[Gross crime scene warning oop]

I don't have to go driving around the curvy roads of a pitch black forest for very long. It's relatively difficult to miss an entire squadron of cop cars flashing red and blue into the clear night sky. Not only does that catch my attention, but Tyler flags me down about a quarter mile away from what I suppose is my destination.

I brake as soon as I see him behind his flashlight with a reflective jacket and I roll down my passenger side window.

"Hey, man," I smile at him as he leans into my car, "how's it going?"

He rolls his eyes. "You know how it is. Tired, overworked, and underpaid." The bags under his eyes are visible in the light cast from the buttons in the car. He usually springs for the night shifts, even though he's always exhausted and ready to sleep.

"Unfortunately. Anywhere specific I should park?" I ask.

Tyler scratches the back of his neck and turns to stare at the scene up ahead. "I guess as close as you can to the Lieutenant's car, if you can find it. I lost her as soon as she got here. That was almost an hour ago."

"What's she lookin' for?"

He shrugs and slides back out of the window, starting to wave me along as a pedestrian car rolls up behind me and is forced to stop.

"Haven't heard much but miscellaneous chatter," he purses his lips, "but apparently it's a doozy."

As the headlights behind me grow brighter, I have no choice but to continue to pull forward. Through the maze of closely-stationed vehicles, I have to roll to the opposite side of the road to put my car in park and take extra precautions while trying to exit. The edge of the road is a steep drop off into a tangle of sharp branches and roots. I don't know what specific types of vegetation are around, but I know it'll show up in the reports I'll undoubtedly receive.

I expect to take a good portion of time to find Taylor, but as soon as I flash my badge and make my way to the edge of the woods, she comes rushing out from in between the trees. Her hair is tied back loosely, blonde strands falling into her eyes with every step across the rugged terrain. The bank on that side of the road isn't as steep, but it still takes her a second to climb up wearing her uniform.

That's the first sign that something is wrong. At these hours of the night, we can all skate by with badges clipped to our chests. When I glance around, the vast majority is in uniform as well.

She doesn't say hi, she doesn't take a second to breathe. She grabs my hand and practically drags me into the forest.

"Well, hello to you too." I shake her off and desperately try to keep up. I'm still half asleep.

"Pete is here. He has gloves for you. I don't know how this situation should be handled, so just do your best." It's pitch black but I can see lights up ahead, roughly a hundred yards. The distance between the site and the road makes me believe whatever is out there wasn't meant to be found, but was either too heavy to take very far or not important enough to hide well.

Taylor freezes about twenty yards out. My eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness but I can hear the fear in her tone. "What, no rundown for me?" My attempt to lighten the mood does not hit the target.

She holds her breath likes she's about to go off on me, but ultimately pats my shoulder and heads back to the road, presumably to begin directing the flow of the scene.

I step over a few roots into a small clearing. Pete catches sight of me immediately in the glow of strong lights pointed to the middle of whatever or whoever the investigation unit is crowded around.

He walks with me as soon as we're within talking distance. "Good start to your vacation, am I right?"

A pair of purple latex gloves is shoved into my hands. I tug them on and pause outside of the circle, staring at the ground. There are no indentations or patches in the lush grass as far as I can see. Of course there are a few flattened areas from shoes, but those are obviously recent. The patches of grass are still twitching in the imprints. "For sure. Don't even know what we're dealing with yet."

"Well," there's an obvious falter in Pete's voice, "we're not exactly sure either. It's not that easy to explain."

"So when you said it's weird—"

"I seriously meant it."

The small crowd parts and eventually disperses to the rest of the clearing, leaving me and Pete to address the scene. I assume all the photos have been taken and brief notes recorded.

There is something about the first look here that makes a chill run down my spine. I've seen and analyzed so many gruesome scenes, the only thing that would make me queasy is the recreation of a trap from the Saw franchise. I don't think I could handle a a serial killer with that mode of operandi. I would put my badge through a shredder.

Obviously I'm not looking at the aftermath of a Saw trap. It still steals the air from my lungs and sends a chill through my body.

I'm looking at a refrigerator.

It's a rundown and rusty miniature refrigerator planted in the exact middle of a clearing. The lights set up around it highlight the dried red spatter surrounding the seal of the door. The drips are angled suggests the liquid came from almost directly above the spot of impact, as if someone was hovering the liquid over the handle. I can't look away.

"Fingerprints?" I ask. I catch the cord out of the corner of my eye. It's plugged into a patch of dirt, which I believe is purposefully and recently cleared of grass.

