Konig Rakha
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He smiled wryly at the text, waiting. Not an amused type of smile... a flat one. He knew the guy would figure it out eventually. Although they spent all their time staring at a computer screen, they weren't dumb.
Konig also knew something had been wrong- it was called a robbery, but from what he heard, it wasn't. That guy had known the woman, somehow, and he was determined to figure out how. He wasn't going to let this go, and WAS going to request it as soon as he got back. All he really hoped was that the woman was safe while he was gone. Since the police were treating it as a simple robbery, they weren't doing anything else. No protection for the woman or looking into anything. Burglar broke in, cop stopped him, case closed. He knew that wasn't true, but no one would believe him even if he spoke. He dropped his head back again and replayed in his mind what he so vividly remembered. He had entered, heard a voice. Just one. The burglars. He had gotten close enough to make out the words. The burglar asking for money. No, saying that the woman OWED him money. Konig's brow wrinkled as his eyebrows drew together. There had been a shot. The woman had screamed, but she was not shot. He remembered, vaguely, seeing a bullet hole in the wall a couple feet from where she had been. He had rushed in. The thief had turned and started to shoot at the woman. He had gotten in the way, taking the bullet for her. Before the thief could react, he killed them. Four rounds to the chest. Overkill? Yes, but he had been a little pissed. Then... the woman had said something, and went to get the phone... and he had passed out. Something definitely wasn't right.
He grabbed his phone as it buzzed, reading the two word message.
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No shit, Sherlock.
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He sent back, pressing his fingertips into his temple. Okay, maybe they WEREN'T so smart. At least they understood something was wrong, and seriously so.
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I'm asking you for help, however much I don't want to. Look into it. You're better than I'll ever be with a computer.
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He finally texted, regretting every word, but it was the only thing he could do while bedridden. If the department wouldn't help him, he'd have to turn to an... alternative method.
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Meanwhile, could you give me your name, or at least a fake name? I'm tired of thinking of you as the Stalker.
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He finished, running his fingers through his hair with a low sigh.
High Winds and Drifting Snow
