Amongst the buzzing fluorescent lights, through the smoke-soaked room, sits a frazzled man at his desk. Messy with files and crumpled papers, stacking said mediocre desk to the brim around his planted elbows. The man, ruffled and unkept, is leaning over the desk as his hands hold tight upon his heavy head. Slicing through the blond and brown hair encompassing them, his fingers fluff and entangle themselves with his troubled thoughts. Behind him—beyond the evidence board—sits a branded ashtray clasping the last embers of the cigarette inside it. The toxicating aroma escaping from it's dying stint, coating the room with the smoke's dimming companionship. There sits an obsessed man.

The chill of the office room clouds in comparison to lighting of the next cigarette. Another from the department—equally as annoyed, if not agitated—croaks her way out to punch in her overtime. Neither pay much attention to the other, time apart being what they secretly desire; after a long day, them both wanting nothing more than isolated distractions. Free at last for all underneath, yet the case still lies open— waiting until the next day all over again. The final underling having taken their leave, a gaping hole is left apparent— the room's singular door left ajar. This office room small enough to get under your skin, the cluster of four other work desks wasn't going to help matters— regardless of how empty they currently are. Contemplations ruminate wildly as the silence beckons this lull. The shadow of the board casts a heavy toll upon the remaining inhabiter. A conundrum lacking it's resolution.

In a kick of a hum, the building's aging a/c unit flickers on. With a gust of aggressive air and a grasp of an ajar door, the silence lurks once more. Giddy as he may, a new guy whips the door open wide. Holding a pudding cup in one hand and a wooden utensil in the other, the stylish officer leans against side where the hinges of the office room's door lie.

     Dressed to impress or for condolences, him being decked out in full decorative police garbs was to little fanfare. The officer taking a minute or two to glance at the man at his desk before breaking into a subdued snaky smile. A smile extends with the way of his utensil hand as it tips the officer hat back across his long, rustic-colored hair. The quality of the hat's production notably audible with such a confident tap, almost procedural in a calling-card type of way. It being significant enough to the man at the desk to raise an eyebrow at hearing.

     In tune with the struggling hums of the a/c, one could swear that they could hear icy groans come from the man just before words begin their pageant.

And, with a playful point of the wooden utensil, the officer quips, "Rosy as ever, eh?"

As the words sang out of the officer's mouth, the man's hands fell from the grip they had upon his short hair and onto the desk. On a note of hollow thuds, the agitation colors his blunt question in return, "What do you want, captain?"

"C'mon, Zane. Can't a fun captain like me checkup on his detectives every once in awhile?", the captain answers. A tone openly heard as cheery, the undertone had definitely been mired with serious pressure from up above. The captain knew it, and so did detective Zane.

An uneasy bellowing circulates across the police station's ventilation system. Distracting to many others inhabiting the building currently, the two men inside the lonely, smoky office inherently realize the real purpose behind this impromptu chat. Focused squarely on the essentials that hang on the pin-up board behind the man at the desk, the a/c's ventilation hiccups are the least of their issues.

As the snaky smile transforms into a more profession etiquette, so does his focus of attention. In much of a walking contradiction to his near flamboyant air his stylized uniform presents, the restrained way his speech conveys importance is what sets him as the captain. Without wasting anymore of their short amount of time on sugarcoated pleasantries, the captain gets to the point of his visit. Speaking frankly, "Zane, catch me up to speed. What do we know now about these gruesome vagrant disappearances?"

Striking while the proverbial iron is hot, Zane pushes off the desk and onto his feet as he collects his thoughts. Seconds pass, the smoky haze exits the office room like a new recruit a step or two behind. Twisting with the same zest as he stood, Zane walks over to the ashtray as he picks up the pathetic stub of a cigarette he left burning half an hour ago. Taking the last huff from the thing before sending it onto it's ashy grave, the captain's impatience expresses through his rowing utensil hand towards his procrastinating subordinate.

Just as the captain begins to put his impatience into word, Zane shoots him a look of concerned bravado— piercing the captain with his intense gray stare. Yet, instead of beginning at the top, Zane proposes a question. Zane inquires, "Does the crime change if the evidence disappears into thin air?"

