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profiler-in-courage · 4 years

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So I started writing a story about a police detective and pictured Claes Bang playing him and now I’m SIX chapters deep.

For those of you that wanted me to post it, here is the first chapter. It’s long I’m sorry!

Chapter 1.

Emerson Woods sucked his hazelnut iced latte out of the green straw, while he simultaneously flicked his thumb over women’s Tinder profiles who were somewhere between 30 and 45. He was a hip cop.

Detective actually, 10 years. He had made detective when he was just 35 years old.

And look at me now, he thought.

Forty-five and single, he had somewhat ashamedly resorted to making a profile on a “dating” website. His niece had told him about it. Which to him was even more pathetic. His niece was 16.

He sighed as he closed the app. What was he doing?

He glanced out his car window and scratched the side of his face. If you wanted to get technical, he was sitting in his silver ’63 Karmann Coupe Porsche. No, not bought from a detective’s salary, an inheritance from his father.

Emerson was on what the movies call a stake-out, but what anyone in law enforcement calls boredom. It’s not like TV. Nothing ever comes from sitting in your car for hours in the middle of the night, at least not in his experience. And there weren’t even donuts.

Well, at least he had coffee.

There had been a series of disappearances in the Connecticut city of Creekmore. All had been women, all from different parts of the city, from low income to high-income parts of town. They had been different ages as well. The oldest fifty-three, the youngest four. It had been going on for a few months now. No leads.

Emerson sighed, debating whether or not to open up the Tinder app again. It was nearing 11 pm, and he was tired. And bored.

The Creekmore Police Department had officers sitting in every neighborhood in the city, wary that since the last disappearance had taken place a little over five months ago. Whoever was abducting these women was due to strike again.

He was stationed in a residential middle-class neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood he would’ve liked to live in. Once upon a time.

Trees lined the sidewalk along with painted white houses with dark roofs and watered grass. The typical picturesque street.

He pressed his thumb over the red and white app.

Kristy, age 39, occupation: elementary school teacher.

Among her list of things she liked to do was:

Hit the bar for a night on the town.

He swiped left. He didn’t drink.

Emerson thought back to the last time he had tasted alcohol. A year after his wife died, which had been eight years ago.

He hadn’t taken her death well.

Who takes death well? he thought.

He supposed a better way to put it was he took it with a bottle of bourbon every day for a year.

Lyla had been 32 when she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. It didn’t take long.

Every time he heard the term he felt a silent rage build up inside him. Cancer felt like it had escaped a life sentence because of a technicality.

Emerson gritted his teeth. Eight years later, he had made peace with the death of his wife but not with the fact that cancer was still incurable.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, flecks of grey scattered throughout it.

11:30 pm.

His hazel eyes flicked back down to his phone screen. He rubbed the side of his Warby Parker Haskell frames.

He had paused on a picture.

The image of a woman with dark brown hair and even darker brown eyes. He pressed on it.

Gwyn, 33, occupation: artist.

Her bio stated:

Please don’t use slang and conduct your sentences like you’re somewhat educated. If you want a response.

The corner of Emerson’s mouth tugged up into a smirk. It was something he could’ve written himself.

He swiped right.

He had a moment of regret only for a second when he wondered if 33 was too young for him. He mentally shrugged.

11:49

He was beginning to yawn now. Bored with sitting in his car, bored with his bachelor style life. He turned the keys in the ignition, about to press his foot to the gas pedal, but stopped.

He had to stay. He had orders to until sunrise. Though no one would know if he left.

You can’t, he thought.

However bored this stake-out was making him, his morals wouldn’t let him leave. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened. And with his luck it would.

He dropped the keys back into his shirt pocket.

His center console buzzed. His phone had vibrated. Gwyn had matched with him.

Emerson wondered if he should send her a message, or wait. His usual style was to wait. He had been using Tinder for a month and while he had sent the occasional message, the conversation had never gone anywhere. People didn’t know how to talk anymore.

Through the conversations that had gone on for more than three days, came dinner dates. Three women so far, all had led to nothing except him buying their meal.

Not that he was looking for casual sex. He wasn’t, he just wanted to find someone he wanted to date. And more importantly, that wanted to date him.

