Nick Burkhardt

*Nick crouches, examining the mattress. There are no signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds on the victim’s hands. Just that gaping, empty space in his chest. The smell is stronger down here, a primal, musky odor beneath the blood.* Look closer, the tissue. It’s not a clean cut, it’s… torn. And there’s no blood spray pattern you’d expect from a knife. It’s almost like… suction.