Harrow’s head pounded as the bright morning sunlight reflected in the mirror as he drove on the poorly maintained road to the crime scene. He squinted and rummaged through the garbage filled center console pulling out a pair of old aviators. Harrow spit on the lenses, cleaned them with his dirty shirt and put them on. His headache slightly subsided as the sunglasses reduced the sun’s intensity, despite the smudges.

  Good enough.

  The rusted skeletons of signs, now illegible, hung over the cracked elevated highway. Coastal pines from the marshlands below poked over the sides. Harrow’s nausea and clammy skin worsened as the car rumbled along the bumps. The sour burn of stomach acid gurgling up stung his mouth and throat. Harrow pulled over and ejected the contents of his stomach on the side of the road.

  What the hell did I eat last night? Last thing I remember was being in the bar. How did I get home?

  Harrow wiped the remnants of vomit from his mouth. The hot humid summer air clung to his clammy skin. Harrow groaned as his headache intensified. The familiar weight of the flask in his jacket pocket called to him. He removed it and unscrewed the cap.

  I’ll need this to help me through the scene. It’s okay this time.

  Harrow took a swig, feeling the comforting warmth of the whiskey settle in his stomach. He felt a slight wave of nausea before his stomach and headache began feeling better. Harrow pulled out his phone.

  How much further to the scene?

  Harrow swiped to his navigation app showing that it was shortly off at the exit a kilometer away. He hovered a finger over the messages icon. His heart raced.

  What the hell.

  Harrow tapped the icon. A conversation appeared on his screen.

  Oh shit.

  12:04 AM Alex: Hey, baby. Come over.

  12:42 AM Alex: How far away are you?

  01:09 AM Alex: Are you coming?

  01:11 AM Alex: Are you getting these?

  01:12 AM Alex: Hello?

  01:13 AM Julie: Just Stop! Lose my contact!

  01:14 AM Alex: Why are you so mad?

  01:14 AM Julie: Alex, it's the middle of the fucking night. How drunk are you? Go to sleep.

  01:15 AM Alex: I'll sleep better next to you. I miss you.

  01:16 AM Julie: It's OVER! It will NEVER happen again!

  01:17 AM Alex: I can make you happy.

  01:21 AM Julie: If you want to make me happy, go and get yourself some help. And stop talking to me. If you weren't a cop, I would've filed a restraining order months ago.

  I did it again.

  Harrow caught a glimpse of himself in his side-view mirror before stopping to take a glimpse of his appearance. His tired blue eyes on a bloated face looked back at him. More gray than brown hair covered his head and unshaven cheeks. Wrinkles covered his stained charcoal pants and black shirt. Dried vomit caked under the collar of the shirt. Harrow removed his stained gray field jacket and placed it on the roof of his car. He drew the nickel revolver – a reliable relic from the past and placed it on top of the jacket before popping the trunk. Harrow looked back at his weapon.

  Nothing that can be hacked. Just mechanics, lead, brass, and gunpowder.

  Harrow rummaged through his trunk grabbing a wrinkled gray button down from a pile that at least looked clean. He quickly changed, tossed the vomit-stained shirt into the trunk, and climbed back into the driver’s seat. Harrow continued along the ancient highway destined for the next exit. The cracked concrete of the highway gave way to a muddy road as Harrow reached the bottom of the off ramp. Vines overtook the skeletal remains of cars and buildings. The car approached the flashing red and blue lights of the perimeter ahead. Harrow pulled his car off to the side, parking it between a patrol car and relatively clean blue sedan spotted with fresh mud.

  Harrow exited his car and approached the perimeter. Crows cawed above. He flashed his badge at the young cop. “Kythera Security Agency was first to the scene, detective. We arrived before any corporate security patrols.” A ruggedized, black box truck with heavy tires lay at the center of the scene. Yellow tarps covered the two bodies at the back of the truck. Two midnight blue quad-copter drones with the white letters KSA flew above the scene.

  A short, thin young woman with a dark complexion and black hair tied in a neat bun descended from the back of the truck. She wore a neat white blouse, pressed navy-blue pants, a polished KSA detective’s badge and black shoes that reflected the sunlight. The young detective stepped slowly and methodically around the bodies, talking to herself while looking down at the tarps. She bent to lift one before quickly dropping it, covering her mouth, and quickly stepping away from the bodies toward Harrow. The detective raised her head before nearly bumping into him. She quickly regained her composure and held out a hand. “Detective Christina Patel, sir,” she said in a serious tone.

  Harrow took her hand. “Alex Harrow. So, what did they tell you about me?”

  “You get the job done despite some unconventional methods,” Patel responded. “And that I can learn a lot from you.”

  “Nothing else?” Harrow asked. “You didn’t hear about any problems?”

  Patel looked away before returning her eyes to Harrow. “Nothing I can’t handle, sir.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Harrow reached into his pocket and grabbed a small container of menthol petroleum jelly. He handed it to Patel. “This will help with the smell.”

  “I can get one of the department masks,” Patel said.

  “Not nearly as good as this stuff.” Harrow rubbed a little under each nostril immediately struck my it’s minty cool smell. “Suit yourself.”

  Patel extended her hand. “Let me try it out.” She applied a little and squinted.

  “You arrived at the scene before me,” Harrow said. “Give me an overview – what did you find?”

  Patel began walking toward the truck. “KSA patrol drone spotted the vehicle off the highway during a routine sweep. It moved in closer and found two bodies at the back with the door open. I haven’t confirmed it yet, but initial reports were death by blunt force trauma to one and exsanguination to the other. The drone kept scavengers away until Officer Carver was first on the scene.”

  “Good thing we got here before those bastards at Chimera or Aegis,” Harrow said. “So, you told me about the reports, what did you find when you got here?”

