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Description
Sugar High

      Thursdays. I hate Thursdays. Most people could give a shit about Thursdays. It's not hump day, it's not another crappy Monday, and it certainly ain't Friday. Thursdays are just fuckin annoying. It's the teaser day of the week, the day that that reminds you it isn't quite Friday, no, we could let Friday come sooner but HEY nope, you need to suffer through Thursday first. Suffer through another 8 hours of spit in the face and perps pissing their jeans on the holding bench up front. 8 hours of screaming phones calls echoing through the migraine that doesn't seem to quit, despite the morning nightcap of tequila and lavassa coffee shots that got you out of bed in the first place. Jesus. There just isn't enough liquor to keep me doing this job.

      Yup, Thursday was one more on top of a mile high pancake shit-stack of Thursdays. After 20 minutes of screaming by Chief Stratland about proper police procedure and not "roughing up the witness" to my partner, Craig, I am asked to sit down and pick up another 6 cases to work in addition to the six dozen or so I'm draggin my feet on for the past 2 weeks. Chief knows I am a damn good cop, seems to tell me it whenever he sees me, but shit if I know why. Last I checked I haven't brought in anyone for a few weeks. Maybe he's sweet on me. Maybe he cuts me slack because my brother was such a powerful cop in our district 10 years ago before he got half his gut blown out by a gangbanger on 6th ave. I don't really care, as long as I keep my pension and my job and my internal organs in tact.

      He slaps the folders down for the new cases, knocking my ashtray clattering onto the black tile floor and dusting every piece of paperwork stacked by my desk with nicotine soot. He looks as the cloud of grey settles on my already faded wingtips, sniffs at me and says,

      " Happy Fuckin Thurday, Pete. "

      I flash him a sarcastic smile, blow a smoke ring at his face and smirk as he coughs it off and plans a meaty finger into the papers.

      "Call Detective Tony Coleto in precinct 15 downtown. He is also working this case with a different batch of bodies. I am sure you two will get along REAL famously an' shit. "

      I blot out my smoke and lean forward to look at the file. The top creased folder reads "Rogers, Vanessa" and looks to be half an inch thick with crime scene photo's. The corner of one pokes out revealing her hand stripped bare to her knuckle bones.

      "Let me guess, he's one of those fruit loops. "

      "Psychics you dickhead. Don't embarrass me. "

      "Ok Sarge, I'll wear my good sneakers." He looks at the half rusted metal baby booties I have sitting on an old plastic and metal pedestal on my wallshelves and shakes his head. A few heavy footsteps later he is slamming my office door and pointing a finger at my partner, who respectfully waited outside while Sarge and I had our heart to heart. At this point the Sarge's brow is so furrowed that the twitchy vein on his left temple looks ready to split and spray red hot death all over Craig and his still steaming black mug of java.

      I open the first file. Vanessa Rogers, 26, single, student, no known criminal affiliations. Wow, probably the last of her kind. The top photo, taped onto the crime scene write up, is a college photo, taken three years ago, showing her smiling with short black straight hair, piercing gray eyes, whiter then white teeth and pretty pink gemstone earrings. She is a natural beauty, without makeup or fussing with her hair, most likely daddy's little girl just graduating Magne Cum Laude. It's the kind of photo that was probably on her parent's mantle. Warm. Happy. Shining.

      Which makes the punching description of her death clipped neatly tot eh back of the graduation picture seem all the more out of place. Glancing through the coroner's report and eyeing the scene photo's, along with several detailed shots from her autopsy, she went from typical NY looker to something more befitting of a stew pot. Then, quietly, Craig walks in.

      "What we lookin at, chief?" He calls me chief. I hate being called chief. After three years with this putz and 500 times of telling him, he still calls me chief.. Fuckin Irish.

      "Another random killing. Girl, Caucasian, 26, no known criminal associations. Are you drinking tea?" Craig sips his mug and looks at me complacently as tea drips down from his thick red mustache.

      "Yes, it is herbal tea. Helps balance my chi. "

      Up to about a year ago Craig had this habit of exploding. It doesn't seem to happen when he gets laid, but every time him and his weird girl are in the outs, within a few days he is beating some pickpocket to loose teeth. After mandatory counciling, the old limey is now all new age and finding his inner zen.

      "Godamn fighting irish drinkin' tea… William Wallace be damned."

