Officer Mike Toretto POV

I have never seen anything like this. Standing outside of what was once an elegant estate, I feel as though I'm back in Iraq. The climate is wrong, the date is wrong, but the atmosphere is unmistakable. I got the call late in the afternoon as I was about to get off my shift for the day. The local mailman reported a possible explosion at the Bell manor outside of town. It seems that I am the first to arrive. I’m immediately taken aback by the scene. I find the mailman sitting hunched on the curb of the street, his face flashed with a mix of  bewilderment and frustration. I do not immediately approach him, instead walking past him for a closer look at the scene.

The most apparent thing about the landscape is what it's missing. The grand yard looks like that of a stately southern manor, with a generous lawn, well-kept hedges, and a few trees dotting the property. However, the house is gone. And it isn’t clear where it went. There is some debris scattered around the yard, mostly roof tiles and drywall. but it seems that most of the structure has simply disappeared. As I move closer, I find a potential answer as two large craters at opposite ends of where I presume the house sat seem to have swallowed most of the structure. Peering into the craters, I see the soil and what I can only assume are the remains of the house were packed tightly together into the ground, as though a giant trash compactor had pulverized every inch of the crater. I have never seen such orderly destruction before. The elegance of the scene is disturbed by a foul odor that overtakes me. It’s a smell I know, but have not experienced on American soil before. Death.
I had seen what thousand-pound bombs could do to a structure and its occupants. Too many times. What I see before me is similar, yet different. Typically, when a bomb explodes it sends force and debris in all directions. Judging by the debris in the yard, it looks more like the structure had collapsed rather than detonated. The debris outside the craters seems to rest on the ground, rather than impacting it. Nothing digs into the earth outside of the crater itself. Furthermore, it seems nothing was launched a great distance. Most of the debris, barring a few smaller pieces of piping, rests outside the crater and around the yard. Curiously, nothing is scattered into the surrounding hills or plunged deep into the ground. Finally, there doesn’t appear to be any release of heat. I’m not a scientist, but I know that most explosions release an immense amount of heat. Yet I don’t see anything scorched by flames. And the corpses don’t smell burnt. I’m familiar with many scents of death, but this one was not crisp. I know the professor that lived here was some kind of scientist. Perhaps he had been working on some kind of new weapon?
I wipe my forehead and sigh as I hear more sirens approaching from up the long road to the property. I turned to face the mailman, who seemed considerably more irritated after I walked past him when I arrived. Clearly, he was annoyed that his work day had been extended and did not appreciate being here any longer than he had to be. I felt for him, knowing I was in for a long night myself…

Detective Ryan Schwartz POV

Looking up from the scene, I notice the sun begins to set behind the hills on the horizon. Three hours. We’re losing daylight and we hardly have any more answers than we had when I first got here. Dabbing my forehead with my handkerchief, I briefly think back to how we’d squandered the last few hours. We made the decision early on to begin excavating the property, as we suspected there were bodies in the rubble based on the smell. Considering we were potentially dealing with a capital crime, we knew the first twenty four hours were crucial to cracking the case and didn’t want to waste any time. Though several detectives objected as this necessitated contaminating the crime scene, they eventually acquiesced to our way of thinking. Within the rubble we hoped to discover two things: who died and what killed them. 

