'Someone please come pull me out from the shadow of my doubt, wake me up, I'm falling' ~ Something's Gotta Give by All Time Low

It's been three weeks.

That sentence repeated itself every day, hour and minute. Nothing. They had found nothing. Everyone was losing hope as they battled continuously against the feeling of raw failure and defeat.

Alan couldn't get the image out of his head. It was burned into his memory and could not be undone. He doubted the hooded figure now. Hell, he was doubting his crime solving skills as well. Everyone was. This was mainly because people sent him crazy looks whenever he talked about what he had witnessed.

A familiar rhythm bounced off the walls and danced around the room. The knocking stopped short and the door gently opened; a smiling face entering.

"Good morning Alan! I've got your herbal tea, how you like it, and I was wondering if you could possibly let me scan through the information on Miss. Garland's death case? She is the umm..." she cleared her throat uncomfortably, "was pregnant one. I need to write up the final report."

"Of course, they are right here," he rustled around random documents until he found them, "I'll see you in the canteen at lunch break, but now I really need to get a move on on Charles Earl's case."

Breanna Wilson gave him a sympathetic look. The news had spread like a forest fire; everyone knew it was going nowhere. They all tried not to mention it around him, for the reason that they all knew how he got last time a case was failed.

"Oh, and how's Amelia coping?" he asked thoughtfully, worry clouding his face.

Breanna breathed in deeply, not hiding the wretched expression she discontentedly held. "She's... she's not doing well." A shaky breath left her as she shook her head distraught; avoiding eye contact. "The doctors say she m-might not even m-make it. She's in a coma. She's barely hanging on by a thread." Emotional water droplets gushed down as they freely fell onto her crisply ironed clothes and the burnished marble floor.

Everyone loved Amelia and they still do. She was the bundle of joy in the office; she was the group baby. They couldn't tolerate anything happening too her, it was too much. And for something like this happening to her... nobody was coping fine.

Little ripples of sorrow enveloped his weakened body. He hadn't gone to visit her yet. It was too hard. Too hard to get off of his lethargic backside and actually, physically visit his distressed friend. For some reason he felt this sort of connection with her. Not a romantic bond, no. he couldn't explain it. It was special. Too special to be lost.

Breanna Wilson scrutinised Alan's face warily for a while and then decided to let the inner tranquillity console him for a while. She sniffed inaudibly before exiting the room. He didn't even notice her comforting presence leaving the atmosphere as he was gradually drowning in all his suffocating sorrows.

Sleep started to come rolling in like waves until they thundered in like tidal waves. The lack of sleep was plain to any passing eye.

** ** **

"Detectives Roberts! Oh. God damn. Lazy idiot. Wake up. We have a lead!" shouted Archie Penski, a trustworthy colleague who was loved by all and hated by none. Literally.

"Whaaat? A lead? Lola's been needing a new one. The old one is getting rough and tearing around the edges. She keeps on yapping at me and growling." Groggily Alan commented; fatigue still dully painted in his irises.

"No, not that lead," Archie groaned, mentally face palming, wondering why Detective Roberts was in charge of the assignment. "We have a damn lead on Charles Earl's case!"

Shooting forward, Alan gripped the table swiftly to steady himself. "Well go on then, what's the lead?"

Archie visibly paled. "It might not be much but I don't think it's a mere coincidence. You may get mad. You might not get mad. I don't know. But what I do know is-"Archie rambled not noticing the impatience seeping out of Alan.

"I'm getting mad anyway. You might as well spit it out."

He paused for a minute while contemplating his few rational options. "I found a dead rabbit." Angrily, Alan muttered a quick 'Care to explain?' under his breath.

"I was exploring the forest when I came across a trail of freshly spilt, vibrant blood. I followed the trail while thinking of what I might come across." Archie paused for a momentarily effect but then hastily carried on when he came across the grimace and tired scowl painted onto Alan's face. "It led to a ditch. The same ditch. Inside the ditch was a dead, MURDERED rabbit."

Confusion was threaded delicately into his raspy words, "how do you know it was murdered? It might have just been killed by an animal of prey. Or a hunter." He added with a slight nod of his head.

Turning to open the shiny, oak door Archie beckoned alas to follow him out the room. "Trust me, I know. Come and let's see what you think."

They crossed various furniture adorned corridors and entered a seemingly insignificant room that held dulled out lighting. Inside the spacey area was a centred table holding a transparent glass container. Positioned inside comfortably was a dead 'rabbit'. This rabbit, however, would put people of the mere idea of Christmas for generations.

It was coloured a lovely sick, dismal brown. It lay on the fluffy blankets on its back. The rabbits ears were ripped and tugged from the seams; half of them left to rot somewhere on the earthy ground. One eye stood proudly intact with its socket whilst the other had either been accidently lost or purposely spooned out. The stomach was fully teared open and a massive circular hole was all that was appealing to the naked eye. Guts, veins and arteries were decorating the sheets as if they had been chewed and then spewed back out. Various cuts, grazes and scabs were emerging on the skin. Each cut was quickly yellowing with infection and pus and contained within it a mixture of grub and dirt. The skin of the rabbit was unnaturally pale and wrinkly, like an old man in a baby's body. No fluffy substance was left; not even a tuft by mistake. All fur had been disposed of. However, the largest clue was the vastest remaining damage. The arms were, shockingly, missing. Although, this time, it didn't look so forced and brutal. The sockets had been left untouched; being the cleanest unharmed spots of the bunny's body. The arms had been swiftly cut off, clean edges left on show. Leftover clots of blood stumbled and dribbled onto the snowy sheets, staining them a demonic red.

"Detective, this can't just simply be a coincidence. I know that and you do as well. Both bodies were found hurriedly and messily disposed at the bottom of the same dirty trench. They were both seriously lacking arms, also."

"Okay then, I will consider it and then inform you of my decision. Huen?" he called over, "have you taken any blood tests? Or any fingerprint scans? Or has the murderer used gloves again?"

An inaudible response was fired back as they whispered harshly back and forth; looking as if they were five years old and bickering over the last toy car.

Half an hour later, Alan found himself dropping into his plush black office sofa like a swatted-at fly. He was exhausted. The results had come back quickly and there was no accidently split blood or any hidden fingerprints. An irritating thought prodded consistently at the back of his mind. Why kill an innocent bystander? Why kill a rabbit? If a rabbit saw you doing something wrong then it wouldn't be able to argue its case, so why kill it?

Charles was different though. He could have accidently walked into a big mess that he shouldn't have seen; he could have told someone about what he saw. But why pay a consequence? He was apparently a sweet little kid, just crawling out of his easy toddler years. Everyone would have thought he was going batty from being held captive for so long.

Whoever this person is, he, or she, is dangerous. It's obvious that every killer is either dangerous or was forced to kill, but this one is different. He killed an animal to put us off a certain scent; to meddle viciously with our minds. He knows what he's doing to us. What he's doing to me.

Another one person killed would mean that this slayer becomes a serial killer. Even though an animal didn't technically count, it did in Alan's eyes. An innocent soul was still lost from its hosting body. He was desperate for an end result and he would do anything to solve his case.

He could not be a failure,

He should not be a failure,

And he would not be a failure.

Detective Alan Thomas Roberts was determined to let that statement stay true and pure.

~~~

Hi anyone who's reading this, this chapter is dedicated to one of my best friends KimKilljoy because she is a number one bae. It was her birthday last friday and she deserves a lot of love, so this if for you! :p thanks for being there for me xx

hope you enjoy the chapter

~whosperfect_