#plz imagine all the black artists on it IT WOULD FUCK SO HARD

[meowdance]

I love goth music bro

Like wdym you dont like “I WANT TO HOLD YOUU CLOSEE SKIN PRESSED AGAINST ME TIGHTTT” as a lyric? Those lyrics GO HARD!!!

[profiler-in-courage]

I am humbled 16 people have read my Claes Bang detective bullshit lol. Here is Ch. 2 & 3. Long af as always.

(I have yet to think of a title. Someone send me suggestions plz)

Chapter 2. 

The 7th Precinct was a media frenzy when Emerson pulled up. By 8 am, all the local news outlets had received some tip about the latest murders and it looked like all of them had sent a reporter. 

Emerson scanned the outside of the building, trying to find an entrance that wasn’t guarded by media. He stuffed case files he had taken home into his messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder, ready to walk-sprint. 

He lowered his gaze to the ground. Eye contact was what got you. 

As he reached the sanctuary of a door, he mentally congratulated himself on  avoiding the bombardment of questions he quite frankly, wasn’t prepared to answer. 

He sat his bag on his desk and headed over to Burnham. His sarcastic best friend of seven years always made the morning after a murder less dark.

“Hey Emerson,” Burnham sipped through a mug of milk. 

An unusual quirk about him was that Jacob Burnham simply drank plain milk. Never coffee. 

Whole, 2 percent, 1 percent, nonfat, whatever was in the back office fridge was good enough for him. 

Forty or seven-years-old? Nobody knew Burnham’s true age.

“Forensics came in,” he waved a file at Emerson. “No prints or DNA of any kind, same as always. Christ.”

Burnham shook his dirty blonde head and handed the papers over.

“Fuck Em, we are never going to catch this guy unless he leaves us something.”

Emerson flipped through the forensics report. Like Burnham had described there was nothing of significance. 

“He will eventually slip up, they always do,” he said, trying to be the positive one.

“Did the families have anything to offer?” 

His friend shook his head, “Just the usual. Victims never got into any trouble, well behaved, no enemies. Nothing out of the ordinary. Can’t imagine why anyone would want two 15-year-old girls dead.” 

Emerson’s mind flashed to Abigail. He was afraid for her. She was smart, but he was sure Halley Reece and Melanie Myers had been smart too. Hell, they may have even known his niece. Same high school. 

The image of Abigail lying in a ditch somewhere creeped across his mind. He shut his eyes.

The feeling of dread was slowly worming its way back into his stomach. 

He went back to his desk, dropping the very thin report onto it. 

It barely made a sound. 

He pulled his phone out of his bag. It was the first time he was checking it this morning. 

He was bad at that. 

One text from his sister and one message from Gwyn. 

He opened his sister’s first.

Emerson, the girls they found last night went to Abigail’s school….this just became a little too close for comfort. I almost made her stay home today.

He sighed, not knowing what to say to Eve. Obviously she couldn’t lock Abigail up in the house, the girl had to go to school and have a life. 

You can’t stop living just because of horrors, he thought.

He sympathized with his sister though, he was just as worried for his niece as she was. 

He scratched his eyebrow and opened up Gwyn’s message next. 

G: 203-637-1366

Was that her phone number? He scrolled to see if she had said anything either before or after, but she had not. It was just her phone number. Or so he assumed. 

Quite bold, he thought. But he oddly liked the cut to the chase showing.

“Any luck in that department?” 

Burnham was standing over his shoulder looking down at the open Tinder app.

Emerson slipped the phone into his front pocket, “Not really.”

“I told you to go on that date with Kate’s sister. Who knows, you could be getting laid every night.” Burnham shrugged. 

Emerson scoffed, “Your wife’s sister is 59 remember?”

A stupid smile flashed across Burnham’s face, “Hey but she’s single! And how do you know you don’t like older women?” 

Emerson blinked, at a loss for words. 

“All I’m saying is we could be brother in laws. Take one for the team Em!”

Emerson swiveled to his computer screen.

“I see you enough already,” he grumbled.