He’d found that a lot of women didn't fancy the idea of dating a police detective.

He didn’t know if he should find that concerning or not.

He swiped over to his own profile.

Emerson, 45, occupation: police detective, likes reading, people who know how to use their indoor voice, and the handful of people who take this app seriously. My niece says my style is professor-chique with a hint of cowboy.

The pictures he had of himself on there consisted of two selfies. One with glasses, one without. One clean shaven, one with scruff. Different light-colored button-up shirts. He figured he’d keep it simple.

He went to his phone’s weather app. It was currently 48 degrees. He could feel the cold settling into his car. The sweater and blazer he thought would be enough, apparently wasn’t.

His boots were doing nothing for warmth either but he had refused to go around wearing those clunky winter boots people on the East Coast seemed to love. He’d stick with his square-toed Ariats.

Probably should have went with hot coffee instead of iced, he thought.

To take his mind off the cold, he began running it over the case. The only thing that connected the eight women who had disappeared was that they were all female. The pattern in which the killer chose, was hardly even a pattern. One a week, age of the victim varied. Sometimes it was back to back adult women, sometimes a woman then a young girl. All from different areas, all different races. Frustrating.

He worried about his niece. If it were up to him, he would be sitting outside of her house. Headstrong, fearless, sixteen, no regard for her curfew. His sister had her hands full with Abigail. Detective Burnham, his best friend, was stationed around his sister’s neighborhood.

They will be fine, he thought.

Still, it didn’t stop his brain from depicting scenarios. He had experienced tragedy once, there was no rule that said it couldn’t happen to him again.

After Lyla died he had moved from San Antonio to Creekmore to be closer to his sister and Abigail. They were the only family he had.

He pulled up Abigail’s contact and typed a text message.

I’m assuming that since you are in high school, you are still awake at this hour?

The bubbles that meant she was typing popped up.

I’m safe in my bed, not abducted Uncle Emerson.

He smiled, she was intuitive. And for once not out partying. The stories his sister Eve had told him, it almost made him glad he didn’t have children. But not quite.

Abigail was typing again.

So…any new matches?!

Since she had persuaded him to download Tinder, she had amusingly become interested in his personal life.

He remembered her saying something along the lines of,

“Stop being a stereotypical lonely detective and get yourself a love interest!”

Emerson responded.

One. Go to sleep. School tomorrow.

He could picture her rolling her eyes as she read it.

His phone vibrated. Gwyn had sent him a message,

G: Hi Emerson.

That was it?

Though something about the simplicity of the message intrigued him. No one had said a simple “Hi,” to him on here, they usually began with,

“What’s up.”

Or,

“What are you doing?”

Somehow this felt more personal. More genuine.

E: Hi Gwyn.

He had faith that sending an equally simple response wouldn’t stop her from sending him another message.

As another one from her popped up, his phone rang. It was his precinct chief.

“Woods, get to Wilshire as soon as you can. We have bodies.”

He clenched his teeth. He had a bad feeling.

Even when called to a homicide the chief always had some sly remark or joke about Emerson’s whereabouts and why he wasn’t already at the scene.

This time there had been nothing. Only a quick order.

He put his keys in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

As Emerson drove down the barren streets his stomach started to churn. He felt sick almost, like the sort of feeling you get when you’ve eaten something that’s been sitting out for a while.

That happened to him sometimes. Though only when something really bad was about to happen. It was like his own version of seeing the future.

It had happened the day his wife had told him about her breast cancer, the day his parents had been in an accident, but never before seeing a body.

He was good with crime scenes, even the really gristly ones.

So why did he have this feeling?

He pulled up to the yellow caution tape and walked out to where he saw the chief and Detective Rawley standing. Wilshire was on the outskirts of town, the street was in between two fields that went on for a couple of miles.

This is weird, he thought.

All of the other bodies that had been found had been in the city.

Just as Emerson was thinking they might not be victims of the town serial killer, the chief caught his eye.

No, it’s him.

“Woods,” the chief nodded in greeting.

Rawley looked up at Emerson in uninterested acknowledgment.

“Chief…..Rawley,” Emerson nodded to each of them.

