In the City of Crowns

Red, blue, red, blue. The shadows cast by the looming buildings receded with every blink of the emergency vehicle lights. It was bright, mesmerizing, and ominous. These intermittent flashes of colors were, after all, a sign that another tragedy had yet again occurred.

The blaring of sirens hammered the ears, police vehicles lined the street, and a clamor, right outside an alley—an uproar of concerned residents and vultures scooping for the latest news—had all gathered.

The passage, no wider than a single driving lane was barricaded with cautionary yellow tape.

Detective Sycamore Yoo entered the scene, a breeze whisked by him. He pulled his leather jacket closer, and his tired, droopy eyes marked by haunting circles widened ever so slightly from the cold.

His hands were quickly pocketed, the walk to the scene done with haste. The mind was kept preoccupied by gnawing on nicotine gum—a hardy substitute for his customary black coffee to keep him stimulated.

A few meters in and he caught a whiff of it. A scent of decay hung in the air, mixed with exhaust fuel, and the musty rotting flesh teased the nostrils.

Yet, any efforts to secure or protect the scene appeared futile against the heavy odor, carried by the wind toward the entrance. Although the stench tugged a grimace at a few faces, the detective remained undeterred.

He pushed the caution tape over his head and the soft rustle of plastic caught the attention of Bryan Trenkins, a fresh face in the unit with his neatly arranged notes—or so he claimed.

"The scene has been secured, detective," Bryan reported.

Sycamore looked at him in silence, and he immediately rifled through his notes. "Uhh..." His eyebrows raised after a few pages. "Ah here, Melina Halls, 17, a junior student at Crowns City High School. She resides with her parents in this apartment complex."

"Which floor?" Sycamore's voice sounded low and husky, carrying a distinct charm.

"12th, Sir."

"Gimme that." Sycamore grabbed Bryan's notes and scanned it a bit before closing.

"They are securing the apartment above as we speak," Bryan added as the detective began to inspect the scene.

Sycamore took a step forward and paused before the damaged car. Atop it lay the lifeless form of a girl, with visible wounds and excessive bleeding around her torso and neck.

He then clocked the surrounding area, finding the alley full of waste containers leading to a dead end. He looked up at the 12th floor and its open window, and back down to Melina. 

The girl wore a pair of pajamas, now visibly torn and soaked. Pieces of glass had pierced into shallow skin, and he noticed a detail that almost made him curse.

Melina's upturned palms had traces of black blood.

"Did she jump, detective? Is it another suicide case?" Bryan said, looking above. Sensing his senior's eyes were directed at him, he quickly turned, "No?"

"In this death scene, any assumption is dangerous." The relaxed glare served as sufficient warning.

"My apologies, detective!" Bryan stammered as he bowed.

"Are you aware as to why?" Sycamore groaned and turned away from the scene. "Tighten the security, there are traces of black blood. Make sure those hyenas don't get too close. We can't release the body yet. I'll call a priest."

"BLACK BLOOD?!" Bryan's attention snapped back to the body. "I didn't notice... This looks like dried normal blood to me," he paused for a beat, "Is it why it smells so funky?"

He hit Bryan lightly on his head with the notes. "You're the one smelling funky." He began to walk away from the scene, and after a few steps, Sycamore turned with a stern expression, "...go take a fucking bath," he pointed at the new face.

"Yes, detective..." Bryan bowed offering an awkward smile as he exited.

Sycamore proceeded and swiftly passed by the group of vigorous media and news outlets. Police officers had set up another line of tapes and used their bodies to create a pathway for their colleagues from the stubborn crowd.

"Are you the lead detective on the case?" 

"Sir, can you provide details about the case?"

The incessant flashing of cameras and microphones extending beyond the officers compelled Sycamore to quicken his pace.

"Is the case related to demonic possessions?" 

"Is it a suicide? Are demons involved in this?"

As he advanced, the barrage of questions and camera shutters gradually faded into the background, and he finally reached the apartment.

Sycamore walked to the staircase, the clatter of his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, casually spitting his gum into a nearby trash can. He reached for his phone and saw the time: it was 3 AM.

"Do they ever sleep?" he mumbled in annoyance as he dialed a number, and the line picked up after a single ring.

"Too early, Syca..." A groggy voice from the other end greeted.

"Pierrot, a post-case. Get moving."

"Yes, yes, send me the location..."

"And address me as 'Sir,' you idiot."

