Fresh Blood in Adelaide

"The thing about pretending to investigate is that eventually someone calls with actual information, and then you have to decide whether knowing more makes things better or just exponentially worse."

It took the better part of the afternoon for me to muster enough motivation to chase up a few more potential leads on the case — or at least to make a convincing show of chasing leads whilst my mind remained occupied with far more pressing concerns that had nothing to do with official investigations.

The hours crawled past with painful slowness, each minute feeling like an eternity whilst I clicked through databases and made phone calls and sent emails that accomplished precisely nothing. Every inquiry led nowhere, every potential connection dissolved under scrutiny, every avenue of investigation terminated in dead ends that offered nothing helpful.

You're not actually trying, I acknowledged with brutal honesty. You're going through the motions, performing the rituals of detective work whilst being fundamentally incapable of focusing on anything except the body decomposing in Luke's cupboard and the evidence burning a hole in your pocket and the impossibility of the situation you've created.

The truth was that I couldn't properly investigate this case even if I'd wanted to, couldn't pursue leads with the kind of aggressive determination that had once defined my approach to difficult investigations, couldn't think clearly enough to make the connections that would normally come automatically.

Because I was the one who needed investigating. And every moment I spent pretending to work on solving crimes was a moment spent in profound cognitive dissonance that made genuine productivity impossible.

My computer screen blurred before my eyes — not from tears this time, just from sustained exhaustion and the peculiar way vision deteriorated when you'd been staring at illuminated pixels for too long without really seeing them. The words in the case files stopped making sense, transforming into abstract symbols that my brain refused to process into meaningful information.

You need to stop, I told myself. Need to call it a day before you make mistakes that are visible to other people, before your uselessness becomes so obvious that someone starts asking questions about why you're so distracted, so ineffective, so fundamentally not yourself.

Feeling defeated by the afternoon's complete lack of progress — though really defeated by circumstances far beyond simple investigative frustration — I closed the browser on my computer with movements that felt heavy and sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion that went beyond physical tiredness into something more existential.

I stood up from my chair, my body protesting the movement after hours of sustained tension, muscles cramping from being held rigid, joints aching from stress that had nowhere productive to go.

With a sweep of my arm — more aggressive than necessary, containing some of the frustration and fear and anger that had no acceptable outlet — I pushed the array of papers on my desk into a scrambled pile in the corner.

The documents scattered and mixed, losing whatever organisation they'd possessed, becoming chaos that matched my internal state. Reports mingled with notes, witness statements mixed with forensic summaries, everything becoming a jumbled mess that would take hours to sort out again.

Let it be chaos, I thought with dark satisfaction. Let the external environment match the internal reality. Let everything be as disordered and broken as I feel.

The day had taken its toll on me in ways that went beyond simple tiredness. I felt completely shattered — emotionally spent, mentally exhausted, physically wrung out by sustained adrenaline and fear and the enormous effort required to maintain a facade of normality whilst everything inside screamed that nothing was normal, nothing was okay, nothing could be fixed or made right again.

You need to go home, I told myself. Need to get out of this building before you completely fall apart in ways that can't be concealed or explained away as simple overwork.

But even as I prepared to leave, Karl's voice cut through my thoughts.

"Ah, damn," he muttered, the words barely audible but carrying enough frustration to catch my attention despite my determination to avoid further interaction with him.

His phone had begun to ring. I noticed him glance briefly in my direction before quickly looking away.

"Detective Jenkins," Karl answered the phone.

For the next few minutes, I watched Karl closely, unable to tear my eyes away.

Karl listened more than he spoke, his responses minimal — mostly affirmatives and acknowledgments, single words or short phrases that provided no useful context for what he was hearing on the other end.

"Yes." "I understand." "Right." "Of course."

The lack of substantive information was driving me insane, my mind racing to fill in the blanks with a myriad of possibilities ranging from mundane case updates to catastrophic revelations about bodies being discovered and evidence being found and investigations moving in directions that would destroy us both.

Who was he talking to, and what about? The questions consumed me, making it impossible to pretend disinterest, impossible to look away and mind my own business like a respectful partner would.

Unable to contain myself, I manoeuvred myself over to Karl's side of the workspace.

I saw Karl's brow furrow in response to whatever he was hearing on the call — a subtle tightening of muscles around his eyes, slight compression of his lips, micro-expressions that suggested concern or confusion or both.

