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Blaine couldnâ€™t have imagined a worse ending. Blood covered the floor of the shit motel room and sprayed up the walls, almost to the ceiling. He glanced down at the broken body and cringed. The neck wound had probably caused most of this mess. His heart squeezed and his eyes burned. Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose to stop any tears from falling. Hell, he was a seasoned detective and shouldnâ€™t show weakness, plus if the others found out it would come back to haunt him. Thereâ€™d be jokes around the station about him crying like a baby. He shivered. No emotion, and no weakness.
Heâ€™d seen this kind of injury before. He knew the boy had felt the pain, suffering in death just as heâ€™d suffered in life. Unconsciously, Blaineâ€™s right hand sought out his own scars. First the fingers of his right hand grazed his left collarbone, then his left ribs, finally coming to rest on his right hip. Then, realizing what he was doing, he covered his movements by cocking his hip to the side and resting his hand there, as if he were casually observing the scene. Casual was far from how he felt. His blood boiled and his head spun.
The boy must have been scared shitless. Heâ€™d seen the knife coming at himâ€”had to have.
â€œHey, Wilson, how come you always stand like that at murder scenes? Never mind, Iâ€™m sure ice water runs through your veins.â€ His partner, Lucy Abbot, sauntered into the room. She was short, sassy and quick to laugh. Eventually, after heâ€™d worked with her for long enough, she would expect answers that he wouldnâ€™t want to give. Why didnâ€™t he date, what was his hang-up about girls? Ugh, maybe he should...but no, not yet.
â€œThis is a mess,â€ Blaine said.
â€œPeople round here donâ€™t know how to murder clean. Always is a mess.â€ Lucy pulled on a pair of gloves and flexed her fingers.
â€œHeâ€™s probably around fifteen, maybe sixteen.â€ Blaine knew the kid had to have been desperate. It was the only reason anyone would pick this life filled with skanky hook-ups, all for a little cash.
â€œThink he had family?â€ Lucy bent down to examine the body.
â€œAbbot, everyone has family. The question is why they didnâ€™t give a rip shit about him.â€
Her gaze connected with his. She looked hurt. â€œThey might have cared and just didnâ€™t know what to do.â€
â€œNo mother or father would ever want their little boy out here selling himself like this.â€
â€œWe donâ€™t know he was a prostitute.â€
Blaine looked away from the body, no longer able to stomach the scene. â€œThe kid was a pro. Look at how skinny he was. His fingernails are black, his knees worn. Just look at the red marks. He spent his free time on his knees, either blowing or being screwed.â€
â€œPoor kid.â€ Lucyâ€™s voice was full of pity.
Blaine didnâ€™t want to think about the life the kid had lived. Didnâ€™t want to think about the desperation of not knowing where your next meal would come from. The self-loathing and hate that accompanied turning tricks, or the false bravado the kid wouldâ€™ve had to have to keep up the life.
Flashes of desperate nights and lonely days played through his head. He blocked them out, focusing on the meticulous tasks of gathering evidence. The crime scene techs were doing their job, but he couldnâ€™t sit still. He slid on gloves and began sorting through the boyâ€™s clothes.
The kid'â€™s shoes were dirty and eaten through at the sole. Somehow the shoes had escaped the bloody mess. They must have been taken off before he was attacked.
Blaine carefully bagged each shoe. Next, he folded the shirt where it lay and slid the material into an evidence bag. He bunched the underwear and pants together so he didnâ€™t drop any stray hairs or fibres, then placed them in a separate bag.
After labelling each bag he called the photographer over and had them take shots of the bagged clothes and the flooring underneath where the clothing had been flung.
Lucy finished her conversation with one of the crime scene techs and made her way towards him. For a moment he wondered what she would say if she knew the truth about him. No one in DC had any idea. Hell, no one in his life knew of his past.
â€œDid it look like the clothes had been removed before death?â€ Lucy asked.
â€œProbably so. The techies will need to have the final say on that. What about you? Any thoughts?â€
â€œWhoever did this is a bastard.â€