The Takeover

The meeting room buzzed with tension as Captain John paced in front of the holographic display, the dim blue glow casting sharp shadows across his face. The images of both crime scenes flickered on the screen—one drenched in nothing but blood, the other reduced to a husk of a body.

The captain stopped, placing his hands on the podium. "Alright, let's go over this again." His tone was measured, but there was an edge of fatigue in his voice. The case didn't make sense, and everyone in the room felt it.

He clicked a button, and the first hologram shifted—an ID photo of Oliver White appeared, the boy's mugshot cold and lifeless, the official report floating beside it.

"The Red Floor Case," Captain John continued, "took place in an abandoned warehouse. No body. Just blood. All of it confirmed to belong to this individual—Oliver White, seventeen years old. A repeat offender. Drug dealer. Suspected murderer."

There were a few murmurs, some nods. Oliver White's name wasn't new to anyone here.

"Oliver was no innocent kid," the captain went on. "He had a history. First arrested at eleven years old for murder. Served time in juvenile detention. By sixteen, he was suspected in another homicide—but the case collapsed. All the evidence pointing to him disappeared."

A low whistle came from one of the officers. "How the hell does a murder case just vanish like that?"

Captain John didn't respond immediately. He just stared at the hologram for a moment before switching the screen to the next image.

The Dried Corpse Case.

The sight of the victim's decomposed, hollowed-out body drew a visible reaction. A few officers grimaced, others muttered quiet curses under their breath.

"And then, there's this," Captain John continued, voice steady but grim. "A second murder, discovered the same day, but entirely different. This time, we have a body—but no blood."

He paused, letting the contradiction sink in.

"Every single drop was drained, yet there were no visible puncture wounds or signs of extraction. No forced entry. No DNA. The estimated time of death was just two hours before discovery, but the body's decay was so advanced it looked like it had been decomposing for decades."

The room stayed silent.

Then, the captain posed the question they were all thinking.

"Are these two cases connected?"

He let his gaze sweep the room, searching for a response. "I want theories. Now."

There was a pause before one of the senior detectives, Officer Graham, spoke up. He was older, with graying hair and a stiff posture, his tone professional but firm.

"I don't think they're connected at all," he said, tapping his pen against his notepad. "The Red Floor Case looks like a gang execution. Oliver White was in deep with some bad people. Maybe someone wanted to make a statement, left nothing behind but his blood to send a message."

Captain John nodded. "And the Dried Corpse Case?"

Graham shrugged. "A whole different animal. Organ harvesting, maybe? Some underground medical practice. The body was left to rot after whatever they took from him."

"You're saying these are two separate crimes?" Captain John asked.

"Exactly," Graham confirmed.

Some officers nodded, but others seemed unconvinced.

"That doesn't add up."

A voice from the left. Officer Ramirez, a sharp-eyed younger officer, leaned forward, clearly thinking things over.

"Think about it. One case has too much blood, the other has none at all. That's not a coincidence. Whoever's behind this did it on purpose—maybe to throw us off."

Some heads turned at that idea.

"So you're saying someone staged these cases as opposites?" Captain John asked.

Ramirez nodded. "Exactly. It's like they want us to think these cases are separate, but they're actually two parts of the same crime."

"A serial killer, then?"

This time, Sophie, a brown-haired officer sitting near Darren, spoke up. She had been quiet up until now, but her voice carried certainty. "Two vastly different methods, but both carried out on the same day? That sounds like a message."

Captain John raised a brow. "And what message would that be?"

Sophie exhaled slowly. "Chaos." She met the captain's gaze. "Whoever did this wants us confused. They want us to chase our tails."

"You're all overthinking it."

A new voice, deeper, irritated. Officer Bennet, arms crossed, rolling his eyes.

"This is all just a coincidence," he said flatly. "Oliver White was a criminal. Someone killed him, case closed. And the second victim? Maybe some psycho found a way to mess with the body post-mortem."

Sophie narrowed her eyes. "Then explain the missing blood? And the unnatural decay rate?"

Bennet scoffed. "I don't know. Maybe the guy died earlier, and someone dumped him there later."

