Fallen Hero’s Son
My father, Derek Hartman, was a DEA agent who gave his life on the front lines of the
drug war. Since I was a kid, I had one dream: to restore his badge number and follow in his
footsteps.
When I learned my scores were good enough to get into the federal law enforcement academy, I called my mom immediately to share the news.
Her response was harsh: “You? A cop? With your pathetic grades? Restore your father’s badge number. Don’t embarrass him. Get lost!”
Her words hit like a sledgehammer. Devastated, I wandered home, only to be ambushed in Shadow Creek Alley by a group of thugs.
“Word is your dad, Derek Hartman, was a DEA hotshot. Trained a bunch of agents and made life hell for us. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”
I refused to go quietly, fighting with everything I had.
But they were prepared. A knife pierced my lower back, draining me of all strength.
As my consciousness faded, I thought of my mom’s last words.
Mom… have I disgraced Dad?
Content
1
In the early hours of the morning, Bayport police received a report about large amounts of blood found in Shadow Creek Alley. No victim was in sight.
The caller assumed it was a drunken brawl gone wrong and urged the police to find the injured person quickly.
Officers arrived to find the heavy rain had washed the blood into a chaotic mess. There were no signs of a victim nearby.
A thorough search of the area led them to Riverside Millworks, an abandoned factory where they discovered dismembered body parts scattered across the floor.
In the autopsy room, harsh fluorescent lights flickered on.
“What’s the situation with this case?”
A calm, authoritative voice broke the silence as a woman in a crisp forensic uniform entered, followed by two young officers.
It was Dr. Vanessa Sterling–Hartman–my mother and the most respected forensic
examiner in Bayport.
One of the officers said hesitantly, “Dr. Hartman, the victim’s condition is… bad. Maybe you should prepare yourself…”
My mom waved them off. “I’ve seen everything there is to see. Let’s start the autopsy and
solve this case quickly.”
Indeed, my mother had seen it all in her two–decade career–decapitations,
dismemberments, even bodies dissolved in cement.
She was a consummate professional.
But Mom… have you ever considered that the body on your autopsy table might be the son you’ve always ignored?
Floating above, detached and invisible, I watched her work without emotion.
When she unzipped the body bag, her brow furrowed deeply–not just because of the mangled remains, but because one critical part was missing.
“Where’s the head?”
85%
“We searched the entire factory,” one officer stammered. “It’s likely the suspects took it.”
“Fine. Let’s proceed.”
She donned gloves and began sorting the remains–bones, flesh, fragments of fingers. Each piece she identified was meticulously placed in order.
“The victim is male. He’s between eighteen and twenty–three, roughly five–foot–nine to six feet, based on the growth plates. Likely a student,” she narrated with clinical precision.
“Judging by the condition of the cuts, the killers broke the victim’s finger bones, radius, ulna, humerus, tibia, and femur while he was still alive. Then, they dismembered the limbs. It seems they weren’t satisfied and used blunt tools–his ribs and vertebrae are almost entirely shattered.”
Her grim analysis left one of the young officers pale and trembling. He clutched his stomach, barely holding back nausea.
The unimaginable pain and despair the victim endured hung heavy in the room.
Mom turned suddenly. “Were any weapons found at the scene?”
“Yes… these,” the officer stammered, handing her photos of a rusted, bloodstained saw and a hammer caked in blood and flesh.
The dull blade of the saw had been used to cut through every joint and bone. The pain it inflicted on a living person was beyond description.
