“What the fuck!” he said as he leaned on the nearby brick wall to steady himself, retching at what he had just seen.

“You good, kid?” said his partner in his thick South Boston accent.

“Yeah, just need a minute,” he said.

“It never gets easier, kid, this job is fucked,” said his partner.

Ozwald David Shields, or Oz as he was called by almost everyone since he was just a small boy, stood 6’3” tall and had a warrior’s build, with fair but tanned skin, and certainly had an attractive look to him. He had piercing blue eyes and short, thick, chestnut hair that was usually kept very neat and styled but was a mess from the current conditions.

Oz had recently passed his detective’s exams, was top of his class, and had been assigned to the Homicide Division at the Boston Police Headquarters. He was now 29 years old and in his fifth year as an officer with the Boston Police Department. After all his time as a beat cop, or ‘Troopah’, as they would say in Boston, he thought he was ready for this, but nothing could prepare him for what he was looking at? Collecting himself, he stood up and walked back towards the body.

It was pouring rain, as it did so often in the early spring in Eastern Massachusetts. It was about 10:30 pm on a Thursday in late March. The rain was so cold as it poured down on them, the kind that immediately soaked and chilled right to the bone. As the rain fell, it flickered in the light of the halogen bulb mounted on the wall above them.

“It looks like they used a fucking wood chipper, man,” said Oz.

“Would be hard to get a wood chipper in here, kid. Just enough room for us and the garbage,” said his partner.

“What if it wasn’t done here?” said Oz, as he fought back a few more heaves.

Oz’s partner was a Boston Police veteran named Terry White. Terry was well in his forties at this point and had been in Homicide for 12 years now. Hardened from all that he had seen, not only during his time as a cop but just growing up in “Southie”, he showed no emotion to the horrific scene before them. Terry was shorter than Oz, he only stood at 5’10”. He was in pretty good shape for a man his age, fit, with only the slightest bit of a belly, most likely from the “few lahgahs” that he would have on the weekends. His salt and pepper hair kept very short and tight to his head. He thought the gray wouldn’t be as noticeable this way. Terry had hazel, fatherly-like eyes, the kind that would reveal so much more about what he was thinking than his expressions would.

“Are you alright? Can we do our job now?” asked Terry.

“Yeah, just give me a second. I wasn’t ready for this,” Oz said.

“You never are, kid. You never are,” said Terry. “So, what can you tell me about what you see here?”

“Well, from what is left, I would say we have a Caucasian female, in her mid-twenties to her early thirties. Not married or engaged, as there is no sign of a ring on her finger. I would guess that she was dumped here, as I don’t see any blood splatter on the walls or anything, though with this rain, who knows? There doesn’t appear to be any signs of sexual assault at first glance, as her clothes… uh… for the most part, are intact.”

“What about how she was killed?” Terry asked.

“Uh, the fact that her head and upper torso are beyond recognition would tell me that the cause had something to do with that. But I’m no doctor. I just hope for her sake she was dead, before whoever did this to her,” Oz said, trying to make light of what he was seeing. Although he still wanted to vomit every time, he looked at the gruesome scene before him.

“Doesn’t look like we’re gonna get any help from surveillance cameras, since there are none here in the alley,” Oz continued. “The officer first on the scene reported that there were no witnesses. Just the kid who saw the body when he was putting out the trash, that called it in. Do you think he’ll be able to tell us more about what he saw?”

“Nah, plus we’ll have to get permission from his Ma to talk to him since he’s a minor,” said Terry. “And I know his Ma, she’s a real wicked Cu…”

“I get it, Terry!” Oz said, cutting him off.

Oz reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves and put them on. They were hard to get on because his hands were so wet from the rain. Crouched, he looked up at the crime-scene photographer and asked, “You good?”

“Yeah, go ahead, I’ve got all the generals already,” said the photographer, another South Boston local.

Oz patted the pockets of the jeans on the young woman’s body, feeling for anything that will help identify her. Sliding his hands around under the body, feeling the rear pockets, still trying not to disturb the body too much. Nothing here. “No ID on her person,” he said. He choked back another wretch as he looked around for a purse or something, though that was doubtful, since his theory was that she was dumped here. He grabbed a nearby trash bag, probably the one dropped by the kid when he saw the body before he ran off. When he moved the bag, stunned by what he saw, there was a small purse. “Got a purse,” he yelled.

