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Justice at Midnight

part 2.

Upon Arriving at the Station

We met in the briefing room to come up with plans for finding whoever—or whatever—committed the brutal murders.

Christine suggested checking out local hipster and rocker hangouts to see if any new faces had shown up or if weird drugs were hitting the streets. She had a network of informants from her undercover days as a sex worker—a role she played so well that many criminals still didn’t know she was a cop. She could tap into that world better than anyone.

Her plan included visiting dive bars, abandoned warehouses used for underground raves, and sketchy tattoo parlors where wannabe occultists hung out. It felt like a mix of Criminal Minds and Dexter—blending in with criminals, gathering intel, and playing a risky game of cat and mouse.

Lamont’s Setup

While Christine prepared for undercover work, Lamont was busy setting up surveillance.

I should explain something. Yes, we’re a small town, and I’m proud of the legacy my dad and granddad left behind. I’ve even dated the current mayor a few times—though I’m not counting on anything serious.

Most of the police funding comes from me. I’m rich, I love this town, and I want it safe. So, when I found out Lamont spent $5,000 on surveillance gear that barely worked, I wasn’t happy. Something about “signal interference” from the woods—science stuff I didn’t care about.

Still, he set up night-vision and thermal cameras. Lamont claimed he got them from Amazon, though I suspect he used his own toys and billed me for them—or Amazon now delivers faster than light. He also recruited three neighborhood watch volunteers: one to monitor the cameras and two more to keep each other awake through the night.

We figured the killer—or killers—might return to their hideout. Lamont also learned from the mortuary that the bodies had been drained of blood, and some of the hearts were confirmed to be human. That made things even creepier.

Out of My Depth

I’m a decent cop, but this? This was way beyond anything I’d ever faced. The worst I’d dealt with before was rowdy teens, drunks, and the occasional drug dealer.

I decided it was time for “research” by binge-watching Dexter, You, Hannibal, and Mindhunter.

Okay...that was a lie. My TV only gets sports and Baywatch. And let me tell you—Alexandra Daddario... wow. I could go on forever, but back to reality.

While driving to my favorite diner for coffee—and maybe to pick up a date since it was nearly the weekend—it hit me like lightning.

Who did I know from high school obsessed with satanic stuff and definitely not getting laid?

Eric the NecroNerdicus.

The Interrogation

I drove straight to Eric’s parents’ house. His mom, Mrs. Dicks, still made the best cookies and milk. After some small talk (I’ll skip that), she gave me Eric’s current address—he’d finally moved out to an apartment on the east side of town.

I pulled up and kicked the door in—just in case he was mid-sacrificial ritual. I cleared the living room, dining room, and kitchen (which were basically one room). Then came the bedroom, which connected to the bathroom.

And there he was...knee-deep in some serious backshot action!

I think I screamed. I should’ve grabbed my phone for evidence—or blackmail—but I froze, burned by what I saw. If you’ve never walked in on something like that, don’t judge. It stays with you.

After they got dressed, I cuffed his boyfriend—since Eric was the receiver. I also made them lay fresh sheets in the back seat of my cruiser. No way was I getting butt juice on my seats.

Meet Alexandra: The Justice Raider

For the record, I drive a 2024 F-150 named Alexandra. She’s more than a truck—she’s my partner, my ride-or-die, and the only woman who never lets me down. She smells like leather seats and justice.

You might ask, “Why the name Alexandra?” Because when I hit the gas, she roars like Alexandra Daddario sprinting down a Baywatch beach in slow motion. Pure poetry.

Alexandra isn’t just a truck; she’s a fully upgraded Justice Raider—a fortress on wheels, crushing criminals and potholes alike.

Performance Upgrades (Because speed is power)

Engine Tuning/ECU Remap: More horsepower and torque, making red lights feel optional.
Cold Air Intake & Performance Exhaust: She breathes better than I do during allergy season.
Heavy-Duty Suspension: Built for rough roads and crushing my enemies’ hopes.
Upgraded Brakes: For stopping fast—especially when raccoons play chicken.