The reaction deepened my need to know more, confirmed that whatever was being discussed was significant enough to provoke a visible response from someone who'd become quite good at maintaining neutral expression under pressure.

I leaned in closer, abandoning all subtlety, straining my ears in hopes of catching some fragment of the conversation from the voice coming through on the other end of the line.

The voice on the other end was male — that much I could determine from the timbre and rhythm even though I couldn't make out actual words.

"Thank you for the update. Good night to you too, sir," Karl finally said.

The sudden end of the call left me hanging, suspended in a state of maximum curiosity with minimum satisfaction, brimming with questions and speculations that had no outlet except internal spiralling.

"Well, you look grim," I commented, trying to inject just the right note of concerned colleague rather than anything heavier or more accusatory. "Who was that?"

"I thought you weren't talking to me," he said, his tone carrying echoes of "you can't ignore me all day and then expect me to share information when it's convenient for you."

The accusation — because that's what it was despite being phrased as observation — landed with uncomfortable accuracy.

Fair point, I acknowledged internally.

But fairness wasn't really the issue here. Information was the issue. Understanding what was happening was the issue. Determining whether that call represented a new threat or merely a routine update was the issue.

And I was willing to sacrifice consistency and abandon my earlier determination to avoid personal interaction if it meant gaining access to whatever Karl had just learned.

There is a corpse rotting under the stairs, my mind insisted with the kind of urgent practicality that cut through emotional complications. And we need to know why nobody has reported it yet. Need to know if that call was about the body being discovered. Need to know if Adelaide police have found something that connects back to Hobart. Need to know if time is running out or if we still have room to manoeuvre.

The professional consideration — framed as "we" even though Karl didn't know the full extent of my involvement — provided justification for breaking my self-imposed silence.

Even more importantly, I continued the internal argument with mounting desperation, with no doubt in my mind that my blood will be found on that corpse eventually, how the fuck are we going to get rid of the evidence before forensics processes it and connects me to the scene?

The question was visceral and terrifying, spoken in my mind with profanity that reflected genuine panic beneath tactical consideration.

Because that was the real issue, wasn't it? Not just that Cody Jennings was dead. Not just that Karl had killed him. Not just that the body remained undiscovered in Luke's house.

But that when the body was found — when, not if, because bodies always got found eventually — the forensic examination would reveal my presence. My blood mixed with his. My DNA on his clothing. My fingerprints throughout the scene. Evidence that would connect me irrevocably to crimes I'd committed, that would destroy any defence of ignorance or innocence, that would prove I'd been there and touched him and moved him and concealed him.

You need to know what that call was about, I concluded with absolute certainty. Need to determine if the clock is running faster than you thought, if discovery is imminent, if you need to act now rather than hoping time will somehow make this better.

"Just tell me," I said bluntly.

Karl's expression turned even more serious in response to my tone, his face hardening like stone — jaw tightening, eyes losing whatever warmth had lingered from his earlier attempt at gentle connection.

"That was Detective Santos from the Adelaide CIB," Karl revealed. "They called to give a courtesy update."

I stared at him intently, my eyes urging him to continue without having to explicitly ask for more detail, trying to communicate through expression and body language that I needed to know everything, that vague summaries wouldn't be sufficient, that he needed to share whatever Santos had told him in its entirety.

Karl sighed before continuing — the sound carrying weight of frustration or resignation or both.

"There's not much to say, really," he began, and I felt an immediate spike of impatience at the disclaimer.

Let me be the judge of what's significant, I wanted to snap. Just tell me what they told you and stop editorialising about whether it's important.

But I held my tongue, maintaining silence that would allow him to continue without interruption, without giving him an excuse to terminate the information sharing before I'd extracted everything useful.

"When they arrived at Luke's parents' house, there was nobody there," Karl reported. "They have an officer watching the property, but there has been no sign of anybody at all."

Nobody home, I processed quickly. Luke's parents are missing — or at least absent when police arrived to investigate. Which could mean they're at work or shopping or on holiday, or could mean something more sinister, something that suggests they're involved or fleeing or in danger themselves.

"Both the family cars are still at the house," Karl added, and that detail felt more significant than it might appear on surface. "There's no sign of forced entry," he continued. "They questioned the neighbours to see if they had seen anything suspicious."

"And?" I prodded, leaning forward even more, my impatience barely contained.

