The Gelatin Powder

A young woman with a Superwoman stance to rival its founder eyed the bakery before her. Despite her being overworked, her uniform was as crisp as this morning’s winter winds. It always was. “They completely shattered the door and made a mess of the whole place just to steal a cupcake and a tub of gelatin powder.” Her squinted eyes, pursed lips, and cocked head were the holy trinity of her concentration.

Then, her work phone rang. “Officer Morton speaking.”

“It’s the lab. We got back the results on the powder.” The voice stopped.

With her head now cocked in the other direction, Morton took notice. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” they answered. “The powder. It’s human.”

“What do you mean it’s human?” She asked, having hushed herself.

“The small sample of gelatin powder we got from the scene is made of human remains.”

With tight eyes on the elderly couple across the parking lot, Morton swore she’d never eat Jell-O again. With nausea intensifying with every step closer to them, she kept on. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Stewart,” she started and stopped herself, mental vomit crawling up her esophagus. She didn’t have the palate for homicide quite yet. “You can come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Mrs. Pauline Stewart, the delightful yet seemingly murderous baker and grandmother, asked while shuffling behind.

“I’d like to bring you two down to the station for further questioning, while our team continues to excavate the rest of the scene.” She wouldn’t believe she would have ever held open a door for a murderer, but here she was holding the car door for two.

With her key in the ignition and her call to duty roaring through the whole town, she started the car and took off. 

At all times, she made sure to keep four-seconds worth of distance between her and the car in front of her. Her eyes worked double duty, flicking up to the rear view mirror and down again, to keep watch on her company. Any nudge, any smirk, any whisper. She wouldn’t miss it.

“I’ve never been in a cop car before,” Mr. Donald “Donny” Stewart said, faking enthusiasm with his cataract-riddled eyes admiring like a kid at Disneyland. “Officer Morton, do you think you could flick on the sirens for just a bit?”

“I can’t do that, sir,” she replied as surely as she took her oath of honor. It was perfectly narcissistic and on brand for a serial killer to ask an honorable woman of the law to bend her rules for him. 

***

“You can wait in here,” Officer Morton directed the Stewarts to Interview Room 2. The one for the victims, with the couches and tissues and windows.

“Thank you, Officer,” her elders replied. She shut the door behind them with an Oscar-worthy smile. Once the latch clicked, she bolted.

“Where the hell is she?” She whipped her head around the office like a meerkat and scurried about like a lab rat desperate to escape a maze. “Pat, have you seen Berman?”

“She’s not in her office?” The desk-attached associate asked without stopping to swallow her Chex Mix, feigning interest.

“No.” Morton danced around like a toddler holding in their pee.

“Hm,” Pat, unaware of the press for time, continued at her same sloth’s pace. “Where could she be?” She dragged every word and asked with eyes still glued to her desktop screen. It would take Pat another seven minutes to win her game of online solitaire.

Morton swallowed her eye roll and surveyed their bureaucratic savanna of an office. 22% of scan complete. Nothing else observed besides a wasteful conference around the coffee machine. 53% complete. It was only her second day, and Justine already looked four years older. 79% complete. Where the hell was Berman? 89%... “Berman!” Morton jumped to her supervisor.

“Yes?” she replied, with no eye contact and no lag time. 

Morton caught up and continued behind her. “I was the first officer on the scene for a theft this morning.”

“So what?” She took a sharp right turn, her wannabe apprentice almost losing her.

“I think it might be a murder now. Maybe serial.”

Berman halted. Morton halted, grateful for that four-seconds-worth of distance. “Why?”

“The victims own a bakery and are known for their gelatin molds. Very decorative.”

“Morton, stop wasting my time.”

“Right. The perpetrator stole nearly all of their gelatin powder, their recipe’s lifeline.”

“Get to the point, Morton.”

“Our forensics team tested a small sample of what was left.”

“And?”

“It’s human.”

“Excuse me?”

“The gelatin powder is made of human remains.” Morton waited like a young teen asking her parents for twenty bucks and their permission to go to the mall with Sarah.

Berman stared at the floor, furrowed her brow, licked her teeth, and then spoke, “Follow me.” Morton swallowed her smile. These two race cars started up again down the hall. “Tell me more about the victims.”

“Donald Stewart, more popularly known as ‘Donny,’ and Pauline Stewart own the Stewart Bakery on Harley Street. Both are 74-years old.”

“74? Do they have anyone younger working for them?”

“Their grandson Samuel. Age 19.”

“Where are they now?”

“Interview Room 2.”

“Where is Samuel?”

“I do not know at this time.” She bowed her head, asking for forgiveness.

Upon making it to her office, Berman turned to her subordinate. “Continue investigating the theft. Share all of your work with Detectives Shaw and Reynolds, and tell them to come see me.”

Gunshot to the heart. “Ma’am, I was hoping to look into the -- “

“Morton, you stick to the theft.”

“Yes, ma’am.” How would she ever walk around comfortably with a bullet in her chest? She had to keep on. She turned and started down the hallway.

“Good work, Morton,” Berman called out.

Officer Olivia Morton turned back to see Chief Greta Berman furrowing her brow at every document on her desk. Morton took no more than a half of a second to smile and savor. She whipped back into focus. She had a thief to catch.