The photographer rushed over and snapped a couple of shots. The flash illuminated the area with each shot. The photographer gave Oz a nod to let him know he could now grab the purse and inspect it.

The purse was a small brown leather bag with a long, thin shoulder strap. A single tarnished metallic closure on the flap. Oz opened the purse and searched its contents. How do women fit so much in these things? He wondered. He found a small wallet with a student ID in one of the card slots. The ID was from Suffolk University. “Chloe Elizabeth Wilson,” Oz yelled out. She was an attractive young woman. “Brunette. Twenty-one years old. Local girl, from Bunker Hill.” So young, so much life left to live, he thought.

“Guess we got some bad news to deliver,” said Terry.

“Jesus, Terry! Do you have a heart, man?” said Oz.

“Nah, lost that years ago, kid. You’ll lose yours too,” said Terry.

Oz reached into his jacket and pulled out an evidence bag and put the purse and ID in it. He walked over and handed it to the officer on the other side of the police tape.

“We done here, Terry?” he asked.

“Yeah, kid. The geeks can take over from here. Let’s go get a coffee and warm up,” Terry replied.

The forensics team had yet to arrive on-site, or ‘the geeks’ if you asked Terry. That was his pet name for the Forensic Science Division. ‘Weird Science’ was what Terry called forensics. He never could wrap his head around how they could get so much information from a single swab. Some of his thoughts and opinions made Terry seem like a much older man than he was, reminiscent of someone born back in the early 1900s, rather than that of a man in his 40s.

Oz lifted the yellow plastic tape. Terry crouched under it, followed by Oz. They walked over to their car, a 2015 Chevy Impala, black, opened the doors, and got in. Now in the driver’s seat, Oz started the car and reached over to crank the heat. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to these cold rains, man,” Oz said.

“No? Doesn’t it rain like this back in Michigan?” Terry asked.

“It rains, but this seems different, colder, or something,” Oz replied.

“Maybe your balls just need to drop,” jabbed Terry.

“Really, Ter? You’re all over me tonight,” said Oz.

“Aww, kid. Did I hurt your feeling?” joked Terry. “Dunkees? Or do you wanna find one of them fucking Starbucks?”

Oz chuckled as he replied, “Nah, ‘Dunkees’ will be fine.”

The banter continued between the two detectives as they drove away. Neither one brought up what they just saw. That could wait for coffee.

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Inside a Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner from the crime scene (because in Boston, you can’t spit without hitting a Dunkin’), the two detectives sat sipping their coffees and reviewing the notes of what they just witnessed.

“You ever seen anything like this before, Ter?” asked Oz.

“No, not like that, kid,” replied Terry. “I’ve never seen anyone thrashed like that before. I mean, I’ve seen some wicked awful shit before, especially after the Marathon bombing, but this is twisted, kid.”

“Thank God! I hoped I hadn’t made a horrible career choice. I never thought I’d see anything so horrific and brutal,” said Oz.

“God has nothing to do with this, kid, this is something far beyond God,” Terry said.

“So, I was clearly wrong about the body being dumped there,” said Oz. “There is no way that the killer would drop the body there and then the purse. Whatever happened there, happened right there, and the rain must have washed any splatter away. Pretty much gonna make forensics’ life hell.”

“You got that right. I’m still trying to figure out what the frigging guy used to kill that girl,” said Terry. “And how strong is he? There was hardly anything left of that poor girl’s upper body. What did he use to do that?”

“First thing we should do is notify the next of kin,” said Oz.

“Fuck that, kid. Let a trooper do that job,” Terry said. “We are gonna have to talk to the parents at some point, but I ain’t gonna be the one to tell them their baby’s dead.”

“Aww, Terry, there is still a heart in there,” joked Oz.

“Don’t tell anybody you cawksuckah, I got an image to keep,” said Terry, resuming his hard exterior.

“Your secret is safe with me, man,” laughed Oz. “Alright, finish your coffee. I wanna get back to the station and start the paperwork on this one, so I can get home tonight.”

They downed the last bit of their coffee and headed out. Neither really saying a word to the other. It stayed this way all the way back to the station. Oz parked as close to the doors as he could, since the rain still poured down.

“I’m gonna bounce if you got this, kid?” said Terry, getting out of the car.

“Yeah man, go ahead. Like I said, I just want to get the paperwork started before I head home. Have a good night, Ter. I’ll see you in the morning,” said Oz as he closed the door of the Impala.