"The only piece of information that seemed remotely useful," he said, choosing his words carefully, "was that the elderly lady across the street said she saw a young man, matching Luke's description, arrive at the house sometime before lunch. She didn't see or hear anything unusual and hadn't noticed anybody leave the house all day."

The information felt simultaneously significant and inadequate — confirming Luke's presence whilst raising more questions than it answered about what had happened after his arrival, where his parents were, why nobody had been seen leaving despite multiple people potentially being inside.

"Well, that's great," I said, trying to inject optimism into my voice, trying to lift Karl's spirits even though my own assessment of the situation was considerably more complicated than simple good news.

At least we know Luke is alive and mobile, I reasoned. At least we have confirmation of his location and some indication of his movements. That's better than complete uncertainty about his whereabouts or condition.

But Karl didn't look convinced by my attempt at positive spin. His expression remained troubled.

"Well, not really," he countered, his tone carrying gentle disagreement. "All it implies is that Luke really is in Adelaide and maybe went to his parents' house."

He paused, letting that sink in before adding: "Anything beyond that is circumstantial."

Karl frowned slightly, clearly not satisfied with the lack of solid leads.

He's right, I acknowledged silently. Knowing Luke was seen at the house doesn't tell us why he went there, what he found when he arrived, what happened to his parents, whether any of this connects to Jamie and Kain's disappearances, or whether we're looking at separate unrelated situations that just happen to involve the same family.

"But?" I prodded again, sensing there was more he was holding back, that his assessment included complications he hadn't yet articulated.

"What do you mean, 'but?'" Karl looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and slight annoyance.

"I see a 'but' on your face," I explained, unable to keep a slight hint of playfulness from creeping into my voice despite the serious nature of the conversation, despite everything that had happened between us.

"You should know you can't hide your suspicions from me by now," I added, the words coming out with more warmth than I'd intended.

Don't, I warned myself even as the words left my mouth. Don't let the familiar dynamic re-establish itself. Don't fall back into comfortable partnership patterns when you can't afford intimacy or trust or anything resembling a normal relationship with someone who killed a man and doesn't know you're complicit in concealing that killing.

But apparently I couldn't help myself. Couldn't suppress the instincts and habits that had been built over years of working closely together, of learning to read each other, of developing the kind of intuitive understanding that made effective partnerships work.

Karl's smile — though slight and brief — was a rare sight through the heavy air of our conversation.

The expression transformed his face momentarily, reminding me of why I'd been attracted to him in the first place, why I'd allowed personal feelings to develop despite knowing workplace romances were complicated and potentially problematic.

Stop, I commanded myself sharply. Don't go there. Don't remember what it felt like before everything went wrong. Don't allow nostalgia or affection to compromise the necessary distance you need to maintain.

"But it doesn't make any sense," Karl admitted, his smile fading as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the troubled expression that seemed to be his default state lately.

He leaned back in his chair. "They did a thorough search of the property, and all they found was a single drop of fresh blood on the shed door."

"Fresh?" I echoed, my interest immediately and intensely piqued by the detail that suggested recent violence or injury, that indicated whatever had happened was contemporary rather than historical.

"Apparently it was still wet," Karl elaborated, and that detail made my stomach clench with fresh anxiety.

Still wet, I repeated internally. Which means it was deposited very recently — minutes or at most hours before police arrived to examine the property. Which means something violent happened shortly before or possibly during the investigation. Which means...

The implications spiralled in multiple disturbing directions.

"They've taken a sample and sent it to the lab for priority testing," Karl continued. "In the meantime, they're having forensics spend the next forty-eight hours examining the house and property for traces of human remains. Or anything, really."

Priority testing, I noted. Which means Adelaide CIB considers this significant enough to warrant expedited processing rather than routine queue. Which means they're worried about what that blood might indicate, who it might belong to, what it might reveal about what happened at that house.

And forensics examining for human remains, I continued processing. Which means they're not just investigating potential assault or injury — they're looking for bodies. They think someone might be dead. They think that drop of blood might be a harbinger of something much worse discovered once they conduct a thorough examination.

"That is very bizarre," I agreed, my mind racing through the implications of this new information.

Karl nodded in agreement with my assessment, his expression grave as he continued his analysis.

"Whatever Luke is up to, he's been very precise so far," he observed, and I noticed how he phrased it — not "whatever is happening to Luke" but "whatever Luke is up to," suggesting Karl had formed an opinion about Luke's agency in these events, had concluded that Luke was actor rather than victim, perpetrator rather than person in danger.