Exterior Mods (Built like a superhero in steel armor)

Push Bumpers & Bull Bars: For “encouraging” suspects—or removing stray carts at Walmart.
Lift Kits & Skid Plates: To tower over lesser cars like a goddess.
Off-Road Tires: For traction…because regular tires are for cowards.

Lighting & Visibility (So bright even the truth can’t hide)

Emergency Light Bars & Spotlights: For lighting up crime scenes—or campsites when I forget a lantern.
Strobe Lights: Everywhere—headlights, taillights, mirrors—for when the party’s over.
Tinted Windows: For stealth ops…and keeping my face from melting in the sun.

Interior Enhancements (Where the magic happens)

Tactical Consoles & Laptop Mounts: Like a mobile Batcave—just no billionaire playboy stuff (yet).
Lockable Storage & Gun Racks: Because unsecured weapons are movie-level bad.
Reinforced Seats: Custom-padded because crime-fighting is tough on the butt.

Tech & Security Add-Ons (James Bond wishes he had this)

Dash Cameras & GPS Trackers: Recording every heroic moment, even when I parallel park.
License Plate Readers: Scanning plates like a checkout clerk for criminals.
Perimeter Alert Systems: Alexandra knows who’s creeping around before I do.

Custom Paint (Because why not?)

Matte Black Wrap: Stealth mode...and intimidating as hell.
“Justice Raider” Decal: Just so everyone knows she means business.

Alexandra isn’t just a truck—she’s the truck. She doesn’t break down; she breaks criminals. She doesn’t leak oil; she leaks vengeance. And if you scratch her paint, I’ll call it “Justifiable Homicide” faster than you can say “insurance claim.”

Once I confirmed Eric’s alibi for the nights of the murders, I apologized for bullying him in high school. I knew it wasn’t cool. He tried getting deputized on the spot—I shut that down fast.

I told him, “Help us catch this cult freak, and we’ll talk about it.”

Eric got to work like he was trying to win first prize at a sci-fi convention. He suggested we rest since the killer would likely strike again at night. He also made a list of local goths and occultists who might be suspects.

Lamont mapped out abandoned buildings and possible ritual sites. We set up shifts at the station, where our new volunteers monitored cameras with Cody Lee, a retired sheriff. He’s a bit of a drunk now, but we’re short-staffed, so I’ll take what I can get.

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Blood Harvest

As I got into my cruiser, my radio crackled with a report about a possible crime scene at the Walker farm—blood everywhere and missing livestock. I responded, asking dispatch to send forensics to meet me there. Forensics is a joke at our station. My team has one guy—Lamont. He’s college-educated, hates the city, and now he’s my problem. Nice guy, built like a football linebacker, always wearing nerdy glasses.

Pulling into the farm, Sam ran toward my cruiser, almost getting hit. I slammed on the brakes, spilling coffee across the dash. "Jesus Christ!" I yelled.

Getting out of the cruiser, I shouted, "What the fuck, Sam? I almost hit you!"

Sam, breathing heavily and struggling to speak, gasped, "Conrad... they’re all dead. They’re all fucking dead! How am I supposed to feed my family? How am I supposed to survive? All my livestock... gone."

"Whoa, whoa, Sam. Calm down. Breathe and tell me what happened. Lamont’s on the way too. We’ll figure this out."

Sam and I walked toward the barn. My mind drifted—I hadn’t had my coffee or donuts yet, and the heat was already unbearable. Damn this weather. If it weren’t for that knee injury, I’d be out of Georgia by now, living the good life with fine women chasing me. Instead, I’m stuck here like my father and his father before him—another generation chained to the badge.

Mrs. Walker stood outside, still in her pajamas, smoking a cigarette.

"Good morning, Mrs. Walker. How are the children?" I asked.

With tear-filled eyes, she replied, "They’re fine... but scared shitless. I’m not sure we’ll ever sleep here again."

"Stand back," I said. "Let me check it out."

I stepped into the barn, and what I saw defied all logic. The scent of blood hung thick in the air—I could taste it with each breath. My nostrils flared as a sudden headache pounded behind my eyes. The smell was so putrid I had to shut my mouth to keep from gagging. Whoever did this was sick.

