Lost Phone Part 3
Monday Afternoon, December 14th, 2009
(Abigail – 29-year-old Police Detective)
The precinct smelled like burnt coffee and old paper. A familiar mix, the kind that clung to my clothes long after I left the building. It was early—too early—but I was already at my desk, sifting through a mountain of reports that didn’t interest me.
What did interest me was the case that had every officer whispering behind their hands.
A teenage girl, collapsed in the middle of a public park, no sign of injury, no drugs in her system. Just unconscious—like someone had hit the off switch on her body. She wasn’t the first.
I tapped my pen against my desk, flipping through the initial reports. Nora.. teenage girl found unresponsive by her mother. Still in a coma. Her medical report pointed to a cardiac arrest, triggered by extreme fear. But her mother found her—no signs of struggle, no reason for panic. Maybe issues at home? No… didn’t fit.
I hated cases like this. The ones with no logic, no leads. The ones that gnawed at the edges of my mind long after I went home.
A voice cut through my thoughts.
"Still at it, Carter?"
I didn’t bother looking up. I knew the voice—Detective Mark Landon. Mid-forties. Worn-out suit. Smelled like cheap cigarettes and regret. He leaned against my desk, coffee in one hand, a smirk on his face.
"You know me," I said, flipping another page. "I don’t like unanswered questions."
"Yeah?" He chuckled. "Or you just don’t like going home."
I gave him a tight smile. "Same thing."
He sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. “Better get home already. Girl’s in a coma, and something tells me that won’t change soon.”
His words annoyed me. Mark had a habit of acting like he knew everything, like he had the entire world figured out. But as much as I hated to admit it, he was probably right.
Nora wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
I forced a polite nod, stood up, grabbed my coat, and walked out of the office.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The subway was almost empty this time of night. A few exhausted office workers, a drunk couple laughing too loud at their own jokes, and a homeless man sleeping across three seats. The fluorescent lights flickered in that way that made you feel like you were trapped in a liminal space—half-awake, half-dreaming.
I sat by the window, watching the tunnel walls blur past in streaks of gray. My mind wandered.
In two days, my brother’s funeral.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, exhaling through my nose. My brother. Daniel. Dead at 32. Drug overdose.
It didn’t make sense.
Daniel was the golden child—social, successful, always the life of the party. A career in finance, a tight-knit group of friends, a great apartment in the city. He had everything.
At least, I thought he did.
The idea of him—him—dying in some dingy room, needle in his arm, or collapsed on a bathroom floor, barely breathing… it didn’t fit. It felt like I had missed something, like the story didn’t add up.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to dig into it.
I leaned back against the seat, rubbing my temples.
Daniel and I were never close. Different people, different lives. But still… he was my brother. And now, I’d be standing at his grave in two days, pretending I understood what went wrong.
The train jerked to a stop. My station.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The apartment was dark and silent when I stepped inside. I locked the door behind me, tossing my coat over the chair and kicking off my boots. The quiet pressed in around me.
Routine. That’s what I needed.
I walked into the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea I knew I wouldn’t finish. It was more about the process than the drink. Something to occupy my hands. Something to make me feel normal.
Afterward, a hot shower. The scalding water did nothing to wash away the exhaustion buried in my bones, but I stayed under it longer than necessary anyway.
Towel-drying my hair, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. A crease forming between my brows from too much frowning.
"You look like hell," I muttered to myself.
I shut off the light and walked to my bedroom.
Slipping under the covers, I stared at the ceiling, willing my mind to shut down. But sleep didn’t come easy these days. My thoughts tangled—Nora, Daniel, the feeling that something was off in both cases.
I closed my eyes.
Forcing myself to let go.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A sharp buzzing yanked me from sleep. My body jerked awake before my mind had fully caught up. The room was dark, my phone vibrating against the nightstand, screen glowing harshly in the shadows.
I squinted at the caller ID. Mark.
I groaned, running a hand over my face before answering. “Carter.” My voice was thick with sleep.
Mark’s voice came through, sharp and awake. “We got a situation. Close to you. Two blocks. Thought you might want to check it out until I get there.”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “At 3:30 in the damn morning?”
“Yeah, well, murder doesn’t check the clock,” he muttered. “Listen—small apartment, belongs to a student named Lars Haralson. His neighbor called it in. Said he saw the kid earlier today, fine and well. But when he got home just now, he noticed something…” Mark hesitated.
I frowned. “Something like what?”
“A sticky liquid seeping from under Lars’ door.”
The sleep left my body instantly. “Blood?”
