The Monster Within by Jeremy Laszlo Page A

up at a crime scene without any true reason to help the investigation, impeded my ability to get to the scene with all these other gawking morons, and then tell them how you take your videos, go home, stick your hands down your pants, and get off on it. Make sure you tell them how you’re all about the necrophilia and that way when IA comes to have a chat with me in a year, since they’re backlogged out their ears, then I’ll be able to remember your face. I just want you to make sure and get the most out of your experience with the police department.”
    “You’re an asshole,” the liberal snaps, lowering his phone.
    “No, you are.” I take another step toward him. “This is a fucking crime scene, dumbass. I’m not here because I’m infringing on your rights or because I want to give you a hard time. I’m here to do a job, to put back the wrongs done upon whoever is inside that building. If there’s anyone here who is an asshole, it’s the guy who is distracting me from doing my job by spilling his liberal, whiny shit all over my shoes when I’m just trying to do right by this city. So kindly go fuck yourself and get the hell out of here.” I turn from him and look at the surrounding faces. “Get the hell out of here, all of you! There’s not a damn thing for you to see here.”
    They look at me like I’ve just shot their favorite puppy and slowly start to disperse. I don’t have time for this. Traffic was a nightmare and there’s probably two other detectives already in the apartment working and I’m now left holding my balls like a chump. Owens is nowhere to be seen, but I’m recognizing a few faces that were either at the last scene or at the archives. I look up at the apartments and wonder what this killer has for apartments.
    A uniform holds the door open for me. There’s a detective talking with the property manager, who has his arms crossed and his face is pale. Someone definitely died here. There’s a sort of silent reverence in the air, the kind of silence that I picture lingering over a battlefield. I don’t think anyone ever becomes immune to the silence. It becomes an acquaintance that every detective and cop comes to recognize whenever they find a body. The whole world continues turning with each death, but there’s something that holds it back for a moment. Something that hangs in the air.
    I already know who the detectives who caught the case are, probably since they tossed yesterday’s case back into the suicide pot before any real work had to be done. Evans stands like a tall, skinny goon next to the short property manager. I’ve never found Evans to be a particularly effective detective, but he was an excellent box man. He reminded me of myself in that regard. He knew how to get someone to break down. He knew how to get them to spill their guts and tears like it’s Christmas day for the DA.
    The apartment building is nowhere near as nice as the other one, but it’s definitely nicer than the apartments I’ve seen in the area. This is the kind of place where college students and those just graduated, trying to get a grasp on life, show up to rent, pretending that they know what they’re doing in the real world, but still completely clueless as to how the real world works. There’s four apartments that surround a sort of central garden atrium that could have been nicer if someone actually tried to put some work into making the aesthetics appealing in this place.
    There’s a certain gravity with me as I approach or maybe Evans can feel the pressure change, but he turns and looks at me. He’s a bald, black guy who was told as a child that white folks rule the world and that he has to act like one to get ahead. He’s the kind of racist that I think the world is filled with, the silent kind that only comes out when like for like starts showing up. He’ll talk with his buddies over a beer about his imagined grievances that he thinks he’s suffered over the years. His big bulgy