"None." Pete crouches down with me. "No traces of whoever put this here. We've already scanned the perimeter, we're just reaffirming now. For all we know, it's always been here and nobody has come across it until now. I mean, obviously someone else saw it before, but—"

"What is this anyways?" The latex grazes the rusted handle. It's old and will be difficult to remove, if we can at all. "It's just a mini fridge with some... crusty pizza sauce. Maybe it's blood, maybe it's cranberry juice. Maybe someone started throwing raspberries around. You know how kids can be. There's a family living just a few acres away."

He smiles but the weight of the situation that I haven't seen yet hits him. "I forgot you can't smell. You are such a loser."

"Well, what does it smell like? Cranberries or blood, Pete?"

"...You should look inside."

Pete opens the refrigerator door for me. I wasn't sure what I expected, but it wasn't what I see. It's a severed head wrapped in a cloudy plastic bag, spattered with blood on the inside. At least, I think it's a severed head. The shape and size appear to be accurate, but it's mutilated beyond recognition.

"Ah," I mutter, "it smells like blood."

I reach out to touch it but Pete slaps my hand away. "Don't move the bag. Placement cues are everything."

I nod. "Is there a number on the fridge? Like a serial number?"

"Those are for tracking an appliance. Like, when it was made and where it was manufactured. I don't think we can track down who owned this. And even then I don't think any results would lead us anywhere. This could've been stolen for all we know."

He's right. However, there is a human head in the refrigerator. "How are we supposed to know who this is?"

"Remember the two cars that crashed in the ditch like a week ago?"

Oh. "How... how do you know it's the driver?"

"You can see the cut at the neck through the bag, sliced at what I think is the same vertebrae," he points to the bottom of the fridge, where the cut of the decapitation is clearly visible, "same straight cut, still have no idea what did it. We just have to run tests to make sure that it's her. The teeth are still intact. I could probably strip some skin off the skull and call some people to do a facial reconstruction with me."

"That's disgusting. I don't want to know if you end up stripping away the skin."

He shrugs. "Oh, I will be. The consistency is too liquid-y not to."

I'm glad I didn't eat much before heading out. "When you find out who this is, I want to know so we can contact their family. They have to have known someone capable of doing this, or at least we can figure it out."

"And if they don't know anyone capable of this?"

"Then we check the files around the time they disappeared for any violent people on the loose with a similar modus operandi. If it's not in the area, we can contact someone else. I'm pretty sure this isn't just a petty revenge murder."

"I'll try to figure out the age first so someone can start looking."

"And I know the labs will do this, but make sure there are samples taken from just about every spot of blood in here. Just to make sure." If there's the possibility of multiple victims, I want to make sure we catch it as early as possible. Now there's a connection between what we thought was an accident, and a purposeful placement.

Pete nods and starts to drone on about everything the team has vaguely determined so far, but I can't help but let my mind wander. What we were were intended to find the refrigerator? And it's especially weird considering my own fridge just broke down. It's an unsettling coincidence. Did any other details from the last scene coincide with anything else that our team has come across recently? That would be even weirder, but also a little humorous for no specific reason. I guess I have to count it as a crazy coincidence for now. I think Brendon would get a kick out of it when I decide to tell him.

I do need to hold off on telling him. I know I'd accidentally mention what Pete's intentions were to identify the owner of the head, and he would not be thrilled to hear about that.

"Hey. Are you paying attention?" Pete nudges my arm with his elbow. His gaze is transfixed on me until he snaps out of whatever daze held him for a second. Then he stands and gestures for me to follow him. "I was trying to tell you about what we found with the bag, but you zoned out."

The trees only seemed to grow closer together. I trip over just about every root sticking out of the ground. "Sorry. I'm all ears now."

"I think it would be best to just show you. There's only so many ways I can try to explain this." We dodge a few more people heading into the clearing. It's dark so I can't catch a glimpse of their badges, but I would assume they're either part of the homicide department or some more CSI.

"Shouldn't this particularly groundbreaking piece of evidence stay where it was found? You said it yourself, placement is everything."

"It's getting sent across the country to the FBI's linguistics and graphology department in Quantico." He says. "It's that serious."

I think I've dealt with worse. Yeah, it's weird that the driver from the last scene is here, but if it was a murder we would expect that. It was probably a ploy to get rid of those people in the van and nothing more. I'm seriously not one to usually downplay a situation like this, and it may be because it's so early, but the case file shouldn't be seeing any new paperwork after all of this is processed. "It can't be that serious—"

He plants his feet on the road just as we exit the tree line. He grabs my shoulders and forces me to look him dead in the eyes. He's serious. "Lieutenant Swift is in her vehicle making some phone calls. She has it. If you need me, I'll be at the... the mini fridge."