"What? Zane. Now's not the time for stupid questions. Of course, it'll still be the same crime— negligence doesn't change what happened!", angrily reprimands the captain.

As he points his finger at the captain, Zane confirming his point, "Exactly. It shouldn't. Yet, these events—these 'disappearances'—seem to be exempt from this rule. Captain, these weren't abductions, they were murders. You know this, so do I, and anyone that's been at any of these crime scenes can tell: the bodies vanished into thin air."

Crumbling back more into the mundane—some of his luster dissipating—the captain cannot help but humor his subordinate with whatever mental route he is about to take. Even knowing that this confusing occurrence had happened on the latest— and only—crime scene he had been on relating to this string of 'disappearances', the captain continues to struggle on acknowledging it happened— especially right under his nose. While not present when exactly it occurred, the few there that saw attest to it without end. It was haunting enough of a phenomenon that, of those few who saw, only detective Zane and a forensic photographer, Cadet Mancini, didn't quit. It's evident enough that something happened, yet that the 'body disappearing' like that is simply a step too far for the captain to believe.

Luckily, it being limited to only vagrants thus far has made it easy for him to keep it away from the top brass. But, the sudden spike of departures from the department has also begun to turn heads from up top. The need for something more substantial than superstitions has become the captain's most essential goal in this mini task force of his. This weighed heavy on his exuberant mind as Zane repeats the same thing the captain has been trying so hard to deviate from these past few months. Exhausted himself, the captain partially humors the seemingly rebellious detective, "Fine, Zane. Fine. Whatever you say. This is all ruining my pretty head, and my smashing, charming peaked cap. Let's move on into it, shan't we?"

Without a moment to waste nor a beat missed, Zane takes the finger he had been pointing at the captain and swiftly redirects it. The point of interest having switched to the evidence board behind him as the pointing finger targets the lowest crime scene photograph on said board. Zane begins, "Laura Stevenson: twenty-eight years old, caucasian, local, known heroin addict. Her body was found in an the old, abandoned factory just outside of the city. The place doesn't even have any up-kept roads going by it anymore— perfect for a homeless convene. At the same time, this also doubles as a prime candidate for a experimental drug den. Wouldn't you say, captain?"

"Sure. But, that's not our problem, Zane. Focus with the point on-hand.", chides the captain as he scraps the bottom of his pudding cup clean.

Disgruntled a little from the nonchalant disapproval, Zane continues, "Fine. Regardless, Laura wasn't homeless. Albeit a trashy, rundown place, she still had a residence to call her own within the city limits. Not only that, it was on the whole other side of town than this old factory building. Her being at this location only becomes stranger when compared to the other murders."

"Disappearances.", corrects the captain between the detective's breaths.

The fluorescent lighting having become much brighter since the smoke's exodus, the clear divide between the two can be seen by the way the wrinkles bend upon their foreheads. Zane moves on all the same, " Remy Dubois: forty-one, black, New Orleans-native, former musician. He had a athletic build for a trombone musician. He was a traveling musician on top of that, it seems. Discovered he had a big gig here in the 'party' district this coming weekend, yet his body was found here nearly a month and a half ago.", bringing attention to the second crime scene photo of an empty club dance floor.

The captain inquires, "So, how about him? Does he have any history with drugs?"

Zane, with a raise of an eyebrow, quips, "Oh ho ho~ I thought that wasn't our department's problem, Captain?"

"Zane,", the captain mumbles, "shut up. And answer the question."

The banter taking it's toll on the captain's usually chipper attitude, Zane reigns in his pesky nudges towards his side of the isle. Attempts to do so, anyway. Zane replying, "No, not from any records or prior testings have concluded. While not affluent, Mr. Dubois definitely wasn't struggling either. Couldn't be further in life than from Laura. And, that's just the tip of all this crap."

"She was the first of these occurrences, Dubois was the last— until recently. As you know, our first encounter with this case being that of Ms. Anderson. Happened barely a week ago, and it's still little more than a blip on anyone's radar here. Isla here was the sixth— SIXTH— one that fits the description of these 'disappearances' as you all want to call them.", as Zane spews out onto a tangent about the case's absurdities.

