13- Victims.

Yechiel had a short drive home from the precinct to the north end of Freetier Park. Just a block south of the elite Wahlborn Grove, he lived on the 7th floor of a 10-story building, and from his living room balcony, he had a clear view of the downtown of Turnage City.

Freetier Park was the middle ground for the city's inhabitants. As far as incomes went, Freetier had the widest range. From the upper middle class to the lower, this was where those who weren't quite rich enough to afford Wahlborn Grove, but hadn't quite made it to Dumont Plaza levels of struggling ended up. The closer you were to the Grove or the Downtown, the more expensive it got. While the rest varied between the true white-collar middle class, near the river that separated Freetier from the Downs and the blue-collar middle class in the older section of the neighborhood at its heart, to the suburbanites, moving from the established suburbs of Clairmont Heights, into the newer developments that were bleeding out towards the city limits in the east.

Growing up, Yechiel lived in a private community of Wahlborn Grove's north end. The youngest of three sons, his father, Hylas Mazurka, succeeding on the established wealth of his predecessors, had further made his own fortune as a cutthroat Lawyer at the prestigious, Coppola and Briggs Corporate Law Firm. There he made senior partner before being nominated to the bench, where he is now a well-known and respected High Court Judge. Suffice it to say, Yechiel is his greatest disappointment. For despite attending the best Ivy League school in the entirety of Turnage City, earning scholarships, and being accepted to Dalton Wines University's law program, earning one of the most coveted spots in the most prestigious academic establishment in the country, Yechiel had dropped out after the first year to join the Turnage Police Academy. Thus, he and his father, did not speak.

Dropping the box and file on the kitchen table, he stripped out of his work cloths and took a much-needed shower. After drying off, he changed into a pair of old jogging shorts before pulling a frozen meal out and popping it into the microwave. Finding a beer in the back of his fridge, he cracked it open and returned to his table.

Setting the coroner's report aside, he cut through the tape on the box and pulled off the lid, setting it down on the other chair. Inside there were a number of evidence bags, and an inventory list, along with a half dozen files pressed along the side wall. Pulling the files out, he placed the box under the table. As interesting as some of the items may have been to examine, what he really wanted to know was the story, and that was in the reports.

Sitting down, while waiting for his food to heat, he opened the main file, a photo of a young Quayleigh Vershinin, age 8, paperclipped to the inside cover. It was a photo taken from a previous incident, this one showing a pretty little girl, with a sad, lonely, and frightened expression. A far cry from the woman he had met earlier in the day.

"Well now, what's your story, Quayleigh," he muttered as he began to pull out the other files, setting them on the table.

There were four smaller files, each with an attached photo of a young woman, Quayleigh's mother, Jenavere Vershinin, covered in bruises, and the mugshot of a man known as Ezra Nari. Only one of these files contained a second picture of that same terrified little girl. Inside each were 5 pieces of paper; the incident reports, one for each of the responding officers, the arrest record, a medical report, and lastly the follow-up or R2 report. Unfortunately, Yechiel had seen cases like these before in his line of work, the R2's reading nearly identical in every case. Charges are dropped, perp gets charged with a misdemeanor public disturbance, they pay a fine, go home and the cycle repeats. These files read no different, with the exception of the fourth, that had a small paragraph which read, 'Child will be returned her mother upon completion of the two week in-facility rehab, and an additional two-week outpatient program. Further recommendations were made for aftercare therapies. Currently, she has been remanded to the care of the TCPA (Turnage Child Protection Agency) for temporary foster care, as no living relations were fit to take custody. Father deceased. Paternal Grandparents, deceased. Maternal Grandfather, alive, currently resides in out of country assisted living facility. Maternal grandmother, deceased. Unable to contact Paternal Uncle. No other known relatives.'

"Four times in six months. She just didn't learn. How could no one see this coming?" He sighed as he looked at the picture of Quayleigh's mother. Even with the bruising, he could see the familial relation, and could imagine how lovely Jenavere would have looked, had she not succumbed to the years of drug and alcohol abuse.

Setting those files aside, he stood up as the microwave was demanding his attention, telling him that it had finished its work, and didn't want him to forget the food it had just prepared. Grabbing a fork from the bin on the counter, he retrieved his food and returned to the table, having arrived at the main file, the one with Quayleigh's name on it.

Picking up the first of six incident reports, he read it over as he ate his dinner and drank his beer. He further read through the other five reports, until he had a full understanding of what occurred, from the polices perspective.

