach before he allowed himself one final brief look at the body.

Murder was a sinister thing. It warped and tangled itself in the soul, caught between passion and hate, the aftermath was usually remorse. If he could somehow play on that regret, maybe he’d be able to draw the killer out. It was a game of chess when it came to this crime community and they were already two moves ahead.

He sighed deeply. He was getting far too old for this.


 

A/N: It’s a week for experimenting! This week’s flash fiction was an exploration of the crime genre. I hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you thought in the comments below.

 

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