      "He was Scottish, fok-head. So have you called the guy downtown yet? Check on these cases and cross reference them with his?"  Of course he'll try to change the subject. He calls me chief, I give him shit for drinking goddamn tea. I would let it go if he threw down a few brews at night or hit a titty club with me after hours, but the man is whipped, like a fricking Daglionie's Extra thick Caramel Swirl Latte.

      "You saw sarge drop them on my desk 2 minutes ago, Tea boy. Of course not," I take a bitter swig of my coffee now standing cold on a coaster of a chesty redhead leaning over and smiling about something-or-other, and mull it around between my teeth like mouthwash, then swallow hard, "Take a look at the other 5 for me and commit them to memory. I'ma call his royal psychicness right now."

      Craig begins pulling each file off the stack, stone faced as he eyes the gruesome lot of murders, decapitations, homicide and torture victims. If this lot is anything like the pile I am currently working, it's not pretty, and becoming the chain link fence that'll pen up half of the city if we can't get out hands around it.

      "Hello, you've reached the emergency hot line for Tony Coleto. How are you detective Peter Snowbear?" The voice is light, calm, flat and somehow relaxing. Behind it is the usual rattle and hum of a busy precinct, screaming, shouting, and chaotic slamming noises.

      "Heya Tony, how's the oral?"

      "My AURA is fine, Detective. I can't say as much for you. Hasn't your partner rubbed off on you at all? Coaxed you into incense or aromatherapy in that Office of yours?"

      I grunt at him a bit and look around at the paperwork strewn room, at the pictures and diagrams tacked to every inch of the walls and the stack of half dried pizza boxes decaying around the garbage basket. "Yeah, actually, my office now has a warm earthy smell. "

      "I shudder to think why. Alright Peter, lets get down to business. How many victims?"

      "Six new cases, 7 old ones."

      Silent surprise is the only way I can describe his reaction. Then a belabored, "What have you found to be the common link between your victims? Anything?"

      "You mean you don't already know what I am thinking? " He begins to scoff into an annoyed sigh when I cut him off, "Just jerking yer silver cord, Tony. Hang on a sec we'll throw you on speakerphone so me and Craig can both talk. "

      Craig is pouring over the last folder quickly as I click the phone over and smiles wide. I am sure he has wood, as memorizing this crap always seems to get him going, and in that slightly creepy stay-where-I-can-see-you kind of way. I look at him, smirk, and nod. He begins.

      "Victims are various races and faiths, so it's completely random in that right. All U.S. citizens, some working, others unemployed. None of the victims have solid criminal ties. One of them, Martha Warren, had a relative that knew a guy that knew a guy in the mafia, but it's flimsy at best. Currently the most common threads are A: they all live somewhere in New York City, B: they are all women, and C: they're all needle users. According to pharmacy records pulled by the coroner, two use Lantus, another Humulin, the rest Novalog. Maybe druggies on the side?"

      The phone crackles and explodes with energetic nervous laughter. Tony is suddenly amused to all get-out, and we look at one another perplexed.

      "You want to tell me what the hell is so funny, Tony?" I can tell by voice along Craig is losing patience quickly. He's staring out the cruddy window at the spotty rain shower dripping gray on my office. He points at it with a "What is this shit?" expression. I shrug.

      Tony's voice sputters and tries to collect itself and  breath, then apologizes sincerely and sniffs away the giggles.

      "You have a speakerphone? Oh how retro! Ok, Ok, Ok, Your victims,  they are all diabetics. Those different drugs you listed, those are various types of insulin used to treat old school diabetes. "

      "Well shit… I am no pharmacist. But wait, they supposedly changed that kind of treatment years ago with gene therapy and synthetia organs. Why would anyone-" Tony liberally coughs to cut me off and begins smartly talking in his professor big shit voice.

      "Not everyone can afford those, my good man. See, there I still a hefty waiting list for that surgery, so newly diagnosed people have to go through manual treatment, and because the cheapest generic insulin they're using is simulated from pigs and cattle, it's not as effective nowadays due to genetic cloning on livestock. One of the unnatural side effects, I guess. So anyone waiting for the curative surgery, well, sadly has to endure injections for several weeks. During that time, many skip doses, or ignore it altogether. (sounds of pages flipping back and forth) Did the lab-work on those victims show a particularly high Hemoglobin a1c? "

      I grab Vanessa and scan the charts.