Burnham slapped him on the back, laughing softly. 

Emerson poured over the photos on his desk. One of a woman with the soles of her feet skinned to the point where you could see the bone, another with such horrendous strangulation marks around the neck the purple coloration was almost black. Both were women who had been killed by the Creekmore Serial Killer. 

He was deep in thought, trying to see some connection between all the victims, something he did routinely with no success for this case. 

It was like looking at a math problem he didn’t have the formula for. 

The pocket of his dark blue wool button-up buzzed. It was a text from Gwyn. 

G: So what are you looking to get out of a dating app?

Emerson paused before answering, trying to find sufficient words to make “looking to date” sound less horrendous. 

E: Looking to date. What about you?

He figured he may as well just tell the truth. 

G: I’m looking to get absolutely wild in the bedroom. Nothing more, nothing less.

Emerson’s eyebrows sprung up. Maybe he had misjudged Gwyn. He wasn’t looking for just sex. 

Burnham always joked that Emerson should be a priest.

He figured he would wait to respond if he responded at all. The excitement about his new match had been all but snuffed out after her proclamation. 

He pushed his glasses up so they rested on the top of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt the pang of loneliness he sometimes felt when thinking about his love life. 

He missed his wife. He missed having someone to come home to, talk to, feel beside him as he slept. He missed how he was before. 

Ever since Lyla had passed he had been different. Not as cheerful, not as funny, he actually used to be somewhat of a practical joker. 

He had thought his old self would return after the grieving process was done, yet here he was years later and no relief. 

Lack of female interaction certainly wasn’t helping either. 

Emerson sighed. Maybe he should try the one-night-stand thing. Though the thought of it had always felt awkward. 

Why have sex with someone you hardly know? 

His phone vibrated, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

G: Did I scare you off? I was joking btw. 

He let out a small sigh of relief. Ashamed that he was so bad at the whole dating thing that this one match seemed to be the end all be all. 

E: Sorry, was working. He fibbed. But I am glad to see you won’t objectify me for my body.

G: Well, that’s only because I haven’t seen your body. 

Emerson chuckled. He liked her witty remarks. 

How soon was too soon to ask someone on a date? Were there Tinder rules? Did he care? 

Not really. 

E: How would you like to see it? Fully clothed of course. 

He felt his heart rate pick up. He hadn’t felt excited like this in a long time. 

Of course, that’s when Burnham decided to interrupt.

“Those photos telling you anything yet?” he asked. 

Emerson shook his head, “No unfortunately.” 

His friend sat on the edge of the desk, “This fucking bastard leaves no trace. No DNA. Nothing.”

With the lack of info they had that was all Burnham really ever said about it.

Hard to do, thought Emerson. 

He saw his phone vibrate on the desk.

Burnham’s eyes followed his friend’s. 

“So…you sure Tinder isn’t working out for you?”

Emerson rolled his eyes, “Oh Christ.”

After enduring more teasing from Burnham than he would’ve liked, his fellow detective finally left to go bother someone else. 

Despite the torture that had felt like he was being waterboarded, Emerson had not let anything slip about his potential date. 

Not all things were meant to be shared among friends, not yet anyway. Besides, he had only started talking to her last night. Everyone needed to relax, him included. 

He opened her message. 

G: I would love to. Name a time and place and I’m there.

Chapter 3. 

Coffee. That wasn’t too casual and not too formal right? Or so Emerson hoped. 

So here he sat at some local place downtown. Waiting and a bit nervous. 

He heard the door open and he saw her. His eyes followed hers as she looked around for her date. 

He lifted his finger slightly. 

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” she said as she sat down across from him. 

Emerson tilted his head in confusion, “What do you mean?” 

She smirked, “That you look exactly like your photos.” 

“Oh,” he chuckled. “Have you been on many dates where that wasn’t the case?” 

She ran a hand through her long hickory colored hair, “More than I’d like.” 

Gwyn looked exactly as she had in her photos too. Emerson hadn’t even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t. 

Which he probably should have considering he met her online. 