I stumbled back outside, gasping for fresh air. After a tense fifteen minutes and another cigarette, I braced myself and went back into the barn.

I pushed the heavy doors wide to let in more light and air circulation. Cautiously, I climbed to the second story, careful not to disturb the scene. At the top, I opened a large window, flooding the barn with sunlight.

From this view, I noticed something I would’ve missed from the ground. Six decapitated cow heads—three on each side—formed a twisted, ceremonial path. The arrangement spelled out in blood: I WELCOME YOU.

A grotesque circle of severed animal heads surrounded the space. What I first thought was a random arrangement turned out to be an inverted pentagram drawn in blood. Its center showed signs that someone had sat there—a half-eaten heart lay discarded.

I swallowed hard, realizing... it might be human.

LaMont Buffy the Book Slayer.

While I sat up there thinking about my life choices—and how my father never had to deal with this kind of mess—I heard a cruiser approaching the barn.

I yelled out, "Lamont, get in here and tell me what you make of this!" in my best commanding voice.

Lamont and Christine walked in together, like some twisted magic act. They both screamed. Christine shouted, "What the fuck!" while Lamont, aka Buffy the Book Slayer, gasped, "Sweet Jesus!" Oddly enough, Christine sounded more manly than Lamont in that moment.

Lamont, ever the fountain of wisdom, muttered, "This is some white people shit. No way a brother would do this."

Christine shot back, "Don’t forget about the DC sniper—we can’t rule anything out."

I smirked. "Damn, she got you, Lamont."

"Damn," Lamont admitted.

Lamont started doing his thing. I call it his "thing" because it just looks weird—walking around the scene once or twice, sometimes doubling back, talking to himself like he’s arguing with an invisible partner. Lamont gets real close to the severed heads. Sometimes he sniffs, sniffing really loud and obnoxiously. One time he just stood there with his eyes closed for a good 5 minutes—just standing there! In the middle of the pentagram. Then, about twenty minutes later, he announced he had a pretty good idea of what happened here.

Then he launched into one of his detailed explanations—holy shit, the man loves hearing himself talk. Here’s the summary: the intruder or intruders entered the house and pumped sleeping gas through the vents, knocking everyone out. Then they went to the barn and indulged in a blood-soaked satanic ritual. Lamont guessed they used large knives, a hammer and nails, and a chainsaw based on the blood spatter patterns.

We left the barn to follow a trail Lamont found—like I said, Buffy the Book Slayer. The trail led to an abandoned shack deep in the woods. As we approached, we spotted an off-road vehicle speeding west back toward town. We didn’t get a chance to get a license plate or a good look at the vehicle.

Lamont speculated, "Whoever did this is either new to town, or we’ve got a crazy cracker living among us."

We searched the shack. Lots of tools and equipment were neatly stored, but no visible blood. Lamont used one of his forensic kits and found blood residue everywhere. Whoever did this clearly underestimated what a small-town sheriff’s department could handle.

"Alright, listen up," I ordered. "Let’s put our game faces on. Lamont, I need you to hit the electronics store and buy surveillance cameras. Put that Army training of yours to work—get us eyes on this shack at all times. Christine, discreetly check the local hangouts and pubs. See if anyone new has rolled into town. Remember, there could be two killers from how this looks—a well-organized satanic cult maybe?"

Lamont raised an eyebrow. "Why satanic, Conrad?"

"I don’t know, man. It just sounds... fitting."

Christine asked, "What will you be doing?"

"I’m heading to every farm on the outskirts of town to warn them and figure out where this psycho might strike next."

Lamont smirked. "Don’t you mean satanic, Conrad?"

I flipped him the bird. Real mature, I know.

As we walked back, carefully following Lamont’s footsteps to avoid disturbing the area, a loud bang echoed, followed by a high-pitched hiss.

I drew my pistol, scanning for the source.

"At ease," Lamont said, holding up his hands. "It was a big fucking snake. Sorry, boss."

"Goddamn it, Lamont. I almost shit my pants."

Christine cackled like a madwoman in the background.

