Ultraviolet ✔️

2.1

Chapter Two

The police code for homicide is 187. I know that code the best.

I sleep with my phone next to my bed, the ringer turned up so that it'll rattle against the bedside table and shock me awake when they need me down at a scene. The chief calls, I come. Simple as that. I've trained myself to hear it. I'm never deep enough in sleep to miss a message. The officers are always ready for the worst, and so am I.

It's 2:37 am.

I'm somewhere between nightmares when the first ring goes off, my ringtone as loud and piercing as the speakers can manage. For a second, I don't realize my phone is ringing, but in a matter of seconds, I'm less discombobulated. I fight through the haze of sleep and reach over, blindly fumbling in the dark until my fingers close around the case of my iPhone.

Squinting at the screen, I raise my cell to my ear. "Hello?" I mutter groggily.

"Carrigan?" A familiar voice says.

Matt Conrad. Police chief. NYPD. He's got a wife and two kids, probably even some friends, but I have a feeling I'm at the top of his speed dial. I'm a quick solution for a case, a valuable tool, or something like that.

By his tone, I know this can't be good. My heart picks up speed when I hear someone speaking into a radio in the background, and the three dreaded letters ring out. 1-8-7. There's been a homicide. There are plenty in a city this size, but if he's calling me, it's because I saw it coming.

"Hi," I groan, throwing an arm over my face. "Where am I going this time?"

Pleasantries are overrated. It's early— or late depending on how you look at it— and there's no point in acting like the situation is anything but dreary. Visiting a crime scene is far from a pleasant experience. There will be blood. I'll be asked lots of question. That's the deal. It's how it works.

"Homicide. Vic is Trenton Anderson. You were right, Carrigan. Ten gunshots to the chest. The whole thing was a savage murder. We need you to get down here and give the sketch artist a description of the killer."

Chief Conrad is a man of few words. Every sentence he speaks is concise, to the point, just ready to state it like it is. It's admirable, really, that he doesn't waste all of his time filling the empty spaces in conversation with pointless talking. We both don't say much. I think it's why we get along so well.

"How do I go about talking to a sketch artist if I wasn't there, Chief?" I yawn.

"You know full well that you were there." He lowers his voice. "Just not in the traditional sense. Forty-three cases you've solved. I don't believe in a god, not with the way these streets are, Violet. But I have my money on you. You tell 'em you live in the apartments across the street. I can handle the rest. We're counting on you for a solid lead."

We're counting on you. I could pay off my student loans if I got a dollar every time I heard that. It's not like Chief makes me do any of this; I came to him with what I could do, after all. The thing is, I can't walk away anymore. This is what gives me purpose.

I'm climbing out of bed now, my phone tucked in between my shoulder and my chin as I reach for a pair of jeans off the floor. For a second, the blood rushes from my head to my legs, leaving me dizzy enough to need to brace myself against the desk for support. The street light acts as my only guidance as I fumble for the light switch.

For a second there's only silence between the chief and me, my mind racing.

Every day there's a blur of deaths, each time my skin brushes another person's. It near kills me every time it happens. This one was a few weeks ago, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the call came, dragged me out of my slumber, and sent me on another goose chase. He was a man I bumped into at the grocery store. I took a picture of him before I called it in.