He studied her. She was staring at him, looking him up and down. He smiled, amused. 

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. 

“I would,” she said. 

Emerson waited for her to say what she wanted. A few seconds went by. 

This is awkward, he thought as his eyes darted from side to side. 

He cleared his throat. 

“What would you like?...” he asked.

Gwyn smiled mischievously, “You're a detective. Read me. What do you think my order is?”

Interesting, he thought. 

He tilted his head slightly, finally drinking in everything about the woman who was across from him. 

She was wearing a tight black turtleneck, dark blue jeans, and a silver chain-linked bracelet. 

Her makeup was simple, she didn’t need much of it. She was naturally beautiful. Her hair had a shine to it and it curled into a slight wave. 

She had with her a plain black satchel. Big enough to fit only a wallet and a phone and possibly a few other womanly essentials. 

She was simple. But, sophisticated. At least that is what her appearance told him. 

Emerson remembered that her bio had said she was an artist. Which must mean she was somewhat serious about coffee. Not the frappuccino type. 

But, there was a softness to her. She didn’t appear to take herself too seriously, judging from her text messages. 

So probably not black coffee. 

Gwyn waited patiently for him to finish his assessment. A hint of a smile on her lips. 

“I think I got it,” Emerson said as he turned to walk towards the counter. 

“Hi, can I get one iced hazelnut latte and one hot Americano with cream please,” he told the barista. 

Emerson turned to look back at Gwyn. She was far enough away so she wouldn't have heard the order. 

He wanted to see her shock when she found out he was right. He was certain he was. 

He smiled to himself. 

He walked back to their table with the drinks. Gwyn was sitting looking bemused. Her legs crossed, her eyes following his every move.

“So, what did you decide for me?” she asked. 

Her voice was soft. He liked it. It reminded him of the way a stream sounds in a quiet forest.

Emerson said nothing. Just simply handed her the drink. 

Her eyes sparkled as she took it from his hand. Her gaze holding his. 

For a moment, he thought he might have gotten her wrong. 

Gwyn took a sip of the Americano and raised her eyebrows. 

He could tell she was trying to hide her amazement. She didn’t want to give him complete satisfaction and he liked that. She was fun.  

“Well Detective Woods, I suppose you are very good at your job then,” she smiled. 

Emerson beamed.

“Only a little,” he said as he took a sip of his latte. 

Gwyn let out a small laugh, shaking her head, “Is it too soon to say I already want to see you again and this date has been what, 10 minutes?” 

He looked at her over his straw. He felt the same. 

He felt something. For the first time since his wife.

“Now let me do you,” she said. 

Emerson paused, “What…”

“Let me read you,” said Gwyn, sipping her coffee. 

He sat back, trying to hide a smile, “Alright.”

Gwyn rubbed the bottom of her chin with her thumb as she studied the man across from her. 

He was handsome, that much was obvious. Rugged around the edges but not sharp, which was good. It made him look kind. 

He was wearing a grey quarter-zip pullover sweater, the beginnings of a burgundy collared shirt peeking out. His tortoise shell glasses made him look like he could be walking the halls of Oxford and be at home. 

Faded dark green pants with...were those cowboy boots? Interesting. 

So he wasn’t from Connecticut. 

The eyes behind the glasses were dark yet welcoming. A few days old stubble coated his face. 

His hair, thank god he had a full head of it, was dark. Perfectly styled in the ever popular comb over. 

It was too long for him to be ex-military but short enough that she could tell he liked things neat. Gwyn couldn’t quite tell if it was black or just a very dark shade of brown. 

Luckily they were seated by a window and he moved ever so slightly so that a ray of sunshine hit him. 

Midnight brown, was that a color? It was now. Silver bits were beginning to show their glint throughout Emerson’s hair.

If she was being honest he didn’t look like a police detective. They usually were only this good looking in movies. He could have been a writer or a professor that female students day dreamed about. 

The cowboy boots were throwing her off. 

Was he Texan? 

She didn’t remember hearing an accent, but then again they had only said a few sentences to each other. 