"Zane. Zane. Detective!", the captain shouts pleadingly, "You're not making any sense! Just... just start from the top. Give me the full rundown, evaluations and all."

"Ok, you're right. I got a little ahead of myself there. This case is really starting to intrigue me here recently.", Zane confesses.

"Obviously.", the captain agrees, it slipping out almost instinctually after this long.

Striking a humble smirk out of the detective as he reaches for another cigarette from within his button-up chest pocket. Zane grabs his steel, flip-open lighter from under the mountains of police paperwork before flicking it open to burn the tobacco-packed tip.

     Contrasting greatly against the downtrodden greyness humming from out of the overhead fluorescent lights of the stuffy office, the early silvers cultivating at the base of his scalp shine brightly off the fire as much as the zeal scorching from within.

     Zane backtracks his obsessed ramblings for the captain's sake, "Over the course of, roughly, the last two months, a series of, now, six different 'disappearances' have happened— and it's unlike any I've seen before. All six have been either in, or around, our city, and our city alone. At each of these 'disappearance' investigations have all started with a 9-1-1 call of remains, of then unknown individuals, found at random. And, as always, the location of said remains continuously seem to be 'misplaced' without fail. Yet, in contrast to that, supposed 'things' were left in their places. There were no connections between any of these incidents originally. Truth be told, it wasn't until you put this task force together that any of these six individual cases became one unified project. Through the short period of you making this task force, what is on this board is everything anyone has been able to deduce from all of this."

Withdrawing his pointer finger from the board, he turns away as he rolls said board around for a better view. The board, littered with nearly as much as his desk, presents itself as more of a schizophrenic splash of strings than any hard-pressed timeline of events. Strings wrapped around each other, tangled in color-coded messages only the maker could decipher. At the end of each of these color pinpoints being those images of their respective crime scenes. The photographs capturing the various points of interest within each crime scene location, all with a collective of evidential angles for each.

     Although more distractingly, and cluttering everything behind said photographs, were sheets of reports having to deal with each of the six investigations. Papers of various colors decorated the usual bland tan pinup board today— much unlike any other day's crime story of the week. From eyewitness accounts to detailed forensic reports of stuff taken from the scenes, all having been collected and organized upon Zane's sporadic pinup board— albeit, poorly done.

     Zane takes another puff from the cigarette before continuing, "All six people have vanished from their respective crime scenes. Yet—from comparative written witness accounts—before the people 'disappeared', our guys on the scene have remarked that the victims all had yellow eyes."

The captain interjects intrigued, "That's the telltale sign for jaundice, isn't it?"

"Yes, or at least what the professionals believe it to be.", matching what Zane had suspected. "Laura Stevenson, Ahmed Rathore, Otto Eckhardt, Daniel Smith, Remy Dubois, and Isla Anderson; all these different kinds of people, of different backgrounds, having jaundice at the time of death— especially all being adults, in the very least. Isn't it strange?"

"Zane~", the captain monotonically corrects once more.

"Yes, yes. I know. 'Disappearances', captain.", Zane acts in accordance with for the time being.

"Still,", Zane continues forth, "a matching ailment like that is significant in its own merit. So, I, and the team, checked all of their medical histories to see if they had any sort of run in with this type of issue before. Maybe this being some odd coincidence between these people; maybe if we got it all wrong from the beginning with our assumption. But, Summers was the only one of us to find anything resembling an issue with bilirubins in Mr. Rathore. The rest of us found nothing in our investigations over the others. Even then, it was only during Mr. Rathore's infancy that issue seemed to appeared in. Nonetheless, we made copies of those history files just in case. We're in the midst of double-checking on if there has been any instances where more prominent drugs have ever had this kind of effect on their victims prior to our case here. But, I've got to be honest, I have never seen a drug have this kind of effect on it's user this quickly before."

The captain, deep in thought, can only put out the most basic of empty responses to this conundrum. As empty as they may be, the words retain some ideas to bounce off of, "I've seen some strange cases since being promoted to captain, but this feels like it's missing too many pieces to honestly make a call on it. Are there any new, faulty pharmaceuticals out there in the last few months? Does the DEA know something new we don't? Or, is it our recent lack of manpower that has lead to this dilemma? Regardless, it's good to know it's not a complete lost cause."

