Free Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 by Owen Baillie

He can be a little intense.”
    “I’ll pretend it never happened.”
    “Good. I’ll try and find out what’s going on. And like I said, I need you to think about taking some time off… for your own sake.”

NYPD Precinct 3
    Midtown, New York
    Wednesday 8:18 am
     
     
    Gutterson strolled down the second level corridor of the police station towards the conference room, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat of a July afternoon was one thing, but his perspiration wasn’t a result of the ambient temperature. He still couldn’t believe that in less than twenty-four hours, Martinez had reinstated his badge and handed him a small team of detectives with which to investigate the case. The Captain had more than delivered on his promise; it scared Gutterson, because someone was showing faith in him again, the first in a very long time. He didn’t want to screw it up—for Martinez’ sake, as much as his own, and for finding the truth. As much as he’d been desperate and determined since the previous week, the case scared him.
    Ahead, he spied Martinez standing outside the conference room with—he assumed—one of the detectives he’d been assigned. They spoke softer as Gutterson approached. A familiar tickle of concern touched the back of his neck. By the time he reached them, they’d stopped, and Martinez glanced away.
    “Cap,” Gutterson said, pushing aside the feeling of uneasiness.
    “John, this is Franklin Harding. Transferred in after you left the division. Been working vice for the last six months.” They shook hands. Harding was almost as tall as Gutterson, but fuller around the chest and belly, with thick sandy blonde hair that had to be all implant. “Franklin just completed a tricky case and has been kind enough to make some room amongst his other cases.”
    “Great,” Gutterson said. “I really appreciate all the help we can get.”
    They entered the conference room, where two more detectives waited—one of which was Camilleri, the obnoxious woman he had encountered at the coffee machine the previous week. He greeted them cordially, and wiped his forehead again as he adjusted the temperature control on the wall of the small conference room.
    Martinez left them. Gutterson smiled, organizing the words in his mind that he would use to explain the case that had lingered over his life like a bad shadow for more than three years. They stared back, waiting. Get a grip. He pushed the nausea down.
    “It’s been a few years since I had to address people like this, so forgive me if I don’t come across as smoothly as others.” He withdrew a floating chair and sat, drawing himself equal to them. He sensed a slight displeasure at sitting before him, probably because until yesterday he had been a lowly police clerk.
    “Anyway, welcome,” Gutterson began, forcing a smile. He glanced at Camilleri, who wore a scowl that would scare away the devil. “We’re going to be investigating the suicide of a man in Lower Manhattan.”
    Camilleri opened her mouth first. “Suicide?”
    Harding leaned forward. “I hope there’s more to it than that.”
    “Right. Well, I don’t think it’s a suicide. I think—”
    “How long is this going to take?” Camilleri asked. “I’ve got a storage drive full of files I need to swipe through before I can leave today.”
    Gutterson swallowed his first response. “Soon enough. Once we get through this.”
    Smyth, a squat looking man with a mess of curly hair and a perpetually red complexion, said, “Hey guys, give him a chance to tell us what it's all about.”
    Gutterson nodded towards him. “Look, I know none of you particularly want to be here, but for now, we’re in this, and I don’t think the Cap would appreciate anybody giving a half ass effort.” That silenced them for a moment. “I know you’re all very experienced. I was a detective once, too, before I was… suspended.”
    “We all know about that ,” Camilleri