D.r.t.

For those who don't know what the letters "D.R.T." mean, I'll explain at the end. For those who do, you should instantly suspect that this story is dark. My apologies to anyone who thinks this one may be a bit too dark, though. The idea for the story, when combined with the MC, forced it to go dark. I think most folks will understand why.

The story is set in Chicago; while politics is in the background, it's not important to the story, though a mention later of specific names, incidents, and people as a background is all true. Otherwise, the story is fictional, and should not be meant to disparage the Chicago Police Department specifically; the story was set there prior to me realizing how many issues the CPD actually has had in the last fifty years, or the true, from research, specific cases mentioned passingly.

Oh, and an apology to folks; I've mostly been writing 750 word stories lately because of how little time I have to write; I can sometimes crank those out in an hour or two, and refine them in little more. However, this story was SUPPOSED to be written in one week in October, 2021, polished in November, and up by the holiday season of 2021. A life threatening cancer diagnosis (since beaten, in December 2022) has meant that it's been VERY slow writing it; there are entire months where nothing got written. Hopefully, you'll find the wait (and time spent reading it) worthwhile.

And a special Thank You to my Beta Readers, and a shout out to Black Randi for providing me an edited version after Beta Reading. You caught quite a few errors, and I agreed with most of your changes. Never the less, like all authors, I made a few minor changes afterwards, which undoubtedly caused more errors to crop up. Those are mine.

Oh, last thing.... there were originally three choices for the Epilog; every single Beta Reader agreed on the first choice as the best; it's the only one given in the story. A special shout out to Brian who told me unequivocally he would never read one of my stories again if I went with Option 3, which ended up being universally reviled in the spirit of the story. You win.

D.R.T.

I finally got to the bedroom belonging to my wife and I, and that's where I found them. His bloated pale ass was sticking up on the bed, between my nude wife's outstretched legs, a rude and grotesque mockery of our wedding vows. I could see the horror in my wife's listless eyes, as they stared, seemingly at me, while I carefully walked in, holding my cell phone as a camera to capture what I found.

As I moved gently, I tried to avoid the obvious stains on the carpet, reaching over gently to take the wallet from the pair of slacks on the floor. Opening it, I could see that his driver's license identified him as Charles Thornton.

The eerie look on my wife's face as I moved into the room remained fixed, the once crimson drops still speckling her forehead, as she continued to stare lifelessly at the doorway. Neither had moved since I entered.

Bree was dead, of course, as was her once paramour.

I had known that fact the moment I opened the door to the house, wondering why I had not been able to get hold of Bree for the last two days while on my trip to the Forensics conference to Atlanta. The car out in the driveway had given me pause as I pulled up in my car from the airport, just before 4 PM, but little more. Not, that is, until I opened the door to the house and smelt the sickly, nauseating stench of death, a scent I recognized immediately. I had called 911, of course, identified myself, and asked for the nearest patrol car and my team to come to the scene of an apparent suspicious death. They would arrive shortly, but I would discover where and what had happened first.

Looking at the late Charles Thornton, I observed that he had probably been shot first by whatever perpetrator had come upon the scene. A bullet had shattered his skull, spraying blood and brain matter over my wife and the bed, mostly on the side I had always slept on. I couldn't see immediately where the bullet had impacted, but it appeared a second (or perhaps the first) had impacted his shoulder. Without moving the bodies, I guessed that would have been a through-and-through, and potentially the fatal shot for Bree. The light flecking of blood from her mouth indicated that her heart hadn't beaten much after her fatal shot, while the significant damage to the torso, but little blood, meant that either the head shot had been instantly fatal, or at worst it was the second shot, before the unknown subject had, apparently, emptied the firearm into the dead bodies.

I dropped the wallet into the evidence bag I had retrieved from the trunk of my car before I had donned the nitrile gloves and booties and entered my erstwhile home. At that point, I heard a voice call out, bringing me back from the clinical examination of the scene. "Captain Elliot? Captain?" I head called out, while also hearing the retching from the stench wafting from the open front door.