Another officer shook his head. "Forensics confirmed the time of death. Two hours before discovery. And yet, the body was nearly skeletal."

Bennet waved a hand dismissively. "Look, unless you're about to tell me magic did this, I don't see why we're wasting our time with theories that make no sense."

A few officers chuckled at that.

Meanwhile, Darren stayed quiet, his fists clenched under the table.

"What a waste of time," Calloway muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Darren sat stiffly in his chair, gripping his notepad, but he wasn't writing anything. His mind was still stuck on the way the officers had laughed off his theory earlier. The room was still alive with quiet murmurs, different officers debating their own theories, but he couldn't bring himself to listen. It all felt pointless.

He could feel Calloway watching him from the side, the older officer leaning back in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest. He wasn't taking notes, wasn't engaging in the discussion—just observing.

After a few moments, Calloway finally broke the silence between them.

"You alright, kid?"

Darren hesitated before shaking his head. "No. Not really."

Calloway huffed. "Figured."

Darren clenched his jaw, looking around at the officers still deep in discussion. "I don't get it," he muttered under his breath. "This whole case is full of things that don't add up, and instead of actually trying to figure it out, everyone's just..." He exhaled sharply, gripping his notepad tighter. "Throwing out theories that don't go anywhere."

Calloway smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Welcome to real police work, kid. It's not like the movies. No one wants the truth if it's inconvenient."

Darren turned to him, frustration clear on his face. "But that's the whole damn point of our job, isn't it? To find the truth?"

Calloway scoffed. "Yeah, sure. That's what they tell us. But the truth's a tricky thing. The higher-ups don't care about truth, they care about results. About cases getting closed. Neat, clean, no loose ends."

He gestured toward the officers still arguing. Some were passionately defending their theories, others were just listening, nodding along, pretending to care.

"And these guys? They're not dumb, Pierce. They know when to shut up and fall in line. It's how they keep their jobs."

Darren clenched his fists beneath the table. He knew Calloway was right—he had seen it before. Cases that were rushed, investigations that were wrapped up neatly even when things didn't make sense. But this wasn't some everyday murder.

"I get what you're saying," Darren muttered, his voice lower now. "But there has to be at least one person in here who actually wants to figure this out. Someone who actually gives a damn."

Calloway sighed. "Sure. But wanting the truth and being willing to fight for it? That's different."

Darren stared at his notepad, tapping his pen against the blank page.

Calloway leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "We're wasting time here. We should leave."

Darren looked up at him. "Go where?"

"To find Maxwell Carter," Calloway said, his voice steady, like he had already made the decision long before he spoke. "He's the only lead we have. I don't give a damn what these officers think— that guy knows something."

Darren hesitated. "You think he'll actually talk?"

Calloway let out a dry chuckle. "Oh, hell no. But we'll make him."

He was already shifting in his seat, preparing to stand. Darren was about to do the same when the room suddenly fell quiet.

Captain John had stopped pacing. He adjusted his tie, exhaled through his nose, then looked up at the officers in front of him.

"I have an announcement," he said. His voice was level, but there was something heavier in his tone now.

Darren noticed the slight change in his posture. The way he squared his shoulders, the way his eyes scanned the room before continuing.

He let the silence hang for a moment longer before speaking again.

"Effective immediately, this case is being handed over to the FBI."

The room froze.

Darren stopped moving, his breath catching slightly. Calloway, who had been halfway out of his chair, sat back down slowly, his expression darkening.

Silence stretched over the room, the weight of the words settling in. Some officers exchanged glances, a few whispering under their breath. Others just sat there, unmoving, as if waiting for the captain to explain himself.

Darren's stomach turned. That was it. It was over.

Before he could even begin to process it, the door swung open.

A man stepped inside, dressed in an FBI suit, tall and composed, with an air of quiet authority. His gaze swept the room, as if already assessing everyone inside.

Roger Caldwell Smith.

Calloway's fingers curled into fists.

Darren felt something shift in the air.

Captain John turned toward Roger, then handed him the microphone.

"Agent Roger will be taking over from here."