My father in law is a detective. I met him a year ago when my partner introduced me to her family. He’s no Sherlock Holmes, but clever and seasoned one nonetheless. Normally he doesn’t really tell me, or anyone for that matter, about his work, and this Christmas Dinner was the first time I had ever realized what life changing work a detective did.
September 3 1991. His first case. He was about 22 at the time, a novice in the field of criminal work. The department were no fools, just letting a newbie go do dangerous work alone, so they assigned him to a more experienced detective.
The case was not the typical homicide typically seen in Chicago, but a suicide. Some kid, 16, hung himself, the department told him. They wanted my father in law and his mentor to go and investigate the scene. They were accompanied by a photographer and two others who would do note taking, fingerprints and footprints, measurements, etc.. A typical 5 man team led by my father in law partially, and his mentor majorly.
When they arrived at what was reported as a Motel, the suicide scene seemed very typical. Just a teen who hung himself in the middle of a room. My father in law, however, noticed that the noose seemed to be barbed. What seemed like metallic spikes emerged on the rope for the entirety of the length.
When measurements were done, dates recorded, and surroundings photographed, the two detectives were given clearance to inspect the body. The much more seasoned detective was looking through the corpse’s pockets while my father in law observed. After stumbling on what seemed to be a note, the detective pointed to one of the notetakers and told him to write. Then, he read from the note.
"10. We are the countdown to the end."
The suicide note was certainly spine chilling. They all pondered at what it could possibly mean. My father in law, young at the time, thought it was linked with a cult. His mentor shrugged it off.
One of the workers gave them a vial filled with blood, and asked them to bring it back to the department for a DNA scan. The two detectives complied.
Fast forward three days, and despite their efforts, they were unable to identify the teen and his DNA. My father in law got a phone call later that day, and reported to the department immediately. The news was very grim.
Four more suicides. He and his mentor were sent to investigate a female victim’s scene. I’ll cut out the details, but I will say that it involved self immolation, and the wall was painted in blood with a single, giant, number “8”. From all four suicides, the victims all died in different ways, all had a number involved, and the victims were unable to be identified.
The countdown stopped then. My father in law continued with his work. He’s a seasoned detective now, and doesn’t deal with the blood and guts anymore. He’s moved on to shoplifting and vandalism cases now.
That’s all he’s told me. That’s all I know.
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