I calmly walked back down the stairs, to greet Officer Joseph Lewis. "Hi Joe. I came home and... well, I opened the front door, realized what I was smelling, and backed out. Started filming as soon as I finished the 911 call, and grabbed my gear. Two decedents, shot, upstairs, Master Bedroom. One of them... one of them is Bree. I've tentatively identified the other, based on an ID in a wallet on the scene, as one 'Charles Thornton'. I've got my team coming, but this is as far as I can investigate myself, since Bree is one of the deceased. Judging by the scent and decomposition, they've been dead at least 24 and as much 72 hours. Judging by my inability to get hold of her for the last couple days, I'd lean to the higher figure."

I took out another evidence bag. Talking as calmly and clinically as I could, I told Joe "I've recorded a preliminary of the scene, untouched, on my phone. I'm going to hand it to you, along with the decedent's wallet, here, as evidence. As soon as you accept them, I'll retrieve my service revolver and relinquish it, pending investigation; I want my team to accept that from me directly." With that, I stopped the recording and dropped my phone into the bag, sealed it, and handed it to Joe.

"Joe, I need a moment to get over the shock. You need to seal the house, check that car in the driveway, and then we wait." I walked over to my service car, retrieved my service pistol and holster, and then just sat on the curb.

My team pulled up about ten minutes later, a few minutes after the second squad car showed up to help Joe seal the crime scene. As they got out of the van, I could see on their face they were well aware of where the were. Hell, most of them had been here, at least once, in the last six months, and all of my team had been here in the last year, since we'd hosted this year's July 4

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BBQ. My lieutenant, Sharon Harper, walked up to me, while the other four hung back, unloading the truck.

"Captain? Rob? Is everything... is... are you okay?" she asked.

"No, I'm not, Sharon. However, I do know what I need to do. Here's my service pistol. Oh, and here are the keys to my service car. I hadn't unpacked it to take the luggage in, so my personal luggage is in the car, as well. You need to process that early, as I don't have any other clothes. There will be GSR on everything, I went to the range while I was down in Atlanta. Officer Lewis has a video I took, along with the identification of one of the decedents. I can verify that the other appears to be Brianna Elliot, my wife. The male has obvious bullet wounds, but I couldn't make out enough of Bree..." and for the first moment since I realized, my voice broke up. "I couldn't make out bullet wounds on the female due to the position of the bodies. Upstairs, master bedroom, top of the hall to the left. I looked briefly into but did not enter the kitchen, nor did I look at or enter any additional bedrooms or rooms. So you need to sweep. And Sharon... pending investigation, procedure says I'm now off duty and permanently removed from this case and any associated. You're in charge, now."

"I'm going to need your nitirile gloves and booties. And Rob... I'm sorry."

"I know, Sharon. Just find out who did this, please." And with that, I finally broke. The tears cascaded in rivulets of salty and sweet drops down my cheeks. I mourned the loss of my wife, the loss of my marriage, Bree's too soon ending, what appeared to be Bree's possible betrayal of her vows. I mourned for them, and I mourned for me, and my own loss of the foundations that kept me strong in the case of the unimaginable, the horrible, the cruel, depraved world that we live in. I mourned the loss of my last innocence.

Most of my team didn't know how to react to me, so they got to their work just silently cataloging the scene, step by step, retrieving evidence, looking, understanding. Speculation, as it must, always comes back around to the spouse. They knew that, until I was eliminated as a suspect, I was the most likely. It was in my favor that my team knew I'd been scheduled to be in Atlanta for the conference, but alibis can be a tricky thing, and if someone could pervert the evidence, I was one of the few who could do it cleanly. A tricky little face which would make me the most critical suspect to eliminate, and the hardest. So how could they approach me? With awkwardness, with reserve, with caution, for their leader and friend? I understood.

Sharon came by after a half an hour, for the first time in years addressing me outside of our work relationship, Captain to Lieutenant, or friend to friend. "Mr. Elliot, I need to perform a quick and simple test on you," she began, intoning the familiar approach that I had myself instilled in her. "We need to conduct a test called a Gun Shot Residue test. It means that I will be applying swabs to your hands, lower arms, and face. I'll also need to swab the clothes that you're wearing. I can conduct some of that in situ, here. You do not have to consent to this test at this time, but evidence of non-consent can be used against you in a court of law, and it is possible to get a court order for the test if you do not consent. Do you consent to this test?"