And yet, she knew she wanted a second date. She needed to impress him. She didn’t know she already had.

“Judging from your boots you aren’t from here, I’ll be generic and guess Texas?”

He nodded, waiting for Gwyn to continue. 

“You’re smart, otherwise you wouldn’t be a detective and you most certainly would not have gotten my order right. You're patient, you would have to be to be willing to sit here right now and listen to me.” 

Emerson chuckled, taking another sip of his latte. 

Gwyn continued, “Your eyes are hard but your face is gentle. You have seen and been through monstrous things but you don’t let it affect your character. You’re quiet, which leads me to believe you’re polite. Which is good because I can’t stand loud boisterous men.” 

Emerson leaned forward. He hadn’t expected her to be this good. 

“Between the way you look and my expectation that you are a good man, you must be single for a reason. So, I am guessing your ex either was unfaithful or died.” 

Gwyn was blunt. Emerson didn’t know how he felt about that. 

He scratched his cheek, “She passed away.”

Gwyn looked down at the table, confidence leaving her for only a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

Emerson shrugged, “But you were right.” 

Gwyn smiled softly. 

He could tell she enjoyed being right. Though not with a haughty arrogance. He respected that. 

“And how did you learn to read people so well? Are you an ex detective?” he asked, amused. 

Gwyn twirled a strand of hair in her fingers, “It’s not hard to see what people project.” 

Emerson smirked, nodding. 

Oh she’s very smart, he thought. 

They talked for hours after conducting their own way of breaking the ice. Gwyn could now hear the hint of an accent. 

They discussed movies, music, food, books, especially books. 

She liked nonfiction. He preferred fiction. 

Emerson was entranced with the way Gwyn spoke. Her words were light but intelligent. And she held eye contact. 

She had already assessed why he was single. So why was she?

He continued to study her. 

Her posture was welcoming, her sentences were flirtatious, but her expressions were guarded. 

Guarded meant she had been hurt before. Most likely multiple times. 

Though with an open posture, not physically. 

He couldn’t detect anything to signify she was nervous. She hadn’t been the entire date. She was confident. She could have anyone she wanted. 

So why didn’t she? 

“Figured me out yet?” she asked, pulling Emerson out of his thoughts. 

He looked down, embarrassed. 

“Not quite,” he smiled.

“Good. I need you at least intrigued enough for a second date,” she said. 

“Possibly more,” said Emerson, playfully reaching.

“Possibly,” Gywn responded, her eyes dancing.

She leaned forward on the small circular table. 

“Emerson Woods you are something.”

He winked. It made her laugh. 

“As much as I would love to talk with you all day, I should be going,” she said. 

Emerson nodded. He probably should too. They had spent nearly three hours in this coffee shop. 

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, wanting every second he could with her. 

She turned to him, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

“Oh there is no need. I took an Uber, car’s in the shop after a very nasty old woman felt the need to rear end me.” 

Emerson laughed. He could offer her a ride. Should he?

“Would you like me to track her down for you? I could probably find something to pin on her,” he said, glancing down at where her hand had just been. 

She giggled, rolling her eyes, “Could you please? She’s costing me 400 dollars.”

They walked outside. It was overcast and there was a slight breeze. Emerson watched her hair lift in the wind. 

Before she could take out her phone to call an Uber, Emerson walked over to the passenger side of his car that was parked along the curb. He opened it. 

“I promise you’ll have a more enjoyable experience with me rather than someone you don’t know. If you’ll allow me.”

Gwyn bit her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows, “But I don’t know you. Not really.” 

Emerson paused. She was right. Three hours of conversation didn’t exactly mean they knew each other. And with the Creekmore Serial Killer making headlines for months, she was probably wise to refuse him. 

“I suppose that’s true,” he said. “Though I am a policeman,” he kept his hand on the door handle. 

She bopped her head from side to side, feigning weighing her options. 

“Can I rate you if you're a bad driver?” she joked, stepping over to the car.

Emerson chuckled, “I promise to be extra careful with you.”