      "Shit she had only trace amounts of blood in her. They didn't think to run whatever test that is. I can request it but it's going to take a few days."

      "Normal is 7 or less. My great aunt is diabetic, going through the motions of getting onto the surgery list last few months." Tony seems to sound wryly unamused by the bad news.

      We look at each other, me and Craig, and sip our mugs. The speakerphone is silent save mild background noise. Tony perks up.

      "So all of the bodies are… Dry? Not like, alcohol free, I mean, almost mummified?"

      "All the coroners reports show at least 2/3's of their blood missing for their body mass/weight." Craig raises an eyebrow a bit in surprise, "You think we got a cult, or serial killer here?!"

      I motion with my hand for him to lower his voice.

      "Ok, easy now Craig, lets keep this out of the tabloids. Before we jump off a conclusion, I need to hit the pavement and check with my contacts. I am starting to think this is a bigger mess then even Sarge suspects. Tony, can you email me the case files you have? I'll have Loretta send you scans of all our files this afternoon. Have your precinct database services run a check on missing persons that are diabetic in the last 6 months. Craig I need you to scan the town records for any large real estate deals that were done in the past 5 years that look like potential city, county, state or federal acquisitions."

      "Not a problem, Peter. Good to see you have a hunch. Would you care to explain anything?" Tony's sincerity is only out-masked by an unwavering lack faith in me. I am sure he's really burning on the fact I may be onto something and he's out of ideas. Good.

      "Not yet, Sweetie, but if you bake me a pie I might tell you more when I am over to your house for dinner. Don't forget the good crystal. Say 8 o clock?," He begins huffing angrily and muttering under his breath, " …. Look, it's a long shot and if I am right, it's too risky to talk about over the airwaves or even the winternet. I'll be by tonight with Craig for dinner, tell your boyfriend we like RED wine and imported beer."

        I hang up on Tony and pull my leather jacket off the back of my chair and shoulder it, "Throw the files at Loretta to sent to Tony. We need to roll."

      "Are you going to tell at least ME what's going on?" Craig sounds confused, but remains stone faced, "Or do I need to start knocking your teeth out?"

      "Drink your tea. I'll explain in the car."

Description
Sugar High

      Thursdays. I hate Thursdays. Most people could give a shit about Thursdays. It's not hump day, it's not another crappy Monday, and it certainly ain't Friday. Thursdays are just fuckin annoying. It's the teaser day of the week, the day that that reminds you it isn't quite Friday, no, we could let Friday come sooner but HEY nope, you need to suffer through Thursday first. Suffer through another 8 hours of spit in the face and perps pissing their jeans on the holding bench up front. 8 hours of screaming phones calls echoing through the migraine that doesn't seem to quit, despite the morning nightcap of tequila and lavassa coffee shots that got you out of bed in the first place. Jesus. There just isn't enough liquor to keep me doing this job.

      Yup, Thursday was one more on top of a mile high pancake shit-stack of Thursdays. After 20 minutes of screaming by Chief Stratland about proper police procedure and not "roughing up the witness" to my partner, Craig, I am asked to sit down and pick up another 6 cases to work in addition to the six dozen or so I'm draggin my feet on for the past 2 weeks. Chief knows I am a damn good cop, seems to tell me it whenever he sees me, but shit if I know why. Last I checked I haven't brought in anyone for a few weeks. Maybe he's sweet on me. Maybe he cuts me slack because my brother was such a powerful cop in our district 10 years ago before he got half his gut blown out by a gangbanger on 6th ave. I don't really care, as long as I keep my pension and my job and my internal organs in tact.

      He slaps the folders down for the new cases, knocking my ashtray clattering onto the black tile floor and dusting every piece of paperwork stacked by my desk with nicotine soot. He looks as the cloud of grey settles on my already faded wingtips, sniffs at me and says,

      " Happy Fuckin Thurday, Pete. "

      I flash him a sarcastic smile, blow a smoke ring at his face and smirk as he coughs it off and plans a meaty finger into the papers.

      "Call Detective Tony Coleto in precinct 15 downtown. He is also working this case with a different batch of bodies. I am sure you two will get along REAL famously an' shit. "

      I blot out my smoke and lean forward to look at the file. The top creased folder reads "Rogers, Vanessa" and looks to be half an inch thick with crime scene photo's. The corner of one pokes out revealing her hand stripped bare to her knuckle bones.

