Chapter 05: "What the hell is going on in this building?”

Jeff stepped outside, the cool night air biting at his skin as the flashing red and blue lights from the police cars painted the scene in an eerie, stuttering glow. He lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, the ember flaring briefly in the darkness. The night felt heavier than it should have—dense, suffocating, like the air itself was thick with secrets.

Steve Hale, Jeff’s old partner, stood by the yellow tape, directing officers with his usual no-nonsense demeanor. Jeff hadn’t seen him in years, but the lines around Steve’s mouth had deepened, his dark hair streaked with gray. Life had been catching up with him, just as it had Jeff.

Steve’s expression shifted when he spotted Jeff approaching. “Well, well. If it isn’t Jeff Eccles,” Steve called, his tone somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “I didn’t expect to see you here, of all places.”

“Miss me already, Steve?” Jeff shot back, the familiar banter a thin veneer over the tension that always seemed to linger between them.

“Like a root canal,” Steve replied, though there was a flicker of a smile. “You live here now?”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use,” came a voice behind Steve. Jeff’s gaze shifted to the man walking toward them—a tall, broad-shouldered detective with a cocky smirk and an attitude to match. Detective Hale, Steve’s new partner.

Jeff’s jaw tightened as he realized who Hale was. He didn’t need Steve to tell him; he’d seen the guy’s face in pictures with Debra, his ex-wife.

“Jeff Eccles,” Hale said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Heard a lot about you. Guess the legends don’t hold up in person.”

“Don’t you have some evidence to mishandle, Hale?” Jeff shot back, his voice sharp.

Hale chuckled, stepping closer. “Actually, I was just telling Steve how I was doing all the things you couldn’t do. Like solving cases. Or, you know, satisfying your wife.”

The words landed like a blow, and before Jeff could stop himself, he lunged. His fist connected with Hale’s jaw, sending the detective stumbling back. But Hale was quicker than Jeff anticipated, and his retaliation was immediate. A solid punch to Jeff’s gut knocked the wind out of him, and before he could recover, Hale shoved him hard.

Jeff’s back hit the door of a nearby apartment. The flimsy wood gave way, and he crashed through into the room beyond, landing on the floor with a groan.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Steve barked, stepping between them. “This isn’t a bar fight. Pull your heads out of your asses.”

Jeff rolled onto his side, clutching his ribs. The first thing that hit him was the smell—a sickening blend of coppery blood and decay. He pushed himself up onto his knees, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and froze.

“Oh… my God,” Steve whispered from the doorway, his voice barely audible.

The apartment was a tableau of horror, the kind of scene that would stay burned into Jeff’s mind forever. The two musicians were unrecognizable, their bodies mutilated and repurposed into grotesque displays.

The male victim sat behind the drum set, his arms nailed to the sticks as though he were still playing. His head was caved in, the skin and hair matted with blood and brain matter. Shards of bone jutted out like macabre confetti, embedded in the walls around him.

The female victim was sprawled across the couch, her body draped in guitar strings that cut deep into her flesh. Her chest cavity had been opened, her ribs wrenched apart like the frets of an instrument, and her organs were nowhere to be seen. Blood had soaked into the cushions, pooling on the floor beneath her.

The hammer lay on the coffee table, its head glinting dully in the faint light. Jeff’s stomach churned as he realized it was the same weapon used to kill Walter Jenkins.

“What in the actual fuck…” Hale muttered, his bravado gone as he stared at the scene. Even he seemed shaken.

Jeff crawled backward, his hand slipping in something sticky and warm. He gagged, retching violently. The contents of his stomach—mostly beer and the greasy remnants of his last meal—splattered onto the floor. The acidic smell of vomit mixed with the already nauseating stench of blood and decay, making Jeff heave again.

Steve stepped forward, his face pale but his expression grim. “What the hell is going on in this building?”

Jeff wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breath ragged. “This isn’t just murder,” he said, his voice hoarse. “This is… something else.”

Steve nodded, his eyes scanning the room. “Whoever did this didn’t just kill them. They made a goddamn statement.”

“And then went back and killed Jenkins,” Jeff added, his mind racing. “Same hammer, same level of brutality. But why? What’s the connection?”

“That’s for us to figure out,” Steve said, his voice firm. He glanced at Hale, who was still standing frozen in the doorway. “You good, partner?”

Hale snapped out of his daze, shaking his head. “Yeah. Just… Jesus Christ.”

Jeff staggered to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Steve said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re part of this now, whether you like it or not.”

Jeff met his old partner’s gaze and saw something there he hadn’t expected—trust. Despite everything, Steve still believed in him. And for the first time in a long time, Jeff felt a flicker of hope.

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