"Yes, I consent. I last fired any firearms yesterday evening, at Stoddard's Range and Guns in Atlanta. I have not fired any firearms while wearing my current clothing, other than my boots, since their last wash." I confirmed.

"Thank you Rob... Mr. Elliot. Sorry, I know I have to do this by the book." I could see her body camera, and knew if she was wearing it to talk with me, it was recording. She then proceeded to take the swabs to get the samples, and then swabbed my boots and shirt. It felt weird having her call me Mr. Elliot instead of Captain Elliot or just Rob.

It was over an hour, with the gathering crowd of gawking neighbors forming around the police tape, before my superior showed up. Commander Sean Hallowell was a brusque man, to outsiders, but could be warm and welcoming to his friends. I had known him from the day I had joined the force, and had golfed with him at least once a month for the last 12 years. My mentor for the first three years, I wondered, as he walked up, which he would be to me today.

"Rob... I heard the call out. Are you okay?" Sean asked, answering my wandering thought.

"Not doing well at the moment, Sean. I'm trying to keep it together, but..." I trailed off. The rest of my thought was left unsaid.

"You know the procedures; you helped write a few of them, and you trained half your team, so I imagine they're doing it right. I want you to know, anything, anything Laura and I can do for you, short of talking about the investigation, I'll do for you. I can have you released from the scene, if you need to get out of here."

I laughed, morosely, at that. "That's the biggest mistake I've seen so far, nobody has told me to stick around. I'm... I'm going to stay until they bring her out, Sean. I know the rest of the drill, and because this is a violent crime, I'll hitch a ride to the station for my statement as soon as they bring them out."

"Your on paid leave, of course, for now, pending investigation and us clearing you. And you can't be involved in the investigation. In fact, once you come back, why don't you work with me for a few weeks, or until we get the perp?"

Realizing that this was one of those rare cases where Sean was speaking in his official capacity, but still as a friend, I replied as correctly as I could. "I understand, Commander. By the book. And Sean... thank you. And Laura." His face softened as he tried to comprehend the weight I was under. Nodding, he silently moved off, to talk with Sharon. I overheard part of that conversation, where he made the case my team... Sharon's team's single highest priority processing and aiding the investigation. The murder of a Police Captain's wife, even potentially a cheating wife in flagrante delicto, was a major even in the force, with ramifications up and down the ranks. This was one of us.

Potentially cheating? It was the first moment where it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, Bree hadn't been a willing participant. It didn't meant, of course, that she wasn't into the act at the moment right before her demise. Bree is, was, very responsive sexually, at least to me. But could it have been rape, or coercion? And regardless of that, for the moment, who, and why, had the pair been murdered?

The one suspect we... the police had was me. I knew I hadn't done this, and I'm sure most of my team, my coworkers, my friends (well, some of them) knew it, too, at least in their hearts. But the heart doesn't rule the head. I had to be eliminated from the suspect pool, and additional suspects had to be identified.

One of the patrol offices brought over a blanket a timeless interval later. I had lost track, lost in my thoughts, lost in my emotions, lost in my reasoning. I was beginning to come apart from the stress, the anger, the shock. Rationally, I would have thought they would have brought the blanket over to me earlier; perhaps it was my rank that made them uneasy with approaching me? Wrapped in the blanket, the pain and loss finally hit; two hours in, I began to weep and mourn as I remembered my wife and what her loss meant to me. I do know that the members of the Fourth Estate showed up; I have dim memories of hearing at least one live broadcast being done for the local evening news. None were allowed close to me, as I kept my sobbing vigil.

