The Dried Corpse Case

The engine hummed steadily, a constant sound that filled the car as Calloway's fingers drummed against the steering wheel. The city flashed past them in a blur, but neither of them was focused on the scenery. Their minds were fully consumed by the events unfolding around them. The murder of Oliver White, the FBI's involvement, the impossible speed at which they had solved the Red Floor Incident—something about it all felt wrong.

Calloway cursed under his breath, his frustration growing. "What the hell's going on in this city?" he muttered to himself, his grip tightening around the wheel. The tension between him and Darren was palpable; both men felt it, but neither of them spoke about it directly. The unease was there, lingering. The world outside their car was falling apart, and they had no idea how deep this rabbit hole would go.

Darren sat beside him, staring out the window, his jaw clenched. This was bigger than anything either of them had dealt with before. Calloway's grumbling barely registered to him; the recent murders and the rapid developments were weighing heavy on his mind. The city felt like a ticking time bomb, and it was starting to feel like their investigation might be too little, too late.

Finally, Darren broke the silence, his voice quiet but firm. "What's the plan once we get to the scene?"

Calloway's eyes flicked to him for a second, but he didn't answer right away. "We stick to what we know." He exhaled sharply. "Ask questions, collect whatever evidence we can, and try to piece this shit together."

"And if we can't?" Darren pressed, his tone both challenging and concerned.

Calloway's jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip on the wheel. The question hung in the air for a moment before he answered. "Then we find another way."

But Darren wasn't done. "And if we do find something? What then?"

Calloway's eyes flicked to him again, this time with a glimmer of something more intense in them. For a moment, Darren could see the years of experience, the anger simmering beneath the surface, the man who had nothing left to lose.

"We deal with it. The way we always do." Calloway's voice was low, cold. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his words. But the way he said it, there was something personal behind it—like his approach was no longer just about solving crimes but about something deeper. Something bigger.

Darren didn't push further. He could feel it—there was more to Calloway's words than just solving the case. There was a personal stake in this. But the thought of pressing him on it now didn't sit well. The city was unraveling, and they had to keep moving forward, no matter what.

---

They arrived at the scene, pulling into a quiet neighborhood. The house in front of them was a three-story mansion with no front yard. The lack of a front yard made it seem isolated, cold, and detached from the rest of the neighborhood.

"This is the place," Calloway said, parking the car. Darren followed, staying close, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

As they approached the front door, a woman came rushing down the stairs of the house. She was disheveled, her expression clearly marked with panic and distress. Her eyes widened as she saw the two officers.

"Please, come quickly," she said breathlessly, almost stumbling as she turned and hurried up the stairs, motioning for them to follow.

The sense of urgency in her voice was enough to make Darren's instincts kick in. He didn't like the way she was reacting—it felt too panicked, too prepared. They followed her upstairs, the house seeming unnaturally quiet, the air thick with an unsettling tension.

She opened the door to one of the rooms, revealing a spacious bedroom. It was fairly typical in design: a bed, bedside table, and a curtain gently swaying in the breeze from the open balcony door. But that wasn't what caught their attention.

It was the dead body lying on the bed.

The body was gruesome. There was no blood left—none. The skin was drawn tight over the bones, the flesh almost dried. The eyes were bulging, frozen in a grotesque expression of fear or shock. The hair, once full, now lay limp and falling out, adding to the unnerving nature of the scene.

Darren felt his stomach turn. The smell wasn't overpowering, but the stillness in the room was more than enough to make him feel nauseous. He stepped back instinctively, wanting to get away from the horror of it all. The unnatural silence in the room was suffocating.

Calloway immediately stepped forward, his professionalism kicking in, though even he couldn't hide the brief flicker of disgust in his eyes. He knelt beside the body and began his assessment. The blood's gone. He noted the lack of muscle, the stiffness of the skin. He could see this wasn't just a simple murder—it was something else entirely.

Darren stepped away to call for backup and forensics. He needed time to process the scene, but this was beyond anything he'd ever dealt with. The body didn't just look like a corpse—it looked like a dead thing that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

---

The forensics team had arrived swiftly, but it was clear that even their expertise couldn't undo the abnormality of the scene. As they moved around the body, snapping photographs and cataloging evidence, the air in the room felt like it was thick with unease. The usual chatter and calm of a well-oiled police investigation was absent. The crime scene felt too unnatural, too wrong.

