A Killer's Target

                                    

                                          
Atticus' POV:
                          
"We have an important update," Darrel says into the phone as I wake up for work the next morning. "Get here as soon as possible."
                          
Yesterday was uneventful after we left Lincoln's office. He was quiet most of the afternoon, and I'm sure it had a lot to do with the fact that he had to preform an autopsy on a young man who had a future ahead of him. Even though we have both been told to separate our work lives and home lives, it's difficult in a career like ours, where we have to be so involved. 
                          
"Atticus?" Lincoln asks in a voice thick with sleep. "Are you leaving already?" 
                          
I hum, leaning over and kissing his lips. "Yes. Darrel called with an update, so maybe we will get a name to the body," I tell him, and Lincoln hums, his arms wrapped around me tightly. "Go back to sleep, babes. You don't have to be up for a few more hours."
                          
Lincoln is clingy when he sleeps, and it's adorable, but it is kind of hard when I need to get up and go to work. He whines childishly when I try to disentangle from his tight grip, but eventually I'm able to escape the human koala who is living in my bed. 
                          
"I'll text you when I get to work," I promise him, quietly getting ready. 
                          
Lincoln is already asleep when I'm dressed and ready to go, and I lean over to kiss my beautiful boyfriend on the lips before I go. A cute smile pulls at his lips as I do so, and I quickly pull out my phone to take a picture of him. 
                          
I make sure to send it to him, because he hates when I take pictures of him while he's asleep, but I'm surprised he expects me to resist. It's my job to fawn over my boyfriend, and I know he takes pictures of me when he comes home from work and I'm asleep on the couch. 
                          
When I get to work, Darrel and Jared are already there, talking in hushed voices, which is very surprising for them, since these two are loudmouths. I'm even more surprised by the worry on Jared's face and the unnatural exhaustion on Darrel's.
                          
"You said there was an update?" I ask, sitting down at my desk and logging into my computer to clock in for the day. 
                          
Jared nods. "We found the identity of the victim," he says, sliding a file over to me. "Phillip Moore. Twenty three, born and raised in Portland."
                          
He pauses while I look at the file, my eyes widening as I read it. "He had the malfunction?" I ask, flipping through the images and finding an image of his wrist with a mark that says "M-07."
                          
"Yes, that's why we are so confused," Jared says, leaning back in his chair. "There was a message at the crime scene as well, and it doesn't take a genius to know what it means." 
                          
He hands me another file with several pictures of the crime scene. 
                          
I wince when I see images of the body hanging, and then see what Jared was referring to. There's a list of numbers on the wall, painted in Phillip's blood. It's numbered one through seventeen, with five of the numbers crossed out. 
                          
"We think this killer is from the group of people with Mistacesemia born in 2003, since there's only seventeen people who live in the United States born in 2003 with the condition," Darrel explains, but he does not even seem that upset. "Personally, if we push this case to the side..."
                          
"This is our job," I argue. "We are part of the Supernatural Investigation Unit, which specializes in shit like this."
                          
"If one of their own is crossing them off, it's not a big deal," Darrel mutters, making me want to slam his face into a table.
                          
Lincoln soft voice echos in my head. "What do we do when we get urges to murder our employers?" 
                          
"We take a deep breath because we can't undo murdering someone..." I think, taking a deep breath to control my irritation.