Pete's tone drops as he realizes what he has to return to for clean up. I pat him on the back before he heads off. "We've had worse mornings."

He smiles briefly and heads to the crime scene again.

The windows to Taylor's car are tinted but you don't need superpowers to hear her shouting at the top of her lungs. I've always thought she has anger issues. I always hoped I wouldn't have to find out she might have anger issues. The headlights flicker on and off, and a dark blue windbreaker jacket sits crumpled on the hood of the car.

Her yelling ceases for just a second when I tap on the window with my knuckles. The window cracks open just enough for her to tell me to get in the passenger seat. She then closes the gap and resumes her yelling, until I open the side door and climb inside.

Her vehicle is a mess. I nudge two cans of Red Bull from the seat to the floor and I share a space with a container of steaming Chinese takeout that sits on the dashboard. I try to think of someone that had the time to go out and purchase takeout, but I can't. The usual people are at home and asleep because they are not requested to attend the cleanup and analysis at a crime scene.

On Taylor's side of the dashboard is the thing that's been causing a ruckus. It's a sheet of plain paper, something you would pull out of a standard printer. It's encased in a plastic bag and creased into thirds, presumably found like that. I can't see any blood or alarming substances. It appears to be a normal note, assuming something is written on it.

Taylor drops her cellphone into her lap, slides the baggie onto her side of the dashboard, and puts her head in her hands. A pained scream rips through the air for just a second before she pulls over a sheet of composure, clears her throat, and stares straight out the windshield to the officers scampering around.

"I can leave."

I keep my hand on the door handle and wait until she's done counting to ten. "I want you to be involved with this as little as possible, but I do feel the need to keep you updated. Usually... usually I would want you to lead the investigation on something like this, but I need you to back off and watch from the sidelines."

"Why am I here then?"

"Because this incident directly involves you," she snaps, "I've been trying to get a couple people to fly out from the FBI stations in Quantico, but it's difficult. They only take on so many cases, y'know?"

I still don't know what's written on that paper. "I did handpick and personally train the majority of my department. They can do it."

"No, they can't. We need professionals — like, professional professionals. I want trained professionals to handle this. Not you, not anybody in our precinct."

"You can't replace us in this situation and act like we'll be fine with it. Who do you think we are?"

"Not enough."

A new set of sirens blare down the road, headed in our direction. People living in close proximity have began to intrude on the scene.

I adjust in the seat so I'm facing Taylor. Her eyes are glassy and she's on the verge of tears. She's jaw is clenched like her fists around the steering wheel. Red and blue cast shadows over her face and accentuate the fear and exhaustion plaguing her features. "Can you at least tell me what's going on? If it's that serious, shouldn't I be helping instead of watching?"

"I said I don't want you to get too involved."

"It sure sounds like I need to get involved. You know you can count on me, I can do it. It wouldn't just be me either, the whole department can get on this, everyone can take a piece and we'll knock this one out."

Part of me wonders if she's right and I should stay out of this. The other part considers she's just a bit tired and stressed and still believes I should take a break and let someone else handle the work like she had discussed with her superiors. We have a perfectly good team here.

She doesn't say anything. Her hands fall to her lap and she refuses to make eye contact until she's halfway out of her car. She grabs the bag and carefully hands it to me. "Read it. You'll understand. Go home after this, please. I'll contact you later."

The door slams shut and I watch her grab her windbreaker off the hood of the car and return to a crowd of officers and local CSI.

The note is standard printer paper, matte not glossy. Everything is scrawled in natural writing, neatly in black sharpie, organized in lines. It lays flat despite having creases, and it's pristine otherwise.

I've been watching you. How do you all manage to sin and get away with it? Swift and her beau, Weekes and his fiancé, Wentz, Joseph, Dun, and more. Your selfish and ignorant actions will not go unpunished or unrecognized. I have been watching all of you for years and I have seen it all. Open the blind eye and confess your wrongdoings. It's time to pay for your sins.

On the back, dozens of black and white pictures are printed out and arranged in a collage. Photos peering into windows from between blinds, shots from a car parked on the side of the road, pictures taken in plain sight. Listed below a photo of Pete eating a sandwich in the autopsy room is the exact address to every single one of our residencies.

Huh. That's not good.