He hadn’t even seen the bodies yet and Emerson was already in a bad mood. He couldn’t stand Rawley. Arrogant, rude, loud. All qualities he despised.

He stepped over the marshy parts of the field to get to where the tarps were covering the victims.

“What do we know?” Emerson asked, as he lifted up one of the tarps.

It was a female, white, blonde, age anywhere between 13-17 he would guess.

“First one is Halley Reece, age 15. Judging from the backpack it looks like she has been missing since school got out this afternoon,” said Chief.

Emerson lifted the tarp on the other. Female, white, brunette, same age range.

Chief sighed, “Her friend is Melanie Myers. Fifteen, also looks like she had been missing only since this afternoon. Both of their ID cards say they went to Creekmore High.”

Emerson’s eyes wound over their bodies, studying where the blood had pooled.

“Stab wounds cause of death?” he asked.

“Yes, different from last week,” Chief answered.

That was another erratic thing about the killer, his methods were all over the place.

One week it was stabbings, the next it was gunshots or strangelings. But always female. That was the only constant.

“Dude must have a bad ex-wife for him to hate women this much,” Rawley joked.

Emerson rolled his eyes.

“Do we have someone talking to their families?” he asked.

Chief nodded, “I have the patrol cops who found them handling it.”

That was the one thing Emerson did not miss whatsoever about being a beat cop, being the first to inform next of kin.

He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose,

“Have forensics been here yet?”

Chief let out a curt laugh, “Are you kidding? You know how long those guys take. I swear they intentionally wait 20 minutes before getting their asses out here.”

Emerson glanced at his watch, it was almost 1 am. He was tired and wanted to go home. If forensics hadn’t even been here yet and patrol were taking to the families, there was really nothing he could do right now.

And my stomach hurts

He couldn’t shake the doom feeling. He needed to sleep it off.

“Anything else Chief? I should get home and start looking over the case files, see if anything matches up.”

Lies

Chief said he could leave and he would see him tomorrow. Emerson quickly evaded the muddy puddles and headed back to his car before Rawley could say some gaudy remark about going home and fucking one of his many one night stands.

How the chief put up with him he would never know.

Emerson pulled into his driveway and just sat in the car for a moment. Thinking.

He still had that feeling in his stomach and he knew it was because of the killings.

They were speeding up. It had started as one every couple months, then went to one every couple weeks, and now it seemed like it was one or two every week.

With no leads.

The killer left absolutely nothing behind. No prints, no hair, no signatures.

Nothing.

At this rate, the whole city would be dead in a couple years if they didn’t catch him. The town was in a cloud of panic.

It was mind boggling. Stomach churning.

He grabbed his phone from the center console and went inside. By the time he showered and got into bed it was nearing 2 am. His stomach hadn’t stopped hurting yet either.

As he leaned over to set his phone on the nightstand, he remembered he had gotten a message from Gwyn right before Chief had called him.

He opened up Tinder.

G: Inside voices huh? What about when in bed?

He smirked.

E: If the bed is inside the rule still applies.

He saw message bubbles pop up.

G: Hmmm so you’re a whisper in the ear kind of guy? I like that. Takes the pressure off having to fake it, or having to scream, “YES ALL POWERFUL WIZARD WIELD THAT STAFF!”

Emerson raised his eyebrows.

E: Have you actually said that before?

While he waited for her reply he checked the local news. The story hadn’t broken yet.

G: Never let a friend drag you to a World of Warcraft singles mixer. Also, never sleep with someone from said mixer.

He scratched his nose, he wasn’t that great at banter but Gwyn’s easy going humor made it a little less challenging for him.

E: Are you not someone from said mixer?

This was certainly the most interesting conversation to come from Tinder.

G: No, I was dragged there, against my free will. Come to think of it, you should probably arrest the woman who dragged me there.

Emerson chuckled.

E: I would say I need a warrant but I think this is grounds for an exception to the law.

G: Thank you.

E: You’re welcome.

He could barely keep his eyes open at this point, and decided that discussing arrest tactics with Gwyn would have to wait till tomorrow.

His stomach felt better though

#claes bang #is this a fanfic idk #it gets better i promise #wait till he meets gwyn #im dying at them

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