Chapter 2
621words
Neighbors huddled in small clusters, still in pajamas, pointing and whispering with faces etched in fear and morbid curiosity.
Ethan flashed his badge, ducked under the tape, and a young uniformed officer immediately approached.
"Detective Carter, I'm Officer Wilson."
"What've we got?" Ethan asked, snapping on blue latex gloves.
"Victim's Sarah Jenkins, thirty-five, elementary school teacher. Found her unconscious in the living room with blunt force trauma to the head. Paramedics rushed her to Kings County; it's touch and go." Wilson reported crisply. "Looks like a home invasion, but…"
"But what?"
"The door lock." Wilson gestured toward the half-open apartment door. "No forced entry. The marks are clean—picked open by a pro."
Ethan's eyebrows arched slightly.
Professional lock picking—not the MO of your average junkie or street thug.
He approached the door, crouched down, and examined the lock cylinder with his penlight. Sure enough, the keyhole's edge revealed several nearly invisible scratches—the work of someone with skill, leaving minimal damage.
He rose and stepped into the apartment.
The faint metallic scent of blood mingled with floral perfume hit his nostrils.
The once-cozy living room lay in chaos—sofa cushions overturned, drawers yanked open, contents strewn across the floor.
A shattered family photo frame lay on the coffee table, glass shards everywhere. The woman's happy smile in the photo now seemed painfully out of place.
On the floor, a still-wet pool of blood formed a grisly centerpiece.
Beside it lay a table lamp, its brass base smeared with blood and a few strands of hair—the likely weapon.
But Ethan needed more.
His gaze swept the room like a predator, missing nothing.
He examined the entryway, spotting traces of soil on the carpet that didn't match the apartment's wear patterns.
Clearly, there had been a brief but violent struggle.
Sarah had fought back.
His gaze finally caught something near the windowsill. In the shadow cast by the heavy curtain, a tiny metal object reflected his flashlight beam.
Ethan approached cautiously and knelt down.
It was a lapel pin. The craftsmanship was exquisite—a scale pattern engraved on silver, with two interlocking letters "L" and "H" beneath. Not just decoration; this was a symbol of identity.
He carefully lifted the pin with tweezers and sealed it in an evidence bag. His mind raced—"L & H"… the abbreviation tugged at his memory.
Just then, Chief Marcus arrived, surveying the chaos with a grim expression.
"Ethan, what've you got?"
Ethan rose and handed over the evidence bag. "Professional lock picking, signs of struggle. Wallet and jewelry box emptied—looks like robbery. But I found this."
Marcus examined the pin under the light, his brow deepening into furrows. "L & H… Levin & Hopkins Law Firm. Top-shelf Manhattan outfit—clients are either loaded or powerful. What's their connection to a Brooklyn schoolteacher?"
The same question burned in Ethan's mind.
A pin from an elite law firm at the scene of a Brooklyn break-in wasn't coincidence. This case just got a lot more complicated.
"This isn't your garden-variety B&E," Marcus said gravely. "Question the victim the moment she's stable. I'll flag this pin as priority—have tech trace its origin and ownership. As of now, this is a major case, and it's all yours."
"Copy that," Ethan nodded firmly.
His eyes swept the violated space once more as he clenched his fist. That small pin lingered in his mind—a key about to unlock a door to something darker.
He turned toward the window, staring into the endless night beyond.
Rain continued to fall, washing away the city's sins and scars. In the pulsing red and blue lights, Ethan's eyes hardened with resolve.