“Neighbor thinks so. No answer when he knocked. Called 911. We got a unit heading there now, but I’d rather have you on the scene first.”
My feet were already hitting the floor. “I’m on it.”
“A cruiser will pick you up in five. Meet the neighbor. See what we’re dealing with.
I hung up and moved fast.
I flicked on the bathroom light, wincing at my reflection. I splashed cold water on my face, the shock waking me up more than the call had. A quick brush of my teeth, hair tied back into a tight ponytail.
I grabbed my badge and gun, securing them on my belt. Clothes? Black jeans, a fitted long-sleeve shirt, my worn leather jacket. Boots laced up tight.
As I shoved my phone into my pocket, I heard a faint honk outside. The cruiser.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my keys, and headed downstairs.
The night air was biting, the streets silent except for the occasional distant hum of a passing car. A patrol vehicle idled by the curb, its headlights casting long shadows across the pavement.
I pulled the door open and slid into the passenger seat.
The officer, a fresh-faced kid who looked barely old enough to shave, gave me a nervous nod. “Detective Carter?”
“That’s me.”
He put the car in drive. “Apartment’s just around the block. Neighbor’s already outside waiting.”
I nodded, my fingers tapping against my knee as I stared out the window.
The patrol car rolled to a stop in front of a small, run-down apartment complex. Dim streetlights flickered.
The neighbor was already waiting outside, pacing near the entrance. A cabbie, judging by the uniform and the lingering smell of cigarettes and stale coffee. His face was pale, his hands shaking as he ran them over his balding head.
I stepped out of the car, the cold air biting against my skin. "Secure the perimeter," I ordered the officer as I walked up to the man. "Make sure no one else comes in or out."
The officer nodded and moved toward the entrance as I turned my attention to the neighbor.
"You the one who called it in?" I asked.
He nodded quickly, eyes darting toward the building as if it might swallow him whole. "Yeah—yeah. Name's David Matthews. I live right next door to Lars. I—I saw him this morning, just fine. I swear he was fine! But then I came back after my shift, and I saw..." His voice trailed off, his breathing uneven.
"The blood," I finished for him.
He swallowed hard and nodded. "I knocked. No answer. I—I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t wanna open the door myself, y'know?"
"You did the right thing calling it in," I assured him as we made our way upstairs.
Every step felt heavier as we climbed toward Lars' apartment. The hallway was eerily silent, the kind of silence that made my stomach knot.
Then, the smell hit me.
Even before I reached the door, the stench of rot and decay wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket. It was thick, putrid—the kind of smell that meant death had been sitting for a while.
I stopped in front of the door. The hallway light flickered above me. Blood oozing from beneath the door confirmed what I already suspected.
I knocked. "Lars Haralson? This is the police. If you're in there, open up."
Silence.
I tried the handle.
Unlocked.
I tensed. This wasn’t right. A door left unlocked, blood pooling beneath it—this wasn’t right at all.
I turned to David. "Go downstairs. Tell the officer to get up here. Now."
His eyes widened. "Wait—you're going in alone?"
I ignored the question, pushing the door open.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
I pulled on my gloves and stepped inside.
The air was thick—soaked in death. The room was dim, only a flickering overhead light giving it an eerie glow. Shadows stretched unnaturally against the walls, warped by the blood smeared across them.
And in the center of the room—
The body.
Or at least… what was left of it.
I had seen brutal crime scenes before. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, burn victims. But this?
This was something else entirely.
**Skin ripped apart in jagged, uneven patches. Bones shattered and jutting out through the remains of flesh. The face—**or what was left of it—barely resembled a person anymore. Clothes torn to shreds. Blood—so much blood—splashed across the walls, soaked into the carpet.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the nausea back.
No hesitation. Stay focused.
Then I saw it.
The phone.
Lying on the ground near the body. The screen cracked but still intact.
And despite the blood coating everything in the room—
The phone was completely clean.
My fingers twitched, hesitating before picking it up. Instead, I pulled an evidence bag from my coat pocket and carefully slid it inside. Something about it didn’t feel right.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
Heavy boots pounded up the stairs.
A group of officers filled the doorway, forensics right behind them. The tension in the air thickened as they took in the scene.
Sergeant Davis was the first to step inside, jaw tightening as his eyes scanned the room.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pulling his scarf up over his nose. “You weren’t kidding.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I handed him my notes. “Secure everything. We need a full forensic sweep—prints, fibers, anything. Cause of death is obvious, but I need specifics. Time of death, foreign DNA, anything that stands out.”
Davis nodded, already barking orders at his team.
A few moments later, the coroner arrived, wheeling in a stretcher. His expression was unreadable as he took one look at the body.
