Chapter 13
The angle of the video appeared to have been shot from the side of the bar, its lens peering through the window to capture David's office, the counter, the bathroom, and the entrance. The footage showed the bar in its usual chaotic glory. People trooping in and out, ordering drinks and food, shouting at the TV, and laughing with friends. It was a snapshot of normalcy, but it felt hollow now, knowing how it would end.
I fast-forwarded through the mundane moments, my patience wearing thin, until I paused at what appeared to be a commotion. In the video, someone was pushed to the ground, and an argument broke out between David and the man who had been shoved. The person who pushed him was a waiter, his face pale and panicked as he pointed toward someone, unfortunately, the camera's blind spot. The man who had been pushed got up, brushed himself off, and headed to the bathroom. When he returned, he exchanged a few words with David before leaving the bar. The timestamp read 12:15 a.m.
Two hours later, the bar began to empty. My attention was drawn to the blind spot where the waiter had pointed. Curiosity gnawed at me, and it was answered when the old man appeared. I hit pause, freezing the frame. His bowed posture was unmistakable. I'd recognize him from a mile away. He was the same old man who had been coming to the station, the one who had warned us about the killer.
"Russel, you need to see this," I said, turning my laptop toward him. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing as I replayed the video. I watched his face, hoping to see the same realization dawn on him. When he paused the video on the old man, he straightened up, folded his arms, and then leaned in closer to continue watching.
Russel turned the laptop back toward me and pulled up a chair, sitting close so we could watch together. The bar was empty now, save for David's office. The door was open, and David was inside, counting money. A wave of sadness washed over me, and I bowed my head, but Russel's hand pressed on my shoulder, grounding me.
"Focus," he said softly. I nodded, forcing myself to keep watching.
A few minutes into the video, the main entrance opened, and a hooded figure stepped inside. He moved with purpose, his direction clear: David's office. David paused, as if he'd heard something, then continued counting. But when he paused again, he stood and walked out of his office, stopping short when he saw the hooded man. They seemed to exchange words, though the audio was muffled.
The hooded man reached behind the counter, his gloved hand closing around a whiskey bottle. In one swift motion, he smashed it against the edge of the counter, the shards scattering across the floor. He gripped the broken bottle by the neck, its jagged edges glinting in the dim light, and lunged at David.
David staggered back, his face a mask of fear. He fumbled for his phone, but the attacker was on him before he could dial for help. Despite David's stout physique, he struggled against the hooded man, who stabbed him repeatedly. David tried to crawl toward the entrance, his hand outstretched as if reaching for salvation, but the attacker landed a final, brutal stab to his neck. David's body went still, his lifeless eyes fixed on the door.
The attacker stood, drenched in blood, and walked out without a backward glance.
I couldn't breathe. Overwhelmed with grief, I pushed back from the desk and rushed to the bathroom. I locked the door behind me and sank to the floor, my sobs echoing in the small space. The image of David's lifeless body haunted me, his final moments playing on a loop in my mind. What had he been thinking in those last seconds? Had he thought of my sister? Of Jamie? The thought alone made me cry harder.
After what felt like an eternity, I wiped my face and stepped out of the bathroom. Russel was waiting in the hallway, his expression soft with concern. Without a word, I walked into his arms, and he held me tightly, his warmth a small comfort in the chaos.
When I finally pulled back, I gave him a nod, signaling that I was okay. There was no time to fall apart, not now. The job had to be done, and the killer had to be caught.
---
"We'll have to question the old man as a witness now," Russel said, joining me at the desk. "I have his address. He lives under the bridge, about ten minutes away. It's 7:30 p.m. It's not too late."
I nodded in agreement. We grabbed our things and headed out, the weight of the day pressing down on us. We'd been at the station for four hours since returning from the shop, and the exhaustion was starting to show. Today had been a nightmare, and I just wanted one thing to go right.
The drive took us from the bustling city center to the outskirts, where the streets grew darker and more desolate. The area was a stark contrast to the vibrant nightlife we'd left behind. Homeless people wandered the streets, their faces gaunt and weary. The air was thick with the stench of decay. A mix of vomit, urine, and something far worse. I pressed my nose into my shirt, trying to block out the smell as we stepped out of the car.
Russel handed me a photo of the old man, and we began our search. The area was a grim reminder of a failed government project. Buildings half-demolished, others abandoned and crumbling. Tents and makeshift shelters lined the streets, their occupants huddled together for warmth.
Our search was proving fruitless. The place was a maze of tents and people, and the old man was nowhere to be found. I was about to call it quits when I bumped into someone, the impact sending me sprawling to the ground.
"Oh, thank you for helping me," I said sarcastically, glaring at the figure who had stopped a few feet away.
"You're welcome," he replied, his voice dripping with mockery, before turning to leave.
Russell rushed to my side, helping me up. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice tight with concern.
I nodded, brushing myself off, but something caught my eye. Blood. There were bloody footprints on the ground. My heart leapt into my throat as I followed the trail, my flashlight cutting through the darkness. The figure had vanished into the sea of homeless people, and no matter how frantically I searched, I couldn't find him.
Russell caught up to me, breathless and furious. "What the hell, Stacy? You can't just run off like that!"
"Today is not my day, okay?!" I shot back, my frustration boiling over. "I'm trying to get something right before this day ends, and now I've lost him."
"Chase him for what? Pushing you? Try again," he snapped.
"He had blood on his shoes!" I screamed, storming off to where I'd been pushed. I didn't care if Russel followed me or not.
I backtracked the blood trail, following it to a tunnel ahead. The stench was unbearable. A nauseating mix of vomit, feces, and rot. I shone my flashlight along the walls, searching for the source of the blood.
"We came here looking for the old man," Russel said, his voice tense. "Don't go running off on your own."
I ignored him, my focus on the blood trail. It led me to a small crowd gathered around a figure lying on the ground. My breath hitched as I shone my light on the man's face. It was the old man from the station, his body soaked in blood.
I dropped to my knees, shaking him gently. "Hey, can you hear me?" I felt for a pulse and found a faint, irregular beat. He was alive, barely.
Russel directed the crowd to move back, creating space, while I called for an ambulance and backup. The old man was given first aid before being transported to the hospital, and I asked an officer to stay with him.
As I looked around, one thought consumed me: the old man's fears had come true. His warnings had been dismissed, and now he was fighting for his life. I couldn't lose him, not when he might be our only lead.