QR Code Murders: Disjointed

City streets looked well kept save for the blood pooling near the curb. It was the twelfth rapper to be slain in two weeks. Summer wind kicked up and the heat carried the smell of iron throughout the East Side of Wilmington.

It was four in the morning but Yawquisha was ready when Kim called her. She stepped into the car with her equipment.

“I truly never thought there were so many rappers in this city. Even enough to be gunned down in the street,” Kim said to Yawquisha.

“You’d be surprised. With these deals that let virtually anyone on a label in exchange for their publishing, licensing, and masters. These executives are literally killing for talent. Ask Parton.”

Something lurked in Kim’s mind. It was like a black mamba slithering its way through consciousness. She wanted to control it, not kill it. The serpent was too precious to stomp with her heel. It was the idea of how all these deaths could have mounted up with such swiftness. She let the snake slide into the bushes of her thoughts.

At the scene, twenty minutes before the feds again, Yawquisha studied timestamps and markers. She placed the digital cartridge in the camera. It was like she was loading a rifle and fixing her sights.

Kim looked at this and immediately thought of the smell of cleaner lubricant preserver (CLP). The oily, almost buttery odor of the fluid that kept guns in working order now flashed across the screen of her mind.

“For federal agents, you would think they would be ahead of time.”

“We all can’t be perfect,” Kim retorted acidicly.

Finally, St. Kitts and Darby arrived on the scene. They held cups of coffee and even had enough for Kim and Yawquisha.

“We at least have an excuse this time, ladies,” Darby said and offered the women some java. They politely declined but thanked him for the gesture. He took it all in stride.

“It’s another one. This time he at least made it to age twenty. His artist bio is on the QR code. Berethro Weeks. He had just signed to Coca Sounds Recordings,” Kim pointed out.

“Possibly drug related?” St. Kitts asked.

“It’s nothing to rule out. Anyone who names their label that may have put in work in the streets. He was just a starving artist probably in his bedroom making beats. Mr. Weeks was probably excited to get in his closet and put a stocking cap over a microphone and pour out his soul. Now, he’s here,” Kim observed further.

“Whoever is still out here committing these homicides is obviously deranged and envious. He or she is in complete opposition to the prosperity of life and of finding success early,” Darby stated.

“With Parton away, there’s still someone lurking because they think we’re going to just prosecute anyone for the hell of it,” St. Kitts said. Kim kept searching with her flashlight. She found some signs of a struggle. The body also looked contorted.

She flashed around as Yawquisha kept videoing.

“I’d say we’ve got two attackers,” Kim declared.

“What makes you say that, Detective?”

“There are separate sets of footprints…three. They all seem…disjointed. It was like they were all running from something.”

Yawquisha kept videoing the agents and the detective. She, at first, experienced apprehension around scenes like this. It wasn’t cold fear but a cool hesitation to be around so much death. Now, she had gotten so used to the sights and smells and the professionalism associated with addressing these locations where bodies had fallen. She summoned up every ounce of strength as she approached these cases.

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