As the captain trails off onto his own reliefs and worries, he cannot help but to mention the 'replacements'. The captain blabbers on, "Anyhow, it's good to see officer Summers fits into place here so well. For a last-minute promotion, it seems she's up to snuff on the research side of things, at least. Don't think she'll ever be better than detective Marigold though, I'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who could be. Shame what happened to him. Give officer Summers a pat on the back for me, will ya?"

"S... sure.", Zane tepidly replies as he shoots down some of those possibilities, "At any rate, it can't be pharmacy meds since four of those six weren't actively prescribed anything. Less so, just one of them had seen a doctor in the last few weeks— before 'disappearing' anyway. Not to mention, it wasn't anything that needed medicine to treat, in her case. That and, I don't have the clearance, or connections, to get a thing out of the DEA."

"Oh~ You don't worry about that. I can take care of things on that side of the isle. But, only if you say the magic word~", the captain taunts, pestering Zane in a way only long-time colleagues can.

"...", an irked Zane simmers quietly before monotonically rebukes, "No. I'm not doing that. Do you want to solve these murders or not?"

"Oh, hush.", playfully replies the captain.

"The manpower could also be an issue, but, with what little we have now, they'd go to waste on a situation like ours.", Zane mumbles woefully at the current stagnant status they find themselves in.

Thus, begging further inquiries from the captain, "Yes, this is quite dreadful. If only Marigold didn't get injured like he did. By the way, Zane, how did Marigold get those burns? He was with you and Mancini that night with Ms. Anderson's body. All five of you walked in with the body just fine. Next thing I know, just you and Mancini walk out unscathed from any of that! We got two officers and a detective now on disability, much less finished, and no explanation for it! Are you finally gonna get to your point here, detective Zane?!"

The shrouds of professionalism recede behind the cold, wrathful intent behind the captain's impromptu visit. Grown tired of the facade himself, Zane answers the captain honestly to the real connective threading behind all these mostly unconnected cases, "I don't know."

Visceral to the sound of indecision; a harsh jolt rushes through the captain's body as his immediate reaction is closer to that of tragic news rather than an inconclusive roadblock. Solemn as Zane should be at this reaction from his captain, solely glee hides behind his smoky, serious-and-resting expression.

Before the captain can spit out any sort of vulgarity he might've enjoyed in partaking in at that moment, Zane explains, "I don't know the cause behind the 'disappearance' of Ms. Anderson. Yet, what I do know, is that the searing burns came out of her body. As if it was some kind of weird exchange; as the body vanished, the searing scorches increased. It seemed to stem from her back and spread outward from there. Mancini and I were the lucky ones, obviously. Not because it missed us, but because we just so happen to be the ones carrying her legs. Marigold, that unfortunate cue ball, was the one that took the brunt of it— such the muscular showoff that he is. But, that's the most interesting thing about all of this—"

The captain angrily interjects, "A body doesn't cause third-degree burns, Zane! I'm done humoring you! I was with you on the jaundice thing, and I'm even following with the possible drug angle. But, this? Combustible bodies?! What kind of idiot do you take me for, old man?"

Ripping the ignored photos off the pinup board beside him, Zane furiously complies his evidence as he walks sternly towards the captain. Rising the crime scene photos up like an uppercut, he shoves them in front of the superior officer's face as he makes his point clearer than ever before. Zane retorts with twice the energy, "Look, captain, do you see all six of these crime scenes? Do you?! They all have the same level of high-intensity scorch marks burned into the locations that caused their bodies to 'vanish into thin air'. Do you notice something else about all of them?"

As he flips through each of the location's photographs, what was left by the scorch marks becomes evident at a compiled view. From old factory ruins to that of a decaying bachelor pad, all the various man-made landscapes that backdropped these occurrences were equally as marked as those that saw it happen. Intricate lining fills the canvas of the building interiors within these pictures; lining far too detailed—too symmetrical—to be reasonably believed they came from anything else but human hands. It appears crystal clear that what these scorch marks had to have been crafted with intent, because anything else would be that much more far-fetched than it already seems to be. Between the team of newbies and obsessive old hats, no one has been able to make sense of these after-burns either— much less this wreck-ball of a captain.