Briana Renee Humphreys and I met at a college mixer in the fall of my senior year; she was a freshman, 18 years old, a bright, fresh faced girl next door, with light brown hair and bright green eyes. Her eyes! I was lost the moment I stared into them during our first dance. I knew I wanted to know more about this young woman. It wasn't love, or lust, at first sight, not for either of us, but it was a definite infatuation, on my part, and strong attraction, on hers. By the end of the evening, I'd monopolized the bulk of her time at the mixer, and she mine, and we had a "date" scheduled for the early afternoon of the following day. I walked her back to her dorm room, and received the first of many kisses from her as we parted. It was a promise of nothing, and a promise of everything. That date the next day, which should have been over by 6 or so, lasted until late that evening; the kiss at the end of that date was the opposite of the night before, lasting at least ten minutes. It was a promise of everything, full stop. From that point on, we were a couple.

For Christmas, my present from her was her "Pearl of Great Price". For her 19

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birthday, my present to her was taking her home to meet my family for the first time. For our second Christmas, my present to her was a one and a half caret diamond solitaire ring, in a gold setting, given while kneeling in front of her at her parent's home. We were married in June, at the end of her Junior year, I had completed the academy, and begun working. Even though I was new to the force, there were over fifty officers at the wedding. My father being a retired police officer helped, of course, but I had made an impact and an impression at the academy and during my first few months. It was understood my days in a squad car would be limited, and that I'd be moving into forensics.

Bree graduated with her degree in Business Management, got a job, and stressed; it's not easy to be the wife of a beat cop. When I got my first promotion, and the move, she finally started to relax. Six months later I was told that I needed to get back and get a Masters in Forensics to pair up with my Criminology and Forensics dual bachelors degrees. If I didn't, I'd forever be stuck, never able to get higher than Lieutenant. It took me 18 months.

Through it all, Bree was supportive, ready, steady and loving. If I needed to study, she gave me space and quiet. If I needed to talk, she was there, too. She was my rock, my star, my focus. I did what I did because of who I was. I did it the way I did because of who she was, and how I wanted to always see how proud she was of me. I needed that validation in her love, in her respect, in her pride.

The next decade went along well, with both of us progressing up our respective career ladders, both us spending time as us. There were few "boys night out", or "girls night out" periods; while I occasionally stopped on the way home to socialize with coworkers, we socialized only a mile from where Bree worked. More often than not, for that first decade, on the nights I said I'd be at Martin's Corner, the local cop bar, Bree would be there when I walked in, or arrive within minutes. My brothers and sisters on the force knew, and liked, Bree.

Children didn't end up being in the cards for Bree and I. It turned laughable; we had tried, for a good two years, before getting tested. As it turned out, a childhood illness had robbed me of future fatherhood, while Bree had somehow inherited a rare combination of conditions that made it impossible for a fertilized egg to implant; she could technically "get pregnant", but would always lose it within weeks. We mourned the loss of those children who would have been the perfect blend of we two, for a month or so, then considered adoption. A decade on again, we were still considering it, knowing it would have to be soon if we did it. Regardless, the loss increased our bond even further, if that was possible. I lived for her, and my job. She seemingly lived for me and hers.

We lost our parents two years apart. My mother and father were killed over a botched car jacking, though the perpetrator did not out live my mother. It was close as to whether he outlived my father, who had tried to shield my mother as he brought his Glock to bear on the car jacker. The double funeral was attended by over a hundred active police officers, and perhaps as many retired ones. It was a sea of blue at the funeral.

Bree's parents died much less violent deaths. Bree's father already was stage three when the MRI showed the tumor in his brain, a year before my parents demise. We were dealing with helping her parents when we lost mine. Bree's father lasted two years before passing. Bree's mom made it a year before she joined him. Blow after blow after blow, like clockwork during those three years. Bree became a bit closer to her only surviving relative, her sister, after that. I drifted away from mine, who for some reason resented my being on the force after Mom and Dad's deaths. She felt if Dad hadn't had a firearm on him, he and Mom may have survived. I felt that Dad wouldn't have been Dad without it.

Married 14 years, childless, having lost both sets of parents, that was the moment that I finally made Captain, and completely took over the Forensics department on the force. Over the next few years, I revamped our methods, our procedures, and our roles to better reflect the latest science. I trained my people, schooling them in classrooms, in labs, in training, and in crime scenes. I hired the best and brightest I could recruit, and brought some up from the ranks.