  “I approached the vehicle following its tracks from the perimeter,” Patel continued. “It appeared to have slowed down and stopped, but I didn’t see any obstructions in its path. There are sets of footprints between the driver’s side door and hood, passenger side door and rear, and between the hood and rear, following the path along the driver’s side. Those footprints end at the bodies. Software analysis indicates that the steps were slow and calm. Each victim was ambushed.”

  “It’s making sense so far,” Harrow said. “But be careful about over-relying on the software. It’s not a replacement for a detective’s gut instincts.”

  “Understood, sir,” Patel replied. “There’s another set of footprints coming out of the woods. That must where the Harvester was waiting.”

  Where did she get the Harvester idea from? Fucking Reeves.

  “The Harvester is a major jump to a conclusion,” Harrow jumped in before Patel could continue. “How did you arrive at that idea?”

  “The captain told me the Harvester struck again, sir.” Patel answered. “I was simply following his lead. I’m sure he has other information I’m not privy to.”

  Harrow sighed. “My first and most important piece of advice I’d give to any junior detective is – do not arrive at a scene with a bias. If you’ve seen ten similar scenes in the past, don’t assume this one will be the same. If you remember specifics about cases, they taught at the Academy – don’t assume it’ll follow the same pattern. If the captain, the chief, or even the commissioner tells you what a scene is, keep your head clear first. Let the scene talk to you.”

  “Wouldn’t my learning and experience be useful?” Patel asked with a puzzled expression. “And the advice of our superiors’ as well?”

  “Think about that after your first clear assessment of the scene,” Harrow answered. “And be careful about the brass directing your opinions. They’re political animals.”

  “Yes, sir,” Patel responded uncomfortably. She grabbed two pairs of latex gloves from the KSA gear and handed a pair to Harrow.

  Harrow put the gloves on that stretched tightly over his hands as he toward one of the yellow tarps. The buzzing of flies became deafening as he reached it and bent down to remove it. Harrow turned his face away as they scattered. A hint of the stench of early decomposition broke through the menthol. The victim lay on his back with his head toward the passenger side of the truck. Dark tacky blood congealed on the black shirt and top of the victim’s pants. His head with a crew cut and clean-shaven face hung unnaturally to the side from the wound that almost decapitated him. Mud spotted his now gray hands. Harrow bent down to get a closer look at the hole in the victim’s neck seeing a single, almost surgically precise cut. He stood back up and looked over the position of the body. He walked between them and made a quick swiping motion at the victim.

  Ambush would make more sense as an attack from behind.

  Patel stood a few steps back observing Harrow’s technique before approaching the body with a slight wince. She bent down looking at the victim’s hands. “There’s no blood here,” she said. “No defensive wounds. The attack was instantly fatal.” Her eyes traced the set of footprints from the woods. A confused expression arose on her face. “Why would he be lying on his back from an ambush? Unless the Harvester, I mean the killer, moved him. But the ground shows no signs of that. This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Let’s take a look at the other victim,” Harrow said. He bent down and removed the tarp. Red blood, gray brain matter, and white bone fragments lay where the victim’s head once was, both pooled into a crater in the ground and scattered in all directions. Crawling insects squirmed in the mass. His heavily built bare body, except for the underwear, took on a greenish-gray hue. Harrow stood up and reached into the interior of his jacket pulling out a small black spiral notebook. He removed the pen from its spine and opened it.

  “What’s that for?” Patel asked.

  “Crime scene notes,” Harrow replied as he jotted down – Wastelands Crime Scene on the first page.

  “Why not put the notes directly into the KSA logs?” Patel asked. “The latest neural interface updates make it very efficient.”

  Harrow tapped a finger on the notebook. “This gives me a raw, unmodified, uninterpreted source of notes. No software to reword it. No AI to try to recreate the scene and give its own assessment.”

  And no ability for the brass to purge data they don’t want to keep records of.

  “Isn’t that against protocol?” Patel asked. “I thought we needed to keep track of everything for auditing purposes.”

  Harrow scoffed. “When process gets in the way of good police work, that’s when cases go cold. I typically type them in after. Besides, I don’t have a neural link anyway.”

  Patel’s eyes widened. “I see the rumors were true about your old school nature. Sir.”

  “Technology introduces bias,” Harrow said. “Especially when one company produces almost one hundred percent of cybernetics. And is no replacement for human instinct.”

  “Understood, sir.” Patel looked over at the truck. She muttered to herself.

  “What are you thinking, detective?” Harrow asked.

  “No hits in the database for either of our victims,” Patel answered. “Or the truck.”

  Harrow pulled open the heavy door of the back of the truck. A blast of cold air hit him. He climbed up, hearing a low rumble of a compressor echoing in the cargo area. Two large metal crates, secured to the truck occupied the right side. A few small, dirty shoe prints spotted the otherwise clean metal floor. Cut leather straps hung over the side of a stretcher with a thick black body bag on top of it. An incision ran down it lengthwise. Harrow returned to the back of the truck to help Patel up but saw she had already joined him. He looked down at her shoes and back to the prints.

  “I saw you up here before,” Harrow said. “What do you think?”

  “The attacker was interested in whatever or whoever was in the bag,” Patel responded. “Supply crates are completely untouched.”

  “Are these your footprints?” Harrow asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Patel down and away before returning to Harrow. “I’m sorry, sir. Floor was clean when I climbed up.”

  “Not a problem, Patel.” Harrow walked over to the bag and inspected the incision parallel to the zipper. He moved his head level with the bag, noticing a slight rise in the silicone upward where the cut was made.

  Clean floor. Bag is cut open instead of unzipped. Cut pokes outward.

  Harrow felt the blood drain from his face. A chill ran through his body. “Detective Patel,” he said. She turned to him.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” she asked.

  “Our killer was inside the bag.”