      "Let me guess, he's one of those fruit loops. "

      "Psychics you dickhead. Don't embarrass me. "

      "Ok Sarge, I'll wear my good sneakers." He looks at the half rusted metal baby booties I have sitting on an old plastic and metal pedestal on my wallshelves and shakes his head. A few heavy footsteps later he is slamming my office door and pointing a finger at my partner, who respectfully waited outside while Sarge and I had our heart to heart. At this point the Sarge's brow is so furrowed that the twitchy vein on his left temple looks ready to split and spray red hot death all over Craig and his still steaming black mug of java.

      I open the first file. Vanessa Rogers, 26, single, student, no known criminal affiliations. Wow, probably the last of her kind. The top photo, taped onto the crime scene write up, is a college photo, taken three years ago, showing her smiling with short black straight hair, piercing gray eyes, whiter then white teeth and pretty pink gemstone earrings. She is a natural beauty, without makeup or fussing with her hair, most likely daddy's little girl just graduating Magne Cum Laude. It's the kind of photo that was probably on her parent's mantle. Warm. Happy. Shining.

      Which makes the punching description of her death clipped neatly tot eh back of the graduation picture seem all the more out of place. Glancing through the coroner's report and eyeing the scene photo's, along with several detailed shots from her autopsy, she went from typical NY looker to something more befitting of a stew pot. Then, quietly, Craig walks in.

      "What we lookin at, chief?" He calls me chief. I hate being called chief. After three years with this putz and 500 times of telling him, he still calls me chief.. Fuckin Irish.

      "Another random killing. Girl, Caucasian, 26, no known criminal associations. Are you drinking tea?" Craig sips his mug and looks at me complacently as tea drips down from his thick red mustache.

      "Yes, it is herbal tea. Helps balance my chi. "

      Up to about a year ago Craig had this habit of exploding. It doesn't seem to happen when he gets laid, but every time him and his weird girl are in the outs, within a few days he is beating some pickpocket to loose teeth. After mandatory counciling, the old limey is now all new age and finding his inner zen.

      "Godamn fighting irish drinkin' tea… William Wallace be damned."

      "He was Scottish, fok-head. So have you called the guy downtown yet? Check on these cases and cross reference them with his?"  Of course he'll try to change the subject. He calls me chief, I give him shit for drinking goddamn tea. I would let it go if he threw down a few brews at night or hit a titty club with me after hours, but the man is whipped, like a fricking Daglionie's Extra thick Caramel Swirl Latte.

      "You saw sarge drop them on my desk 2 minutes ago, Tea boy. Of course not," I take a bitter swig of my coffee now standing cold on a coaster of a chesty redhead leaning over and smiling about something-or-other, and mull it around between my teeth like mouthwash, then swallow hard, "Take a look at the other 5 for me and commit them to memory. I'ma call his royal psychicness right now."

      Craig begins pulling each file off the stack, stone faced as he eyes the gruesome lot of murders, decapitations, homicide and torture victims. If this lot is anything like the pile I am currently working, it's not pretty, and becoming the chain link fence that'll pen up half of the city if we can't get out hands around it.

      "Hello, you've reached the emergency hot line for Tony Coleto. How are you detective Peter Snowbear?" The voice is light, calm, flat and somehow relaxing. Behind it is the usual rattle and hum of a busy precinct, screaming, shouting, and chaotic slamming noises.

      "Heya Tony, how's the oral?"

      "My AURA is fine, Detective. I can't say as much for you. Hasn't your partner rubbed off on you at all? Coaxed you into incense or aromatherapy in that Office of yours?"

      I grunt at him a bit and look around at the paperwork strewn room, at the pictures and diagrams tacked to every inch of the walls and the stack of half dried pizza boxes decaying around the garbage basket. "Yeah, actually, my office now has a warm earthy smell. "

      "I shudder to think why. Alright Peter, lets get down to business. How many victims?"

      "Six new cases, 7 old ones."

      Silent surprise is the only way I can describe his reaction. Then a belabored, "What have you found to be the common link between your victims? Anything?"

      "You mean you don't already know what I am thinking? " He begins to scoff into an annoyed sigh when I cut him off, "Just jerking yer silver cord, Tony. Hang on a sec we'll throw you on speakerphone so me and Craig can both talk. "

      Craig is pouring over the last folder quickly as I click the phone over and smiles wide. I am sure he has wood, as memorizing this crap always seems to get him going, and in that slightly creepy stay-where-I-can-see-you kind of way. I look at him, smirk, and nod. He begins.