As if to interrupt the confused silence, Zane puts it all into words, "Each of these have burn marks covering the insides of each place. Covering the floors, the walls—christ—even the ceilings were burned by whatever the hell this actually is! Of the five that weren't interfered with, the marks make some kind of image as a whole at each of their 'disappearance' locations.

Looking at these compiled photos of each of the scenes like this, it starts becoming visible as to what they might be. With Dubois, it's a basic window. Stevenson, a vinyl record; Rathore, a saxophone; Eckhardt, a gun— a pistol by the looks of it. Yet, some of these are educated guesses at best. With Smith and Anderson, the objects in their markings are a bit more muddled. We're still working on theirs as we speak. Now, as to why these objects and how? We have no idea. Frankly, I'm still at a loss on the fact that something has made bodies combust like this. This is some serious sci-fi stuff, captain. But, it does explain a little of what happened to Marigold, and the other two, that night. That's all we got— I got! Now, can you back off and let me do my job, captain?"

Wrinkling curls around the captain's nose as the temperature of the room begins to rise. Both antagonistic to each other without a hint of professional courtesy to mask it anymore. The pretenses of flamboyance and, it's counter, rebelliousness falter to their truer ambitions. The faulty a/c system rattles grow as the station's other staff attempt of a patchwork fix gets put to the test. Kicking off at the roar of the breaking a/c unit outside, both police officials aggressively grab at each other's neck collars. The station is in a spooked frenzy at the a/c unit's loud failure all while shrouding the bloodthirsty quarrel between the two men. In a low growl of a voice, the uncharacteristic words of the captain are blanketed by the chaotic chill around them. "It should've been you, Zane. I wish it was you— not Marigold."

Coming in with an immediate verbal right jab from Zane's snarky retort, "I'm sorry, captain. Guess your favorite macho man flew a bit too close to the sun this time, huh? Friendly drinkin' will do that to you, you know?

"You sicken me, Zane. Always the bastard with a chip on his shoulder, no matter the one in the driver's seat. You're getting too old to be such a vermin. Shoulda quit while you were ahead, you crotchety, old rat.", the captain venomously shoots back.

The lit cigarette hangs out from Zane's clenched teeth as it burns colder than those words entering into his eardrums. Instigating with honesty and twisted by dichotomy, the only thing awoken by this heat is the alluring flames highlighting their disdain for each other. Then, Zane growls, "Call me whatcha like, it still doesn't change your incompetency. Go whine about it to 'pops' like you always used to do.", in a vicious tone of piss-and-vinegar.

Draining any of his petty anger away, "You never change, do you, Zane? You should've died with the rest of them two years ago... Cancer would be too good for you.", the captain responds in a bitter, calming tone.

At each other's throats, and long past temporary point at hand, the back of the metaphorical camel is bound to break sooner than later. Something as minuscule as the ventilation system's cries returning would be enough to be this snap. Just as the hectic noise from the other personnel quietens into the festive ruckus outside, the two feuding men are left alone to their grievances— or so they thought.

A slice downward from the sky, the lady detective from before cuts the space between them with a sturdy slip of manilla paper. Creating a border of sorts between the two men, the monotonically lady gives both of them a blank stare. More unexpected than intimidating, this was enough to break the feuding concentration between them before it got out of hand. In her own apathetic, monotonically voice, the lady speaks, "Frank, I want to go home. Save this pissing contest for another time, and sign my overtime sheet."

Frank, still taken off balance by her sudden arrival, stumbles through his compliance. Mumbling acceptingly, "Ellie?... Ah, yes. Of course, detective Berry! Here you go.", exhuming his false sense of flamboyant bravado behind filters of sweat as he signs off on the sheet.

With the tension broken and a third-party present, captain Frank breaks off from his quarrel with Zane and scurries away. If it wasn't enough yet, Frank couldn't help himself but to let out one last verbal gut punch before leaving out of sight from the office's door way. As he unloads an unofficial warning, "Just so you know, detective Zane, if you weren't second to detective Marigold in our department, you've been kicked out long ago.", the captain turns to make his way to the commotion outside.

