Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Spoilers: through 51
Summary: Roy hasn't learned from other people's mistakes
Previous Parts: Prologue | Part I | Part II
Notes: For chapters that are less than 1000 words long, it's taking me an awfully long time to churn these things out. Once again, thanks to tatooine, who has been having a sucky week. *sends love, liek whoa*
Staring at dead bodies never gets easier. Roy learned that long time ago. This one was particularly gruesome, though, and images of hacked up women flit through his mind. That was in the past though, he needs to focus on now. He stands in the morgue, staring at what was the remains of one James Glock.
The victim was a mid-thirties male with short black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes. It wasn't easy to tell anything else about him, as his body now looked like a massive bruise, all blues and purples. Beaten to death. Roy still wonders at the breadth of human cruelty. It's possible that the few days in the morgue heightened the appearance, made it worse, but it still looks horrible. A slash across Glock's stomach is stained red, but it wasn't what killed him. It's not severe enough.
He inspects the body as thoroughly as possible, glancing over spider webs of broken veins and arteries, doing his best to check for any clues that might have been left behind, that the coroner missed. Nothing. Glock was beaten to death by someone. That's all they really know. Roy wants to hit his head against a wall.
He listens as a few other inspectors report what they've found. There doesn't seem to be any motive. No money was taken. Glock didn't have any real enemies. From the looks of it, the man himself was clean.
The murderer had written something on the wall with the victim's blood. It had been washed off a few days ago, but the inspector in charge had a picture and a transcription of what had been written. Roy stares the picture.
The words were written messily, without much care for neatness. He can distinguish a few words, but beyond that, nothing. There seems to be a blur at the corner of the picture, but that's probably just a fluke. The transcription is almost as incomprehensible.
"How much more grievous are the consequences of wrath than the causes of it?" is written neatly on the paper the detectives handed him. He puzzles over it, turns it over in his brain. Maybe the murder was done in a moment of anger, but it doesn't seem likely. What random beater leaves cryptic messages on walls? It looks like the work of a serial killer, but there's only been one murder, so there's no pattern, no consistencies. The words could describe just about anything. He doesn't know.
There's not enough to go on. It's an isolated incident, but the killer seems like a psychopath. He's going to kill again, and Roy wants to stop him. He just doesn't know where to start.
Maes was always the best at this, the puzzling out of semi-related details into a coherent picture. The thought sends another spike of pain through Roy. What a waste. What a fucking waste of a life. Maes should be doing this, not Roy. Roy doesn't even know where to start. All he can do is wait.
When Roy gets back to his office, he stares at the casefile until the words overlap. He thinks he has all the details memorized, but they don't mean anything. Facts thrown together.
Maes should be here. He should be here, and they should be talking about the case, bouncing ideas off one another.He punches the desk with his left hand, and the pain is pleasantly numbing.
Hawkeye gets him some ice, and reminds him that there's no point in abusing himself over this case. Roy would agree, but the frustration is eating away at him piece by piece, and he doesn't know any way of getting it to stop.
Two brothers and a blonde haired girl walked through a valley of automail. They talked of trivial things, like games won with alchemy and a teacher that lurked behind every corner.
When another girl stole the older brother's watch, they chased after. It wasn't innocent, not really, but the death of a lieutenant colonel was far away, the death of James Glock even more so.
Central carried on without them.