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Writing prompt
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David yanked the wheel and kept his foot buried in the gas pedal, bathing the streets in a red and blue fury that only ever signaled an emergency. The blare of the siren was completely drowned out by his own heartbeat raging in his ears.
Hours. It had been hours.
He knew he shouldn't have taken the case. This was all about his own pride.
He knew the case they had against this person was thin, but he also knew this man was guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. An unconscionable rape coupled with a torturous and prolonged death that David couldn't fathom. The closest thing to evil that had crossed David's path. The officers and detectives worked relentlessly, and they'd convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt, but it was all based on evidence that was circumstantial. The guilty had been very good at covering tracks, using ammonia at every scene to eradicate any biological evidence the investigators could use. But the circumstances, whereabouts, and public camera footage was all too convincing.
Hours. Fucking hours.
The case had moved forward. An accused man of prominence who walked in and occupied his position in the courtroom with an unsettling calm and confidence that made David's spine tingle. For two weeks the case plodded forward with expert witnesses on both sides creating their cases.
And the verdict had come in earlier in the day. Hung jury. Mistrial. The government could try again at a later date, but the defendant was to go free.
How many hours? He couldn't remember.
The depression had hit the prosecution's side with what felt like a hammer to the gut followed by a grey wave blanket that covered them. So they did what any civilized group would - they went to get drunk.
Somewhere near drink three the call had come in to one of the arresting officers that his wife had been found at their home on the front porch brutally murdered. The officers there had said it looked like her body had been moved there. Ammonia all over the house. It had the singe of retribution to everyone sitting around.
When was the last time David had spoken with his wife? Hours ago. The morning perhaps.
He called. No answer.
He called again. Still no answer.
Keys to a squad car were slid to David. So much adrenaline surged through him that he could barely remember hitting the last few turns to the street where he and his wife lived in their apartment.
He reached their floor, the door to their apartment clearly having been kicked in at the handle.
He knew he should go inside, but he hesitated. Afraid of what he may find on the other side.
He pushed the door gently. An ocean of red was at the end of the entry hallway. Near their dining table.
He walked down. Tears rolling down his face were the crescendo of pain, terror, and sorrow hitting him at once.
As he continued, he saw the shoes as he came around the corner. They had to belong to the body. But David's mind must've been retreating into shock, because they were large black boots, far too big for his wife to wear.
But it wasn't a hallucination. They were attached to a large man in a full overalls set. A familiar man of prominence wore it all. In addition, a knife had been shoved through the bottom of his jaw all the way to the hilt.
He saw smaller, bloody, bare footprints leading away from the kitchen area toward the master bedroom. He covered the distance almost instantly to find his wife huddled in the corner, covered in blood, and shaking furiously from the adrenaline and shock battling for control of her body and mind.
David took her in his arms, and they sat in silence.
Weeping.
Shaking.
Safe.
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Not sure how I feel about this yet. I took some liberties and tried some new things, so I'm not sure it reads well. I'll see how fiancee feels about it and refine it.