I turned to him. “What’s your first instinct?”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Medically? Extreme trauma. Bones shattered, organs ruptured. But…” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “This doesn’t look like an attack with a weapon. Not a knife, not a blunt object. It almost looks like…”
He met my gaze.
“… something tore him apart.”
I clenched my jaw.
That’s what I was afraid of.
4:30 AM.
Forty minutes after his call, Mark Landon finally showed up.
I heard him before I saw him—his heavy footsteps approaching the apartment, his gruff voice exchanging words with the officers downstairs. Then, he stepped inside, stopping just past the threshold.
The moment his eyes landed on the scene, he froze.
I watched his usual smirk falter, his jaw tightening. His eyes flicked across the room, taking in the body, the blood, the sheer brutality of it all.
“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand through his graying hair. “What the fuck happened here?”
I crossed my arms. “Wish I had an answer for you.”
Mark exhaled sharply, stepping closer, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a normal kill.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”
His gaze flicked to the evidence bag in my hand. “What’s that?”
I held it up. “A phone.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s important?”
I nodded slowly. “It was perfectly clean. No blood, no smudges. Like someone placed it there after everything else.”
Mark frowned. “And? You planning on checking it out?”
“Yeah. First thing in the morning.”
Mark studied me for a second, then nodded. “Alright.” He glanced back at the body, exhaling.
The next hour at the crime scene was methodical, procedural.
Mark and I went through Lars' apartment, searching for anything else that could point us in the right direction. Signs of forced entry? None. Weapons? None. Anything out of place? Besides the fact that the entire room looked like something out of a horror film—not really.
Once forensics had taken over, bagging what little evidence we had, Mark and I finally left the apartment.
We didn’t speak much after that.
It was still dark outside, the early morning air cold and unforgiving. The street was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made you feel like the world had stopped.
Mark’s car smelled like stale cigarettes and old leather as we slid inside.
He drove. I stared out the window.
At some point, we stopped at a 24-hour diner, grabbing two black coffees. Neither of us said much—just a few muttered words about the case, about the mess we had just walked out of.
But mostly, we sat in silence.
Both of us trying to make sense of something that made no damn sense at all.
Back at the Office – 6:10 AM
The precinct was just waking up as we walked in. Officers filing in for the morning shift, the usual haze of coffee and exhaustion settling over the place.
First things first—I went straight to the evidence room.
I handed over the collected items, including the phone, logging everything in the system. A small part of me felt relieved that it was out of my hands. But that relief didn’t last.
Once that was done, I made my way to my desk. The weight of the night finally started settling into my bones as I forced myself to fill out paperwork.
Meanwhile, Mark prepped our report for the department captain.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The captain wasn’t happy.
Neither were we.
Mark and I stood in his office, laying out everything we had—what little that was.
Brutal murder. No suspects. No forced entry. No evidence to work with. Just a shredded corpse, a phone, and a crime scene that didn’t make any sense.
The captain rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath. "So, you’re telling me we have a murder where the only real suspect is a wild animal?"
Mark let out a humorless chuckle. "That’s the best theory we’ve got so far."
The captain sighed. "Fine. I want updates the second you get something concrete."
Mark and I exchanged glances. Yeah. If we ever get something concrete.
Mark went to collect forensics data.
I went to the coroner’s office.
The Coroner’s Findings – 8:15 AM
The morgue was cold, sterile, the smell of disinfectant lingering in the air.
Dr. Henderson, the coroner, stood over Lars’ body, flipping through his notes. His face was tight with discomfort.
I raised an eyebrow. "You look like you’ve seen something worse than usual."
He let out a slow breath. "That’s because I have."
I crossed my arms. "Talk to me."
He turned to the body, gesturing at the ruined remains of Lars Haralson.
"The injuries are… bizarre," he started. "Most of the damage was caused by sharp claws and bite marks. Like an animal attack."
My brows furrowed. "Like what? A bear? A mountain lion?"
Henderson shook his head. "That’s the thing—I don’t know. I can’t identify the animal. The bite patterns don’t match anything I’ve ever seen. And then there’s another issue…"
I exhaled. "Of course, there is."
Henderson lifted a gloved hand, pointing at the wounds.
"Some of these injuries look like they happened days ago."
I froze.
"Come again?"
"You heard me," he said, flipping through his notes. "Some of the lacerations, some of the muscle damage, it looks several days old. Maybe a week. But other wounds? They’re fresh. Less than 24 hours."
A chill ran through me. "Are you saying… he was attacked twice?"
