𝓅𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝓇;
//
It was a particular homicide that led to the terse steps clipping along Detroit’s wet concrete paths. Connor was headed into a seedy corner of the city, to a dismal flat-block. Hank had left a smattering of open files on the coffee table of their shared home. With the Lieutenant’s head thrown back on the sofa, a soft snoring slipping from his grizzled maw, Connor had taken it upon himself to investigate the scattered papers.
A murder. Quiet, unexplainable and without any obvious suspects - the perfect case for Connor to assess.
With the address of a nearby apartment block scrawled across Hank’s notes, Connor had made the brisk decision to visit — there was a chance, in the dead of night, that the conscientious Android might gather unique intel on the area’s less savoury regulars.
It took Connor twenty-seven minutes to walk to the allocated area. A muddy, grey high-rise loomed tall into the drizzly night, and with a quick scan across the darkened windows, the dark-haired android ascertained that only 1% of the building’s residents were awake. Perfect, he thought, to scout the area uninterrupted.
Ducking out of the rain, Connor pressed a smooth palm against the cracked glass doors of the building. The inside of the stairwell smelt like urine and cigarettes, and a flickering fluorescent light overhead ignited the slick backs of scurrying rats. Deep brown eyes performed a scan of the immediate area — bodily fluids, spilled alcohol, cigarette butts; the ground was littered with a lifetime of decay. The perfect playground for a forensic reconstruction.
Taking a few steps inside, allowing the cracked door to swing closed behind him, Connor focused his optic sensors on his storied surroundings.
Twelve cigarette butts, most older than six weeks.
Dusty prints from a pair of boots, mens size ten, recent.
A smattering of white powder, substance unidentified.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2021: https://tinyurl.com/yh83ems5
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