Upper District was a bustling commerce center and to the inattentive it looked as if there was nothing out of place, but McCree could sense the tension and unease that bubbled just beneath the surface. The air of business as usual was a facade. The people that lived here were scared. They were unused to death and violence. The castles they had built for themselves from the wealth they accrued and hoarded allowed them to forget the blood and the muck that stained every gold coin they owned.
McCree sidestepped a charging carriage. He didnât recognize the coat-of-arms emblazoned on the side, but he hardly imagined the noble inside would have cared too much if his horses had trampled the Hunter. McCree aimed a derisive sneer at the back of the coach before turning on his heel and continuing up the street a ways until he came to a fork in the road. A left turn put him on the street where the local constabulary resided and he walked briskly towards the heavy oak door that marked the buildingâs entrance.
Inside, he was immediately greeted by a number of glares that ranged from the irate to the unnerved. McCree marched himself to the front desk where a sergeant-at-arms pretended to not look as intimidated by the Hunterâs sudden appearance as his quivering bottom lip told McCree he was.
âMorrison?â McCree asked simply.
McCree took the steps two at a time, moving with purpose as he navigated the hallway and entered Morrisonâs office without bothering to announce himself. Morrison looked up from his desk with a mixture of surprise and rage on his face.Â
âDo you not know how to knock, McCree?â Morrison hissed.
âDidnât see the point,â the gunslinger replied. âSeeinâ as how ye know why Iâm here.â
Morrison fixed the Hunter with an irate glare for a moment longer, then deflated as he sighed. âYes. Itâs the only thing anyone comes to me about these days.â He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. âSit. I will tell you what I can.â
She should have known that Morrison wouldnât be there. That heâd be in his office. At least she could still look at the crime scene. Or rather, a crime scene. The smell of blood was still faintly there.Â
She had the details from the case outline prior. Yet, she wondered if there was something missing. If there was more evidence that was missed. It was just like it was described to her. She could hear the distant chatter of the people in the streets. She was certain others had already looked over the crime scene.Â
Everything had pointed to a ritualistic murder. The way the victims were held up, the way the throat had been cut. It looked as if there was an alter set up. She slipped on her gloves to move the clothes around to look for any other marks. She grabbed out a small book and pen to quickly jot down some notes and drawings. The markings were almost vaguely familiar. Yet, she didnât know why. She couldnât place it...It was something she was going to have to research in the libraries.
She pocketed her book to grab out a town map. âDo you mind marking where the locations of the murders have been?â She offered the map to the officer, allowing him to use her pen. She wanted to know if there was a pattern, and if there was another place that could be hit.
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