Henderson frowned. "That’s what I can’t figure out. If that were the case, there should be scarring on the older injuries. The body should show signs of healing. But it doesn’t. It’s like…"
He hesitated, rubbing his jaw.
"Like what?" I pressed.
"Like the wounds have been frozen in time," he muttered. "Like they never got the chance to heal, but they also didn’t kill him right away."
I stared at him, my stomach twisting.
That didn’t make any damn sense.
And then he pointed at something else.
"The remaining patches of skin?" He gestured toward the small parts of flesh that hadn’t been completely torn away. "Some of them have cuts—deep ones. Almost like surgical incisions. Not done by claws or teeth. And judging by the scar tissue… they were at least a month old."
My blood ran cold.
A month?
Something was very, very wrong.
I stepped back, swallowing the unease rising in my chest. "Send me a full report when you’re done."
Henderson nodded, though his expression remained tight.
I turned and walked out of the morgue, my mind racing.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————
I had barely left the coroner’s office when my phone rang.
Mark.
I answered immediately. "Tell me you’ve got something."
A long pause.
Then—
"I’ve got nothing."
I stopped in my tracks. "What do you mean, nothing?"
"Forensics came back empty," Mark said, frustration heavy in his voice. "No fingerprints. No DNA. No forced entry. No foreign material. Not even stray hairs or fibers. It’s like nothing was in that apartment except Lars."
I clenched my jaw.
"No prints?" I repeated. "Not even Lars'?"
"Not even his," Mark confirmed. "His own goddamn apartment, and there aren’t even his own fingerprints on the doorknobs. The furniture. The walls."
A cold dread settled in my stomach.
None of this made sense.
None of it was possible.
"Alright," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "We’ll regroup at the precinct."
Mark sighed. "Yeah. See you soon."
The call ended.
I stood there for a long moment, gripping my phone, staring at nothing.
The evidence was telling us nothing.
The body was telling us everything.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized—
This case was only going to get worse.
The day had been frustratingly unproductive.
Interrogating neighbors, following up on leads that led nowhere, retracing Lars' last steps—it was all useless. Everyone saw him alive and well that morning. His university friends swore he had no injuries, no discomfort, nothing out of the ordinary.
By the time I got back to my apartment, my head was pounding.
The weight of everything—the case, my brother’s funeral tomorrow—was pressing hard.
I kicked off my boots, tossing my badge onto the counter, and headed straight for the bathroom.
A long, hot bath.
I rarely indulged in them, but tonight, I needed it.
I sank into the steaming water, my muscles finally relaxing. My mind, however, didn’t. The images from Lars’ apartment, the blood, the torn flesh—they wouldn’t leave.
I closed my eyes. Let the heat dull my thoughts.
Tomorrow was Daniel’s funeral.
And I wasn’t ready.
Wednesday, December 16th, 2009 – Funeral Day
The alarm dragged me from restless sleep.
7:30 AM.
I moved through my morning routine on autopilot—coffee, light breakfast, shower. Mechanically, I prepared. Dark clothing, tied-back hair, no makeup.
By the time I arrived at the cemetery, I felt… nothing.
I saw my parents immediately. Molly and Jake Carter.
They stood near the gravesite, holding each other. My mother’s face was puffy, red from tears. My father stood rigid, looking far older than I remembered.
I approached slowly, feeling like I was watching a scene from someone else’s life.
Molly turned to me first, her voice fragile. “Abigail…”
I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak.
Jake gave me a long look before exhaling. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
My jaw tightened. “Of course, I came.”
Molly wiped her nose with a tissue. “He always talked about you, you know. About how proud he was of his sister, the detective.”
My throat closed up.
I didn’t know what to say.
I should have said something. Should have told her that I missed him. That I didn’t understand why this happened. That I felt angry—so damn angry that I couldn’t even find the tears.
But I didn’t say any of that.
Instead, I just nodded again. “Yeah.”
She stared at me for a moment, her lip trembling, but she said nothing else.
Jake put a hand on my shoulder, firm, yet hesitant. “It’s alright, kid. I know you and him weren’t always close. But… I know this is hard.”
I swallowed, nodding. Everything felt blank.
Like I was stuck behind a glass wall, watching but not feeling.
The ceremony started. Words were spoken. Words I barely heard.
When it ended, I walked with my parents toward the parking lot. The world felt muted. A haze. I followed their movements without thinking, without processing.
And then—
My phone vibrated.
I pulled it out of my pocket—but it wasn’t my phone.
I froze.
It was the other phone.
The one from the crime scene.
The one that was supposed to be in the evidence room.
What the hell?
Before I could even think, the screen lit up.
A message appeared.