"Yes, 'Sir'..." Pierrot muttered, with a hint of exasperation.

────────

Sycamore stared at unit number 1201—a silver metal plate beside an open black door.

He stood meters away and even from there, he could hear the hum of voices inside. A scratch to the head, a nervous habit, and a deep breath, steeling himself before approaching.

Gloves and shoe covers were quickly worn as he entered the scene.

Pausing at the door with raised eyebrows, he took a moment to inspect the entire picture.

Camera flashes prompted him to avert his gaze as forensic officers meticulously took photographs for data before collecting and sealing them.

He attempted to inspect things systematically, from left to right. Yet despite his efforts, Sycamore's gaze fixed on his right, where two bodies sprawled across the red-drenched bed.

He traced the scene. It led to the living room from across their beds, and at first glance, it was evident there had been a brutal struggle.

Red and black were splattered on the walls, furniture and ornaments lay upturned or broken, accompanied by bloody footprints, handprints, and amongst them, a scarlet-stained knife on a pool of blood near a window—demanded one's gaze. It was a violent, blood-soaked scene.

Sycamore approached the bed where the couple lay and squatted down. Gracie Yoo, the forensic doctor, approached him.

"You're here."

"Initial findings, doctor?" he inquired, lifting the bed sheet.

"We can see visible wounds indicating a struggle." She turned, "And by the blood patterns in this place."

Sycamore whispered to himself, "A fight between who?"

The doctor heard him, "We can match DNAs, but it's…" she sighed, "...we should just release the bodies."

"After the priest arrives," said the detective, not looking away from the bed.

Gracie's eyebrows narrowed at his reply, "Alright. I'll head to the office. Contact me." Dull snaps set off as she peeled her gloves.

Sycamore faced her, "You've worked hard."

"And you as well," said Gracie as she turned.

Resuming his work, Sycamore looked back at the bed, finding Pierrot already inspecting the bodies.

"Make yourself known if you've arrived," Sycamore said through clenched teeth. They both walked away, discarding gloves and shoe covers, as Sycamore signaled for Pierrot to follow him.

"You know how Miss Gracie feels about us priests," the other reasoned as they walked down the hallway. They exited the unit and talked at the emergency exit stairs.

"Doctor Yoo for you. And it's MRS. Gracie," Sycamore corrected.

"Alright, alright..." Pierrot mumbled.

Sycamore sighed, hands on his waist. "Seen the girl below? What are your findings? Spare me no detail."

"Yes, well... demonic spirits, hundreds maybe," Pierrot said.

Sycamore's face darkened.

"...but only three bodies possessed," Pierrot continued.

"Explain."

"That's how demons are. Many arrive at the house, yet only one claims dominion," Pierrot shrugged.

A sharp exhale escaped the detective. "What else?"

"Hmm... the girl likely caused her parents' deaths."

"How'd you arrive at that?"

"Seems likely after a struggle. Parents worse for wear, gravity did the rest."

Sycamore gestured to halt, "Pierrot... talk properly."

"Weird that the demon ditched the girl after the scuffle," Pierrot continued, disregarding the request.

"Seriously," Sycamore sighed, "...explain in a way I can understand."

"I mean, there are next to no traces left in the girl. She bled normally too. Which is not very demon-like, if I say so myself." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Even more interesting, in the scenario that both parents were dead before her..."

"She likely jumped on her own."

Pierrot nodded, "You lot can match with that DNA stuff to get the deets, but does it really matter?"

Sycamore begrudgingly acknowledged Pierrot's reasoning, a groan escaping him. He ran his hands through his hair and delivered a slap to the wall. "Fine, we'll release the bodies."

Pierrot nodded at his words in agreement, as they began to walk in the hallway back to the unit.

"I'll send files to the office personally," said Sycamore.

"Directly to the Cathars?"

The detective nodded, "Yeah. Since it's the first three of the day."

"Well, good luck. Heading there too," said Pierrot.

"Urgent?"

"Just clarifications from an old case," He explained, tapped Sycamore's shoulder, and as he turned to head to the elevator, he received a call.

He paused and took it. "Roy?"

"A case, Pierrot. From Plows district. An active one." The other line said that he was frozen for a second.

"Send me the address." He quickly hung up. "Fuck," muttered Pierrot under his breath, running toward the elevator.

"Hey, careful!" Sycamore shouted in the hallways. Uncertain if Pierrot heard him, he sighed and went back to work.