Then, they were back where they started. A moment of silence and cigarette smoke hangs in the uncooled air while the two stand there staring at the now vacant office entrance. In a followup of unprompted suspicion, Zane inquiries to 'Ellie' Berry, "How long have you known?"

In her nonchalant, uncaring voice, "I don't know whatever you mean.", Berry answers.

His neck creaks towards Ellie as a look of light-hearted mocking is directed towards her unseen. His tongue stuck out, Zane knows he'll probably never get a straight answer out of his fellow co-worker— getting by with this being his only consolation. Without warning, she whips her head to the side of Zane— him as static, and professional, as the model veteran detective should be. From the short, black hair pulled back behind her sickly pale ears to the strained veins within her eyes, it couldn't be any more obvious that her brain had clocked out awhile ago. Pulling at her bold, yellow tie as it loosens little by little, she turns her head back at the office entrance that her feet now step towards. Ellie, letting out a sigh of concession, plainly states, "Your and Frank's grudge is an open secret. Nobody cares. Ask better questions.", before waving him off as she tries to take her leave.

Zane picks the nearly burned-out cigarette from his mouth, standing dumbstruck by his own underlining's callous acknowledgment of something he thought was so private for himself. Stammering his way through his next thought brought to life, he can't help to exclaim, "H—Whe... Huh?!"

Time keeps on ticking away as the exceptionally limited amount for her own life becomes exceedingly more lean. Progressing ever so aggravated by these trivial things cutting into her 'me time', Berry blurts out, "Get over yourself! It's that annoying obsessiveness of yours that protects you, but, jeez, do you NOT shut up when you get started. I've gotta be back here in ten hours. Ten! I'm going home.", in annoyance.

Groaning as she storms out—stomping on the floor's vinyl tiles on her way—Zane stands stupefied within the cramped office space. The disheveled black tie and wrinkly navy blue button-down having finally been met halfway in their wear-and-tear by his baffled express upon such a weathered face. He stares out from the room's open entrance, unfazed by the a/c debacle happening just outside, attempting to figure out just when others might've found out about his private affairs. Yet, the similarly as peculiar 'disappearance' cases continue to cloud his jumbled mind. In a spare moment of honesty, Zane mumbles under his breath to himself, "Dammit! That should've been mine. It should've been me! I don't want this crappy, Agatha-Christie case— hell, is it just six? Even six?—" Cutting him off midway through his bickering, reality comes back with a vengeance.

*Zzzt!*

"Hng!... ah, damn!", Zane reacts. A sting to the fingers, the tiny flame has reached the end of the cigarette's road. Blowing back the white paper and onto the tan-like filter of the pricy cylinder, the flame singes the tips of his fingers and thumb. Having dropped the cylinder, Zane shakes his hand before giving them a superficial blow for good measure. Not to let a good thing go for too long, Zane quickly takes his closest nice, black work shoe and crushes the remaining cigarette butt into the vinyl tiles underneath. The head detective takes a seat back at his desk— taking the rolling pinup board with him.

       After giving the hodgepodge of evidence littering it's limited space, Zane covers his face with the palm of his minimally singed hand. He lets out a deep breath full of smoke as he ponders the real circumstances that are starting to drown him. From this case to many more professional and personal issues, the obsessive detective begins to feel the last thing that someone in his position needs to experience: the prickly feeling of a headache coming on. Zane begins to groan, in pain and frustration, while things are starting to tamper off outside of the task force's office front door. Just then, a cadet busts into the office calling out for 'detective Zane'.

"Is there a 'detective Timothy Zane' in here? It's an emergency!", a sweaty cadet alerts into the room impetuously.

"Hm? Y—Yeah. Right here, kid.", Zane sluggishly replies as he rubs his impaired forehead, "What is it now?"

"You gotta call, sir! It's from a 'Detective Robertson'.", the cadet explains. This name swiftly raises an eyelid from under Zane's hand.

Staring daggers intensely into the flustering cadet, Zane waits on bated breath as the cadet finishes his emergency report, "It sounds serious, sir..."