"We just need something, anything, that will give us some answers," Karl continued, frustration evident in his voice, in the way his hands gestured slightly as though physically reaching for information that remained frustratingly out of reach.

"Knowing our luck, I don't expect forensics will turn up anything new. At least nothing that will hold up in court."

I shrugged in response to his pessimistic assessment, feeling whatever short-lived playfulness had crept into the conversation dissolve completely into a more familiar sense of resignation that had become my default emotional state.

"Perhaps you're right," I agreed, though my agreement was more about matching his mood than genuine concurrence with his prediction.

And then, as if a switch had been flipped in my exhausted brain, as if all the separate pieces of information I'd been accumulating suddenly clicked together into a pattern I could recognise — a sudden realisation hit me.

My grandmother had been adamant that Luke was innocent. And according to Gladys, Luke knew nothing about... any of it.

The two data points — Jane's certainty of Luke's innocence and Gladys' insistence on his ignorance — suddenly aligned in my mind.

What did she really mean by that? Is Luke running from someone? Is it his life that is in danger?

A sense of urgency washed over me, overwhelming the exhaustion and resignation that had characterised most of the afternoon, replacing it with an electric need for action, for answers, for resolution that would clarify what was actually happening rather than leaving everything shrouded in ambiguity and speculation.

Fuck! I needed to be in that interview. I needed to understand the full picture.

I need to connect the dots between Luke's alleged innocence, the mysterious drop of blood, and the larger web of events unfolding around us.

And I can't get more information from Gladys because Claiborne threw me out of the interview. Can't ask Luke because he's in Adelaide and possibly in danger. Can't trust Karl to tell me everything because he's keeping secrets of his own — like the fact that he killed Cody Jennings in Luke's house and I'm the only one who knows that connection exists.

The impossibility of the situation pressed down on me with renewed force.

I needed answers. Needed to determine whether Luke was a threat or a victim, whether my grandmother's faith in his innocence was justified or merely familial loyalty overriding objective assessment.

But I had no clear path forward, no obvious way to gain the information I required, no resources I could access without revealing my own compromised position.

You're trapped, I acknowledged with bitter clarity. Trapped by your own crimes, by evidence you're carrying, by lies you've told and secrets you're keeping. You need to investigate but you can't investigate properly because you're the one who should be investigated. You need answers but you can't pursue them through legitimate channels because legitimate investigation would expose your own guilt.

The circular impossibility felt like a prison with invisible walls, constraining my actions not through physical barriers but through logical consequences that made every potential move dangerous, every possible choice laden with the risk of self-incrimination.

Karl was watching me — I could feel his eyes assessing my reaction to the information he'd shared, cataloguing whatever expressions had crossed my face whilst I'd processed the implications of blood at Luke's parents' house and missing occupants and forensic examination that might or might not reveal human remains.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

No, I wanted to answer honestly. I'm so far from okay that I can't even see okay from where I'm standing. I'm drowning in crimes and lies and impossible situations and I have no idea how to survive what's coming.

But honesty wasn't an option available to me, so I did what I'd been doing all day — maintained the facade, projected confidence I didn't possess, pretended everything was manageable when everything was actually falling apart.

"Fine," I lied, forcing my expression into something approximating professional composure. "Just thinking about the case."

"We should call it a day," Karl suggested, his voice carrying a note of concern. "Get some rest. Start fresh tomorrow."

Tomorrow, I repeated internally, the word feeling simultaneously hopeful and threatening. Tomorrow when the body might be discovered. Tomorrow when forensics might find evidence. Tomorrow when everything might finally collapse completely.

"Yeah," I agreed, standing up from Karl's desk where I'd been hovering during his phone call, returning to my own workspace to gather my belongings. "Good idea."

Good idea to leave before I make more mistakes. Good idea to get out of here before exhaustion overwhelms whatever remains of my self-control. Good idea to find somewhere private where I can think about everything I've learned and try to determine what it all means and whether there's any path forward that doesn't end in complete destruction.

But even as I prepared to leave, even as I pulled on my jacket and felt the weight of stolen evidence pressing against my ribs, I knew that tomorrow wouldn't bring clarity or resolution or any of the things I desperately needed.

Tomorrow would just bring more lies, more complications, more impossible choices between competing values I'd once believed were compatible but had proven to be fundamentally opposed.