Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong with this world.
Nick was entirely certain of his own psychological stability.
He had minored in criminal psychology during his undergraduate years, and during his recent mandatory administrative leave following the Alberta Street shooting, he hadn’t merely relied on the department-appointed shrink.
Privately, he had taken a full Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI-2) test at an independent clinic—his profile returned clean, showing zero signs of psychosis or delusion.
He had even paid out of pocket for a private brain CT scan; the structural imaging came back completely normal.
Having systematically ruled out every internal medical explanation, Nick reached an absolute conclusion: the flaw wasn’t in his head.
The flaw was in the world around him.
Hank, however, remained thoroughly unconvinced as they sat in the unmarked Mercury.
“Look, smart guys are always overconfident in their own mental fortitude.
Is it possible you’re just dealing with delayed post-traumatic stress and your brain is projecting hallucinations?
I really think you should keep seeing the therapist.”
“If these are hallucinations, Hank, why are you completely normal when I look at you?” Nick countered calmly.
“Why do Wu, Captain Renard, and everyone else at the precinct look like ordinary human beings?”
Hank shrugged, resting his arm on the steering wheel.
“The human brain is an inscrutable black box, man.
Maybe your subconscious only triggers visual glitches when you look at strangers?”
Nick opened his mouth to argue, but both of their cell phones rang simultaneously.
The original iPhone had launched just the previous year.
Although Nick wasn’t particularly enamored with closed operating systems, he had swallowed his pride and bought one—the practical utility of a modern smartphone was simply undeniable on the street.
Hank, meanwhile, remained fiercely loyal to his indestructible brick Nokia.
When the digital chime of the iPhone collided with the classic mono-polyphonic ring of the Nokia, the dual ringtones created a strangely comical duet inside the car.
Their quiet weekend was over.
Captain Renard was assigning them a fresh scene—it was time for overtime.
At 3:00 PM, Hank’s unmarked Mercury pulled onto the gravel shoulder near the western access trailhead of Balch Creek Canyon in Portland’s Forest Park.
Portland was an anomaly among American cities.
With its damp, overcast winters and dry, warm summers, the region was ideal for growing roses—earning it the moniker “The City of Roses.”
More uniquely, it boasted the largest urban forest reserve in the United States.
A interconnected network of paved and dirt trails wound throughout the city limits, linking over thirty distinct municipal parks.
A resident could step off a bustling commercial street and find themselves deep within a dense temperate rainforest in less than twenty minutes. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Nick had always appreciated Portland for its seamless integration of urban architecture and nature.
In this era, it stood as one of the few places genuinely committed to environmental preservation.
A Park Police Officer wearing a green tactical uniform with a silver pentagram badge pinned to his chest flagged them down.
Leaving the car behind, the three men hiked through the shaded forest path for fifteen minutes, ascending deep into the canopy.
Eventually, the yellow police tape of the PPB forensics unit came into view, stretched tightly between towering ancient trunks.
“A hiker ran down to the trailhead in a complete panic, screaming about a bear attack,” the Park Police Officer said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“I thought he was exaggerating until I walked up here.”
He led Nick and Hank past the cordon, pointing toward the base of a massive Douglas fir.
The loud, rhythmic buzzing of flies led the way.
Nick crouched low, using a pen to push aside a dense patch of sword ferns.
A human arm lay severed in the damp dirt.
“The rest of her is scattered across fifty yards,” the Park Ranger muttered, stepping back.
His face was pale, his eyes turned away from the brush.
“We’re still recovering pieces.”
The officer was in his early fifties, but his frequent foot patrols through the steep canyon trails had kept him lean and physically fit compared to most desk-bound cops his age.
Yet he clearly had no stomach for what lay in the weeds.
Although the arm was covered in ragged bite marks, dark mud, and deep tissue tears, with several fingers missing entirely, Nick’s basic training in forensic pathology allowed him to make an immediate assessment: the limb belonged to a young white female.
Following the ominous cawing of crows further into the ravine, an even more gruesome trail unfolded.
Torn strips of a bright red windbreaker were snagged on briars; scattered tissue fragments emitted a pungent, metallic stench; and a single pink women’s Nike running shoe sat wedged between two rocks.
The fresh, earthy smell of rich forest soil was completely drowned out by the heavy scent of copper and decay.
Nick and Hank stopped twenty paces in, allowing the crime scene techs to document the grid.
“I thought apex predators were effectively extinct in Forest Park,” Hank said, pulling his collar up over his nose.
“They are,” the Park Police Officer agreed, nodding quickly.
“I’ve patrolled these ridges for fifteen years.
There hasn’t been a confirmed North American brown bear or cougar sighting in this section since the 1951 fire scorched six hundred hectares on the west side.
Even bobcats are a rarity here.”
Hank turned to the officer, his eyes narrowing.
“I don’t think it was a dump site,” the officer replied, waving them over to a fallen, moss-covered log.
He pulled back a hanging vine, revealing the damp earth below.
“I found this fifty feet from the primary strike point.”
Pressed deep into the dark humus soil was a distinct, heavily lugged footprint.
“Beasts don’t wear trail-running boots,” the officer noted.
“When I found this print an hour ago, ground moisture was still seeping into the edges of the tread.
It’s less than two hours old.”
Nick immediately pulled out his iPhone, taking several high-resolution photos of the tread pattern from multiple angles.
He turned back toward the techs.
“Bring the plaster casting kit up here!
We’ve got a clear shoe impression on the north side of the log!”
“Copy that, Detective!
On our way!” a technician shouted back over the ambient noise of the woods.
Hank patted the observant Park Police Officer on the shoulder.
“Good eye.
We’ll wait on the Medical Examiner’s preliminary report to establish formal jurisdiction, but we’ll take point on the field canvass.”
The jurisdictional structure of American law enforcement was notoriously fragmented—a patchwork system that often confused outsiders.
Federal agencies like the FBI, U.S.
Marshals, ATF, ICE, and DEA held nationwide authority over federal crimes.
Local municipal departments like the NYPD, LAPD, and PPB handled city jurisdiction.
State police covered highways and state land, while elected Sheriffs managed county territories.
Layered over all of this were specialized law enforcement bodies with hyper-specific geographic or functional mandates: Transit Police, Campus Police, Postal Inspectors, and the Park Police operating under the Department of the Interior and Forest Service.
Technically, a incident occurring within the boundaries of a designated Forest Park fell under the primary jurisdiction of the Park Police.
However, given Portland’s unique geography, where city neighborhoods merged seamlessly with the forest canopy, the PPB and the Park Service maintained a standing mutual-aid agreement.
If the autopsy proved this was purely a tragic encounter with a rogue wild animal, the Park Service would handle the wildlife tracking and public safety notices.
But if the Medical Examiner confirmed human involvement—a murder disguised as a feral attack—jurisdiction would transfer immediately to Nick and Hank in the Homicide Division.