Terry walked off to his car in the far corner of the lot as Oz went up the stairs into the back of the station. Oz opened the door and headed inside, shaking off the rain, running his hands through his hair to squeeze out the excess water. He dropped the keys off with the motor pool before going upstairs to the detective pool to his desk. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he looked around. There were only a couple of other detectives there working at their desks, but otherwise, the office was quiet. Oz turned on his computer, logged in, opened a case file, and started to write his report.

Oz looked up at the clock on the wall to see what time it was. Twelve thirty! Fuck me! I gotta get home and get some sleep. Where did the night go? He looked back at the glowing computer screen and the blinking cursor, waiting for his next input. He recorded what he and his partner had seen, trying to be as descriptive as possible without making himself sick again. As he typed, he hoped that something would pop out at him, something that maybe he missed.

Outlook dinged, notifying Oz that a new email had just arrived. He opened up his Outlook app and saw that the photographer had sent the crime scene photos to him. Opening the email, he braced himself to relive what he saw tonight. One by one he went through the images. Looking at each one closely. Jesus! Who could have done this? He wondered. One image showed that the young woman’s head was completely non-existent, at least in any recognizable form, anyway. Her neck and shoulders appeared to be shredded. Something severely tore the flesh. What the fuck! Even the bones are thrashed! What the fuck did that? The pictures reminded him of the aftermath of a grizzly bear attack. That can’t be possible. The closest thing to bears in Boston are the Bruins!

Oz sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His eyes felt hot and stung a bit as he rubbed them. Fuck it, I’m far too tired to figure this out tonight. I better head home and get some sleep, if that is even possible after seeing this. He saved his file and shut down his computer, got up, grabbed his coat and threw it on, and headed out of the station to his car.

The night was eerily silent for such a metropolis. No sirens or horns, just the sound of the rain slapping against the pavement, joining the already large puddles that amassed in the parking lot. Oz walked to his car and got inside. Closing the door, he started the car.

Oz only lived a few miles from the station. Most days he would walk or ride his bike, but he was glad he had his car on days as miserable as this. It was the first car that he ever bought, a 2013 Ford Mustang GT, Deep Impact Blue Metallic, with dual white racing stripes from the hood to the trunk. He remembered when he bought it a few years ago before he came to Boston. He walked into the Ford dealership in Lansing. The salesman who approached him was your typical sleazy car salesman, he remembered thinking to himself. Oz remembered telling the salesman that he wanted the Mustang GT that was up on the ramp at the front of the dealership. Immediately, he began telling Oz that he was going to get so many chicks in that car. It was, as he put it; ‘super flash’ and ‘the ladies will love it’, that ‘it’s a total panty dropper’. What a douchebag. He laughed to himself, reliving that day in his mind.

Oz pulled into the underground lot at his apartment building and reversed into his parking spot. He got out of the car, hit the lock button on his remote. The honk from the car when it locked echoed in the garage. He walked through the garage, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls throughout the garage, to the steel man door leading into the apartment stairwell.

He climbed the four flights of stairs to the top floor where his little two-bedroom apartment was, unlocked his door, and walked inside. Ahh, it’s good to be home, he thought, flicking on the light over the foyer. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat on one of the empty hooks on the wall by the door.

His apartment wasn’t big by any means, but it didn’t have to be, after all, it was only him. The apartment had been modestly decorated and very clean. He was a bit of a neat freak. Not that he would admit that to anyone, especially the guys on the force. Oz had been so focused on work since he arrived in Boston that he didn’t have much of a social life. He’d met a few women since moving to Boston, but none of them could handle how dedicated he was to his job, so they didn’t stick around for long. He couldn’t blame them. Being a cop was everything to him. It was all he ever wanted to be since he was a kid, growing up just outside of Lansing, Michigan. He always picked the cops’ side when playing cops and robbers with his friends in the neighborhood.

Oz worked very hard at being a police officer, and even harder to become a detective. It was always what he wanted to be. He wanted to be just like the guys on TV and in the movies. Of course, in reality, it was nothing like that in real life. There was no roughing up the bad guy to get information, at least not without getting heavily reprimanded for it. No high-speed police chases through the streets of the city. No shootouts, guns blazing outside the bank as the robbers exited. But he was a detective now. This is where the actual police work happened, he told himself. This is where the crimes really get solved. Not now, though. Now it was time to get some sleep.