      "Victims are various races and faiths, so it's completely random in that right. All U.S. citizens, some working, others unemployed. None of the victims have solid criminal ties. One of them, Martha Warren, had a relative that knew a guy that knew a guy in the mafia, but it's flimsy at best. Currently the most common threads are A: they all live somewhere in New York City, B: they are all women, and C: they're all needle users. According to pharmacy records pulled by the coroner, two use Lantus, another Humulin, the rest Novalog. Maybe druggies on the side?"

      The phone crackles and explodes with energetic nervous laughter. Tony is suddenly amused to all get-out, and we look at one another perplexed.

      "You want to tell me what the hell is so funny, Tony?" I can tell by voice along Craig is losing patience quickly. He's staring out the cruddy window at the spotty rain shower dripping gray on my office. He points at it with a "What is this shit?" expression. I shrug.

      Tony's voice sputters and tries to collect itself and  breath, then apologizes sincerely and sniffs away the giggles.

      "You have a speakerphone? Oh how retro! Ok, Ok, Ok, Your victims,  they are all diabetics. Those different drugs you listed, those are various types of insulin used to treat old school diabetes. "

      "Well shit… I am no pharmacist. But wait, they supposedly changed that kind of treatment years ago with gene therapy and synthetia organs. Why would anyone-" Tony liberally coughs to cut me off and begins smartly talking in his professor big shit voice.

      "Not everyone can afford those, my good man. See, there I still a hefty waiting list for that surgery, so newly diagnosed people have to go through manual treatment, and because the cheapest generic insulin they're using is simulated from pigs and cattle, it's not as effective nowadays due to genetic cloning on livestock. One of the unnatural side effects, I guess. So anyone waiting for the curative surgery, well, sadly has to endure injections for several weeks. During that time, many skip doses, or ignore it altogether. (sounds of pages flipping back and forth) Did the lab-work on those victims show a particularly high Hemoglobin a1c? "

      I grab Vanessa and scan the charts.

      "Shit she had only trace amounts of blood in her. They didn't think to run whatever test that is. I can request it but it's going to take a few days."

      "Normal is 7 or less. My great aunt is diabetic, going through the motions of getting onto the surgery list last few months." Tony seems to sound wryly unamused by the bad news.

      We look at each other, me and Craig, and sip our mugs. The speakerphone is silent save mild background noise. Tony perks up.

      "So all of the bodies are… Dry? Not like, alcohol free, I mean, almost mummified?"

      "All the coroners reports show at least 2/3's of their blood missing for their body mass/weight." Craig raises an eyebrow a bit in surprise, "You think we got a cult, or serial killer here?!"

      I motion with my hand for him to lower his voice.

      "Ok, easy now Craig, lets keep this out of the tabloids. Before we jump off a conclusion, I need to hit the pavement and check with my contacts. I am starting to think this is a bigger mess then even Sarge suspects. Tony, can you email me the case files you have? I'll have Loretta send you scans of all our files this afternoon. Have your precinct database services run a check on missing persons that are diabetic in the last 6 months. Craig I need you to scan the town records for any large real estate deals that were done in the past 5 years that look like potential city, county, state or federal acquisitions."

      "Not a problem, Peter. Good to see you have a hunch. Would you care to explain anything?" Tony's sincerity is only out-masked by an unwavering lack faith in me. I am sure he's really burning on the fact I may be onto something and he's out of ideas. Good.

      "Not yet, Sweetie, but if you bake me a pie I might tell you more when I am over to your house for dinner. Don't forget the good crystal. Say 8 o clock?," He begins huffing angrily and muttering under his breath, " …. Look, it's a long shot and if I am right, it's too risky to talk about over the airwaves or even the winternet. I'll be by tonight with Craig for dinner, tell your boyfriend we like RED wine and imported beer."

        I hang up on Tony and pull my leather jacket off the back of my chair and shoulder it, "Throw the files at Loretta to sent to Tony. We need to roll."

      "Are you going to tell at least ME what's going on?" Craig sounds confused, but remains stone faced, "Or do I need to start knocking your teeth out?"

      "Drink your tea. I'll explain in the car."