Seven Steps to hell

1962, rainy quiet town filled with gossip and sorrow. An expensive, black and classic Ferrari riding through the puddles, rain droplets decorating the windshield as the car parked in front of the crime scene. Two more bodies found this month - bodies of political faces who recently faced drama in their career. The door of the car opens as young detective Emanuel and a police officer/Captain Spencer walk to the crime scene; whistling in disappointment before he looks up at Emanuel . No trace… no evidence leading to the killer. Silence except for the rain in the background and cars splashing in puddles, Spencer spoke first.

“So… any thoughts detective?”

Emanuel didn't answer right away; he examined the area with a deep sigh, taking a cigar pack from the pocket of his drenched trench coat, taking out one cigar and lighting it up. He crouched down in front of the blood soaked floor mixed with dirt and grime; ignoring the yellow police tapes which were half ripped already. 

The only thought that someone did this and slept peacefully at night made his blood boil.

He took a long puff from his cigar.

Reached into his chest pocket and took out the folded photographs of the victims found tonight.

The same pattern.

The same ending.

Nothing was worse than a case with no explanation.

After another thunder roared in the sky… Emanuel finally spoke, his tone almost too quiet; not because he was afraid or ashamed; but because he preferred to keep his tone in control…after exhaling the smoke and tilting his hat to the side to get a better view of Spencer he finally managed to get the words out of his mouth.

“Still thinking.”

He said under his breath and took another hit from that awfully expensive cigar, tilting his head up while exhaling the smoke as rain droplets rolled off of his shoulders.

“I can't seem to find any trace to track the killer. Not even finger prints. Is that even possible? I-”

Emanuel did not finish his speech as the Captain gave him a solid thump on the back with his hand and snorted, he loved to taunt his fellow men after all.

“You’re still new in this, don't worry I’m sure you'll be able to track this coldblooded bastard soon enough, he’s gotta be here somewhere.”

“I don't need coddling.” Emanuel frowned deeply and pushed Spencer’s hand away roughly; afterwards stepped closer to the bloody crime scene. His eyes narrowed as he took in the blood soaked into the rainy floor. Water poured…washing away evidence of a tragedy that happened in this very corner of their criminal town.

“Just trying to help Emanuel. Don't forget to fill in those papers when you go back to the office, You're on night petrol today, remember?”

“It’s not a patrol, also I don't need reminding. I think I got this.”

“Well I'm off for the evening, gotta’ buy the missus a bouquet. Happy wife, happy life as they say.”

“Who says?” Emanuel asked with an annoyed glance and continued smoking his cigar.

“Don’t get all high and mighty kid, you got this promotion because of me, remember?”

With a teasing laugh Spenser left, got into his car; leaving Emanuel alone smoking his cigar with a crooked frown.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Emanuel groaned a curse under the half smoked cigar.

No evidence.. No traces. No suspects, how could he even work with this case if he didn't even have a folder or at least one miserable sheet with a lead he could follow up? This wasn't his first case; he always tried to dig under politicians, gangs and drug sellers, but never in the path of his career had he met a case this complicated. 

After rethinking his life choices and examining the crime scene once more he left for the office. Night ‘patrols’ were never easy… not when you have insomnia, a coffee addiction and a desperate need for a short nap. Emanuel sighed entering his office and threw the documents with the empty folder on the messy desk. Taking his soaked hat and trench coat off he threw them on a chair, stretched and sat down at his desk. Pushing away the empty mugs of coffee; he took the papers and began filling them up.

Time went slow, with every scribble of the pen Emanuel wished to be someone else to not deal with this responsibility right now, as he laid the pen down and leaned on his bandaged arm his eyes fell on the crumpled newspaper on the edge of his desk. Rolling his eyes back he slowly took the newspaper and unfolded it, today's news was about the new found bodies. Spencer in the black and white picture promising to bring justice.. yeah right. This town was too messy and broken for honesty. He then continued reading… nothing interesting, just the facts that victims were political faces who spoke too much, too honest. 

Sometimes you have to take a hit for your words, because the sentences you say are like birds; you let them free and there's no way to get them back. You speak and you pay the price.

Emanuel shook his head, it was time to leave; he tossed the newspaper in the filled trashbin, grabbed his keys and left. As he drove through the empty streets he couldn't help but think about the victims and what connected them. The only connections they had? Involvement in politics, hate speeches… and most of them were against accepting the crimes in their town. Possibility? Murdered by one of the gangs he didn't arrest yet. Bringing justice was his job but he never knew he could suck at his dream job so much.

Arriving at his favorite bar he sat on an empty stool and ordered one of his usual drinks, scotch with a side of dark chocolate.

“Someones moody today,”

The bartender said as he slid the drink to him, Marcus was a well respected and seasoned bartender who heard more than he spoke.

“No success in your case again?”

“Thanks for reminding me of my misery, appreciated," Emanuel scoffed and took a greedy sip of his scotch. The bar was filled with drunk wards swaying around, a quiet but calm jazz playing in the background.

“I can't do this anymore, this… killer seems too skilled for his own good.”

“‘His’? So you already know it's a man?”

“It's an assumption.” Emanuel said dryly cutting the conversation short, Marcus was too noisy for his own good. Or was he?

“Assuming every bad thing is done by a ‘he’ is not a good look for you detective…”

“It's the statistics. Not whatever your unreasonable mind is thinking.”

Emanuel was really not in the mood for this small talk right now. He didn't get a single blink of sleep in the last couple of days, or weeks?  Who counted anyways. He couldn't relax, not until he found the bastard behind all those deaths and suffering. He had to contact and question a few possible witnesses. Why ‘possible’? Because Emanuel wasn't even sure if he could find anything for this case. Mentally he gave up long ago. But as a responsible adult which he regretted being sometimes, he had to finish what he started.

Marcus couldn't ignore Emanuel's sour mood, he was rubbing the steamed glasses clean with his towel. Looking around the bar; Marcus wasn't sure if he should even open his mouth, but God knows he can't keep it shut for more than 3 seconds.

Marcus leaned on the bar and cleared his throat; earning Emanuel's brief attention and the raised eyebrow. Marcus spoke in a whisper as if he was afraid to be heard by others.

“If you decide to accept help, which is unlikely… I have a person who has ears and eyes everywhere. Maybe they can know a thing or two about your case or the victims.”

With those words he slid a folded piece of paper towards Emanuel and then got back to serving customers drinks.

Emanuel narrowed his eyes.

Markus had friends, partners and connections. But someone useful for his case? 

That got his attention as he unfolded the paper, a number with a single letter below. ‘L.’

Emanuel sighed again and folded the paper back; putting it into his pocket. He finished the scotch in a few sips, left a tip and got out of the bar. The whole ride home he thought about that number… Maybe it was another detective, or an experienced police officer. Either way he had many issues to solve, many questions to find answers to. Many crime scenes to examine.

The streets were nearly empty as Emanuel drove.

His fingers tapped against the steering wheel as his thoughts went back to the number Marcus gave him.

No name… no explanation. And certainly no reason to trust the person behind that number. His intuition told him to throw the number away and forget it even existed.

As he stopped at the red light he took out the folded paper, crumpled with the ink smudged in the corners. With that mysterious number on it and looked at it again… one single letter. 

‘L.’…

He shook his head as the light turned green and shoved the paper back into his pocket.

Buried in thoughts and struggles he drove too fast, pressing on the gas pedal too hard; he didn't notice the car in front of him, adrenaline spiked as his foot quickly hit the brakes, the silent streets erupting in cars screeching on the wet floor, a crash… and then sirens. At least that's what Emanuel remembered when he blinked unconsciously… and finally closed his eyes.