"Christine, can it!" I barked.

"Sorry, boss," she snickered.

"Blood Harvest: The Sheriff’s Tale"

11 PM - My Penthouse

I opened the door to my apartment after a long day of work. Well, it’s not really an apartment. My grandpa made smart investments. Then my dad followed in his footsteps and made even more money.

Back in the '80s, he owned several livestock farms. As sheriff, he knew everyone in town. When some city friends told him about Microsoft stock, he jumped on it. Probably some insider trading involved—but we got rich. Now, my parents own most of the shops in town. It’s surprising no one in my family has ever run for mayor.

So, my "apartment" is actually a penthouse. When I turned 18, I wanted my own place—needed space to throw parties and live like a rockstar. I bought an old shoe store and built a nine-story apartment building. The top floor? All mine. I even installed a private elevator.

I walked in, grabbed a glass of whiskey, hung up my belt, and sank into my lazy boy.

Then, I heard shuffling from my bedroom.

I grabbed my gun, moved quietly, and shouted, “Freeze, motherfucker!”

My date from last night screamed, “Oh shit! Don’t shoot!”

I lowered the gun, confused. “What the hell...what are you doing here? I thought you left this morning?”

She glared. “Really, asshole? You don’t remember my name?”

“Susanne...” I guessed. “Why are you still here? And why are you in my place this late?”

“It’s Ashley, you dick. And you told me not to lock up! I figured I could stay over.”

“Right...makes sense now,” I said, scratching my head.

“I’m leaving.” She stormed out.

“Better not be anything missing!” I yelled after her.

She slammed the door and shouted, “Fuck you, asshole!” as she got into the elevator.

Well, that happened. I swear on my momma’s soul it did. God bless her.

3 AM Shenanigans

My phone rang, waking me up.

“Boss, wake up. It’s Christine.”

“Christine? What’s going on? What time is it?”

“Boss, it’s 3 AM. I need you at 14 Baker Street. There’s been a murder.”

“Alright, I’m on my way. Text me the address.”

I got dressed, grabbed my ballistic vest, shotgun, extra cuffs, ammo, and flashlight, packing them into my gear bag. Tossing it into the cruiser, I hit the lights and sped toward the address.

When I arrived, I told the officers to interview nearby residents. The street was eerily quiet.

All the house windows were wide open—a chilling sign of what lay inside.

“Boss, in here!” LaMont called from the master bedroom.

I stepped in—and felt sick. Tears stung my eyes. I’m not a sensitive man, but this...this was too much.

In the middle of the master bedroom was a grotesque scene. The furniture was pushed aside. A bloody pentagram took up the floor.

At each point of the star lay a family member, their bodies twisted and broken. The father’s head rested against the wall, his dead eyes staring into nothing. The mother’s body was near the bed, bite marks on her thighs, chest, and neck. The children—three of them—completed the star, drained of blood, their hearts half-eaten.

The smell of iron and decay filled the air, so thick it clawed at my throat.

On the wall, written in blood: “I AM REBORN.”

I looked at LaMont. He didn’t need to say a word—we were thinking the same thing.

Outside in the Kitchen

LaMont tried to brief me on his findings. I was barely listening; my mind was still spinning.

“Boss,” Lamont said carefully, “some of the corpses had bite marks. The mother...her thighs, chest... even her...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

I swallowed hard. “Lamont, not to sound crazy, but those were bite marks. What would do that? And how did no one hear anything? No screams. No signs of struggle. It’s like...they let it happen.”

“Boss, we’ve got nothing. No fingerprints. No weapon. Just brute strength...and bite marks.”

“Could an animal have done this? Maybe the killer had a dog.”

Lamont shook his head. “No. These weren’t dog bites. The punctures...they’re different.”

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Come on, man, that’s science fiction. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m scared to say it,” Lamont admitted. “I don’t want to sound like a madman. But how did they get in? There’s no forced entry. It’s like someone let it in. And they left through the master bedroom window—on the second floor.”

We stood in uneasy silence.

“We’ve got no trail to follow,” I muttered. “Alright, let’s head back to the station...it’s going to be a long day."

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