Chapter 1
616words
The dispatcher's voice trailed off, but the coffee in my hand turned to ice. My name's Mike Rodriguez, officer at Brooklyn's Precinct 86. I've seen my share of weird shit in this neighborhood, but body parts in breakfast pastries? That's a first.
"Address," I barked, snatching my jacket and dumping my half-finished coffee down the sink.
"8th Avenue, Chinatown. Place called Lin's Bun Shop."
Our cruiser screeched to a halt outside the bun shop, where chaos had already erupted. Customers hunched against walls, retching. A beefy white guy with a ghost-pale face jabbed his finger at a plate, spewing curses I couldn't decipher. The air hung thick with competing scents—rich, savory meat buns and the sour tang of human panic—twisting together and churning my gut.
My partner strung up the yellow tape while I pushed through to ground zero—the counter.
Behind it sat a middle-aged Chinese woman in a flour-dusted apron. The owner, Mei Lin.
Amid the screaming chaos, she sat like a statue carved from ice, her gaze unnervingly serene. She didn't acknowledge the retching customers or our uniforms. Just kept her head down, methodically wiping an already spotless counter with a rag.
Her calm chilled me more than any hysteria could have.
"Everybody out!" I bellowed at the crowd.
Forensics arrived within minutes and started processing the cramped shop. I snapped on latex gloves and pushed through to the kitchen. A wall of spices hit me—the unmistakable aroma of master stock, deep and complex.
On the cutting board lay a half-butchered slab of meat, muscle fibers clearly visible—looked like a thigh. Beside it, a massive steel pot bubbled and steamed, its dark brown liquid barely concealing what looked like a white skeleton.
"Mike. Check this out." My partner gestured toward an industrial refrigerator in the corner.
I yanked open the heavy door. A blast of frigid air rushed out, carrying the metallic stench of blood.
No pork. No beef.
Just a dismembered corpse, each piece meticulously wrapped in plastic film and arranged with the precision of high-end retail. From the remaining limbs, I could tell the victim was young. Female.
When we escorted Mei Lin to the cruiser, she didn't resist. Not even a flicker crossed those dead eyes.
The car pulled away from 8th Avenue, Brooklyn's bustle streaming past the windows. Inside, nothing but tomb-like silence.
"We use only fresh meat at home."
She broke the silence, her voice soft, matter-of-fact. I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror; the corners of her mouth twitched upward in the ghost of a smile. Every hair on my body stood at attention.
Back at the precinct, the ME's preliminary report landed on my desk within the hour.
The body had been savagely dismembered. Female victim, 16-18 years old. Time of death: approximately one week prior.
A teenage girl—murdered, butchered, and stashed in a restaurant freezer for a week.
I immediately requested missing persons reports from the last two weeks, focusing on teenage girls in Brooklyn.
Thirty minutes later, a manila folder landed on my desk.
Missing person: Amy Lin, 17, student at Brooklyn Technical High School.
In the photo, she wore a ponytail and black-framed glasses. Her smile revealed shallow dimples in both cheeks.
As I scanned down to "next of kin," I saw the name listed under "mother," and felt the blood drain from my face.
Mother: Mei Lin.
I looked up at the interrogation room through the one-way glass. That woman—the one who'd methodically wiped her counter clean, who'd whispered about "fresh meat" in my cruiser—sat ramrod straight in the metal chair, waiting patiently.
The butchered corpse in the refrigerator was her own daughter.
