The Riverside
The sedan hummed quietly as it rolled along the cracked riverside road. The wipers dragged across the windshield with a dull squeak, fighting the leftover drizzle. The river came into view, dark and swollen, its surface glittering faintly under the morning gray.
Stanly Marlowe drove with his usual steady patience, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually against the door. He was built like the car itself—solid, dependable, the type who rarely hurried.
Jessica Vale sat in the back seat, eyes darting to the window. The closer they got, the heavier her chest felt. She had told herself she was ready for this. She had studied hard, passed her training, memorized procedure after procedure. But studying case photos in a classroom wasn't the same as being driven to the real thing.
Her notebook was balanced across her lap, her pen tapping against its edge.
"Riverside," Stanly said finally, his voice low and even. "First case is never easy. Don't let it swallow you."
Jessica looked up quickly, startled. She wondered if he had somehow read the tension in her chest. "I'll manage," she said, though her voice sounded too thin to her own ears.
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. "We all say that."
Naomi Raines was in the passenger seat, posture straight, coat collar turned up against the chill. She didn't turn around when she spoke, but her voice was sharp enough to carry. "Vale. Watch. Listen. Remember. That's all I expect today. Do that much, and you'll be fine."
"Yes, ma'am," Jessica answered quickly.
Ren Torres leaned slightly forward from the other back seat. His camera bag was across his chest, his restless hands checking straps and lenses even before they had arrived. "I'll tell you the trick," he said lightly, though his grin was tight. "Keep your eyes on the work, not the face. The work's what matters. The rest… you'll learn to block out."
Jessica gave a small nod, clutching her notebook tighter.
The car slowed. Ahead, yellow tape fluttered in the damp wind, stretched between poles and trees. Uniformed officers stood nearby, boots sinking into the mud. A few neighbors had gathered on the far side of the tape, huddled beneath umbrellas, whispering.
Stanly parked on the gravel shoulder. The team stepped out together. The air was sharp with the smell of wet grass, river water, and something heavier—an undercurrent of decay, metallic and sour. Jessica swallowed against it.
Naomi was the first to duck under the tape. She moved with practiced calm, her eyes scanning the scene like she had already begun filing it away in her mind.
Jessica followed, tugging on the gloves she had stuffed in her coat pocket. Her fingers trembled, and she clenched them briefly into fists before sliding the latex into place.
The body lay close to the waterline, half-hidden by tall grass. Young woman. Twenties, maybe. Clothes torn, mud caked on her skin, one shoe missing. Her dark hair was plastered against her cheek, strands caught in the weeds.
Jessica's heart lurched, but she forced her gaze to steady. She heard Ren's camera begin clicking, rapid but deliberate. Each shot was another slice of truth frozen in time.
Naomi crouched low beside the body. She didn't touch, not yet—her eyes moved, sharp and clinical. "Vale. Come here. Gloves on? Good. Keep your distance, but learn. Every scene has a story. Your job is to read it before the river washes it away."
Jessica bent carefully beside her. The cold damp seeped into her knees as she crouched, but she kept still. She scanned left to right, the way her instructors had drilled into her.
She noticed torn fabric—ripped jagged, not clean. Mud streaks across the victim's legs. Bruising faint along the jawline. The hands half-curled, one clutching something almost invisible in the grass.
Jessica leaned a little closer. "Detective Raines," she said softly. "There's… something here. Near her hand."
Naomi followed her line of sight. A scrap of cloth, different color than the woman's clothing. Naomi gave a curt nod. "Good eye."
"Torres," she called.
Ren shifted instantly, crouching close enough for his lens to focus. The camera clicked several times in a tight sequence. He adjusted angles, pulled back, shot again. "Got it. Could be from him, could be nothing. But we'll take it."
Naomi stood smoothly, brushing mud from her gloves. She turned her head. "Stanly—canvas the block. I want to know who found her, who called it in, and who saw anything unusual last night."
"On it," Stanly said, already pulling a small notebook from his coat. His heavy steps carried him toward the officers and the neighborhood edge.
Jessica drew a slow breath, eyes moving again across the bank. Her pen scratched quietly across her notebook—time, location, notes on condition. She forced herself to stay focused, to write what she saw rather than what she felt.
Naomi stepped closer to the river, scanning the slope. "Vale, take the perimeter. Slow. Look for drag marks, shoe prints, anything disturbed. Don't step outside the tape."
"Yes, ma'am." Jessica rose, brushing the damp from her knees. She walked carefully along the line of grass, her boots squelching in the mud. She kept her eyes trained downward, scanning in steady sweeps.
She saw a candy wrapper flattened into the dirt, its colors dulled by rain. A cigarette butt, half-buried. Several sets of footprints, some blurred by water. A broken branch that didn't match the others, jagged as though snapped by force rather than wind.
She paused at each, jotting quick notes.
Ren kept photographing, circling the body in measured steps, his mutters blending with the click of the shutter. "Light's not great, but it'll do. Angle here, angle there. There we go."
Jessica's chest tightened again when her eyes drifted back to the victim. The woman's face was still, lips parted, eyes half-open but empty. Jessica swallowed hard and turned away, focusing instead on the mud, the trampled weeds, the trail of small details waiting to be noticed.
She reminded herself: Stay present. Stay sharp. Details matter.
A uniform officer approached Naomi, handing her a small plastic bag with the victim's belongings—wallet, phone, keys. Naomi's eyes scanned them quickly before passing the bag to Ren for photos.
Jessica wrote down the items, her handwriting firm despite her trembling fingers.
The river carried on its endless murmur, branches and bottles drifting past. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed faintly, then faded.
Jessica finished her slow circle and returned to Naomi. "The ground looks disturbed near the fence line," she reported quietly. "Could be where she came through. Or was dragged."
Naomi gave her a long look—serious, but with a trace of approval. "Noted. We'll flag it for CSU."
Jessica's chest eased slightly. Her first observation, her first contribution. Small, but something.
Behind them, Stanly's voice carried faintly as he questioned a man in a bathrobe standing on a porch. Ren shifted his camera again, clicking steadily.
Jessica stood there, the damp chill seeping into her coat, her notebook heavy in her hand. This was what she had wanted—real work, real cases. And yet she knew this scene would stay with her for a long time. Not as notes on a page, but as the cold air, the river's sound, the weight of silence around the fallen.
It was only the beginning.