"Guess you never know what to expect when you're called in for a domestic," he remarked to himself, "Get called in by the neighbors, and leave with two bodies in bags, and a critically injured child." Shaking his head, he looked over the evidentiary photos. "How the hell did you survive this?" he questioned placing the photos aside, to read the medical report that revealed the extent of her injuries. Amongst the notes, there was one that stood out, written off to the side, an arrow pointing to a line in the main report. "Left eye should not be intact given depth of wounds," he read out loud. "Blindness of the left eye appears to be permanent. Most likely caused by excessive blood pooling against the optic nerve. Recommend the child be taken to an optometrist for further diagnosis and treatment. Huh, doubt that ever happened," he said, as he took another drink. "So, you get orphaned at nine, but how does that lead to you and Dylan crossing paths? What is your connection?"

After reading over the rest of the file, the R2 offered no further information, aside from the fact that Quayleigh had been remanded into the custody of the TCPA for fulltime foster placement. The paragraph at the bottom reading similar to the previous report. With only two known living relatives being the maternal Grandfather, who was incapable of taking on a child, and her deceased father's older brother, Roibeárd Vershinin, who failed to show for the custody hearing, and refused to respond to all further attempts to contact him.

"So, your uncles a piece of shit too." He sympathetically smiled as he put the file back together, leaving the cover open.

Picking up his beer he sat back in his chair and stared at his ceiling fan watching it slowly spin, "Quayleigh…" he rolled his tongue along the inside of his teeth as he thought. Taking a swig of his beer he looked back down at the last picture of her with an unscarred face, "Why did that guy have your picture? And why didn't you react to any of the ones I showed you? Too many questions, that have to wait until tomorrow."

Closing up her file, he pushed it aside and opened the coroner's report on the previous victim. As expected, it told him nothing different than those before. The victim, estimated to be between 50 to 55yr old man, found in an alleyway behind the stores of Sheffield Avenue, on the wealthier, northeast side of the downtown's shopping district. Still unidentified, he showed no signs of trauma, or defensive injuries. And just like the others, there is no known cause of death; just the same terrifying look of fear frozen on their faces.

"What the hell are all of you seeing, just before you die?" He groaned as he got up tossing his empty food tray in the garbage, and his fork into the sink, "I need sleep."

Mazurka was restless that night, haunted by the questions he couldn't answer, and the connections he couldn't make, but mostly the look on Quayleigh's face when Dylan arrived at the store, their voices echoing in his head, loud enough to wake him, "Tau…" "Quayleigh, I found you!"

Sitting up, he rubbed aimlessly at his face and head. "Did I image it?" He laid back down and stared up at his ceiling. "Tau… what was she going to say?" He rolled onto his side, adjusting his pillow, his clock reading 3:06am. "Gah! Get out of my head already! Dammit!" Closing his eyes, he managed to drift off again, only to be woken at 6:07am to the sound of his phone ringing.

"Mazurka," he moaned, as he put the phone on speaker and sat up on the bed glaring, unenthusiastically at his clock.

"Yechiel, get dressed. They found another one. I'll text you the address. And bring coffee. Not that cheap shit you like from down the road either. The good stuff from Kiches. It's going to be a long day." Harlowe's raspy voice came through clearly and was never the sound anyone wanted to hear having just woken up from a night of tossing and turning.

"Like the others?"

"Yeah, but something's different about this one."

"What's that?"

"There's a security camera."

"I'll be out the door in ten," Mazurka perked up at the thought, that finally, they might actually be able to figure out who or what was doing this.

"Don't forget the coffee!" Mazurka hung up the phone on Harlowe as he ran into the bathroom.

Emerging a few minutes later, the text came through from Harlowe as he was getting dressed. Grabbing the box, coroner's report, and his tie, he rushed out of his apartment, barely taking the time to lock his door.

After a quick stop at Kiche's diner for the requested coffee, he drove to the address he had been given on the southwest side of the Downtown, the opposite end of the city from where the previous victim had been found. Parking his car, he finished tying his tie before gathering the coffees and making his way towards the cordoned off area located behind, Fowler's Liquor Store. Flashing his badge, the cops on guard let him through, and he made his way towards where Harlowe was standing.

"Harlowe, what've we got?" he asked as he held out the paper to-go cup towards his partner.

"Male, 23. Name on the ID is Piang Lee. He was reported missing almost a week ago. Garbage man noticed the body when they lifted the dumpster and called it in. Guys got the same horrified look on what's left of his face, but the rats and insects have had a field day with his body. Lucky for us, the liquor store installed security camera a few years back to catch whoever was vandalizing their delivery doors, so it's a bit of an older system, but I have the owner pulling the files for the last week for us now. Hope this is the good stuff, our days just getting started."