Calloway stayed crouched beside the body, his brow furrowed in concentration. He studied every inch of the victim's form, every detail that screamed something was off. Darren, standing at the door, tried to distance himself from the body as best he could, but he still couldn't shake the feeling of disgust creeping in.

"What kind of sick bastard does this?" Darren muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything they had witnessed. The victim was beyond recognition, reduced to little more than bones and skin tightly stretched over the bones. Darren felt his stomach churn again, but he forced himself to stay focused.

Calloway stood slowly, turning to look at Darren. His voice was low, but there was a biting edge to it.

"I've seen some shit, Darren. But this?" He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "This is beyond fucked up. There's no way this is just some random murder."

Darren nodded. He'd been a cop long enough to know when something didn't add up, but this was far beyond his level of experience. There was nothing in his traning that could prepare him for a crime scene like this.

While forensics worked the scene, Calloway began speaking with the witnesses, hoping to find something—anything—that could make sense of what they were looking at. The 911 call had come from the woman who had led them upstairs, and she had seemed genuinely startled, her panic palpable. But the story she'd told wasn't sitting right with him.

"I was the owner of the house, like I said," she had repeated, her hands wringing in front of her, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I came back and saw the door open. I thought someone had broken in, so I went in, checked around... and then I saw... the body."

Calloway took his time with her. "You've never seen him before?"

The woman shook her head, looking as if the memory of the body still haunted her.

"No. I don't know who he is."

Calloway asked all the necessary questions. If she knew the victim, if she had ever had any problems in the area. Nothing seemed to stand out—no connection, no clear motive. Just an awful, inexplicable crime. But as she spoke, he caught the faintest tremor in her voice. The way she kept glancing away, as though there was something she wasn't telling him.

"You're sure you don't know him?" Calloway pressed again. His instincts told him there was something off about her answers.

The woman nodded, her eyes wide with disbelief. "I told you, I don't know him. He was just... there. Just like that. No sign of a struggle, nothing. Just—just dead."

Calloway had no choice but to let her go after a few more questions. But something lingered in his mind as she left. She was too calm, too disconnected, despite the horror she'd witnessed. It could've been shock, but something didn't feel right. He jotted down a few more notes, wondering if he'd missed something. He didn't trust her.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the crime scene, Darren stepped up to Calloway, holding a file in his hand. His face was tight, his expression hard as he handed the papers over.

"Got something for you,officer Calloway." Darren's voice was low, a mixture of disbelief and concern in it.

Calloway glanced at the file and then back at Darren. "What's this?"

"The autopsy report on the Red Floor victim," Darren replied. "Turns out the kid's name was Oliver White."

Calloway's face hardened as he processed the information. He knew the Red Floor Incident had left a mark on the city, but he hadn't expected the victim to be so young, especially not a teenager. The FBI had handled the investigation with far too much speed, giving a clean conclusion that didn't sit right with Calloway. How could they have solved it without even waiting for the autopsy?

"Oliver White?" Calloway repeated, a harsh tone creeping into his voice. He turned toward the house, the strange, unsettling sense of being watched growing stronger by the second. "How the hell did they get a conclusion so quickly?"

Darren gave a grim shrug, his frustration matching Calloway's. "Who knows? But it looks like they solved it without even waiting for the body to cool. Makes you wonder what they know that we don't."

Calloway stood there for a moment, his jaw clenched, deep in thought. Then he shook his head in disgust. "The FBI... it's like they're too calm about this. Like they've been told exactly what to do and say." His voice dropped into a low murmur. "This case... this city... it's starting to feel like we're all just pawns in someone's game."

The scene was starting to attract the usual press vultures. Calloway could already hear their voices from a distance, their cameras flashing as they tried to get close enough to capture the horror of the moment. The reporters weren't stupid—they smelled something fishy about this, and they weren't about to let it go. But for now, Calloway didn't have the time or energy to deal with them.

The press were just another complication in an already complicated case.

Darren glanced over at Calloway, who was still staring at the house. The city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the next revelation.

"Officer Calloway," Darren said, his voice sharp, bringing the older detective back to the present. "What are we going to do next? We can't just leave this hanging."

Calloway turned his gaze on Darren, his eyes hard, but there was a resolve in them now. "We're not leaving anything. I'll get to the bottom of this." He exhaled deeply, his shoulders taut. "The FBI's involved, the victims are piling up, and there's too much about this that doesn't make sense." He glanced back toward the growing crowd of reporters. "And I'm damn sure not stopping until I figure out what's really going on."