Rubble. I reconsider the word. It doesn’t seem right. Rubble is messy. Rubble is bricks, rocks, and concrete. This is different. This looks like a thick pancake. The world’s biggest inedible pancake. It’s smooth, neat even. The craters seem almost perfect. So circular, so evenly-spaced. They align perfectly with one another, intersecting precisely and being perfectly symmetrical. From a bird’s-eye view, I would guess it looks like a perfect venn diagram. I shake my head. I’m getting ahead of myself, thinking of the report I have to write in the future instead of the crime before me right now. But was it a crime? The officer that secured the scene mentioned it seemed like a bomb, but at the same time behaved unlike any bomb he had seen before. Based on his accounts from overseas, I’m inclined to agree, but I am not an expert in explosives. And who would bomb a solitary house in a small college town? I knew that Mr. Bell was an accomplished physicist and inventor. Perhaps he had enemies? But then again… perhaps this was an accident. An experiment gone awry…
I need to focus. We had brought in the dogs an hour ago and they identified the spot where one or more bodies were, but we weren’t able to excavate them because the rubble pancake was too compact. We were waiting for some heavy construction equipment to arrive from a nearby development site, but in the meantime the men have begun digging with pickaxes to break up the debris sheet. I move forward to examine the spot again, the smell of human remains getting stronger as I approach. As I reach into my pocket to get my handkerchief again, a glimmer of light catches my eye in the dwindling sunlight. Bending down to observe it, it seems like a piece of jewelry. Pulling out a pair of tweezers from another pocket, I begin picking at it, trying to pull it from the rest of the rubble. I carefully maneuver it around miscellaneous debris in the rubble and am surprised when I find I can pull it out. Carefully pulling the necklace from its chrysalis of detritus, I bring it to my face to examine it. The chain is made of a shiny, silvery metal, though I can’t say if it’s silver, platinum, or just polished nickel. Moving along the chain, a veritable bouquet of precious gems, most of which I assume to be diamonds, hang from the chain in an ornamental arrangement. At the center of this arrangement sits a relatively-large blue gemstone. I assume it’s a sapphire based on its color, but I’m not a jeweler. The thought crosses my mind to pocket it for myself, but I quickly push it aside. Suddenly, an epiphany strikes me. I recognize this necklace. I had seen Mrs. Bell wear on several occasions. 
How did I not recognize it before? It always adorned Mrs. Bell’s neckline, hanging seductively over her ample cleavage. Boy, she was a beauty… blonde hair, green eyes, a flawless face with curves that could bend the most honorable man’s moral code… I really need to focus. Maybe I needed to get some kind of medication for this… NO! I am a late middle-aged man, these are normal thoughts… FOCUS! My thoughts move on to the rest of the family… Roger Bell was an accomplished physicist and the chair of the physics department at the local university. He had always had a reputation as a bit of an eccentric. Most of those science types are. He was married to the lovely Madison Bell, a former runway model-turned-fashion designer who had become a housewife after the birth of their daughter, Cassidy Bell. The daughter… I shudder to think she was in this mess of a grave. I can’t recall how old she is… nine? Ten? 
As I slip the necklace into an evidence bag, I look out at the sunset over the surrounding hills and notice indentations in the earth heading in a straight line away from the home. Orienting myself with the surrounding area once more, I discern that they seem to be heading north. Whatever had caused this, it seemed to be a fairly precise weapon. The indentations seem to get smaller as they get farther from the house and maintain a regular distance from one another… perhaps lesser explosions radiating from the original explosion? Or perhaps a series of larger explosions led to the house itself? As the last of the sun slips over the hills, my thoughts return to the gruesome scene at my feet… 

Sheriff Ron Johnson POV

It’s been quite a week for the town of Titansburg. And a hell of a week for me. Smoking my cigar in my office, I lean back in my chair as my mind takes me through the week’s events again. Everything began last Monday with the explosion at the Bell estate. I looked over the report on my desk and squinted again at the reported cause: “Spontaneous Thermobaric Explosion.” I don’t rightly know what that means, but it seemed to satisfy the detectives and the feds. The feds, I thought. They had taken a keen interest in the disaster. I never liked the feds. As a staunch supporter of the second amendment and a man who considers himself something of a libertarian, despite my career in law enforcement, they have always rubbed me the wrong way. But beyond my petty personal misgivings, having them in the town really made everything a circus. They were bossy, rude, and above all: smartasses. They stepped on too many toes for my liking. Ordinarily, I would welcome the help on such a complicated case, but they brought too much attention with them and took over the whole scene, casting me and my men aside. I understood their concern, really, I did. A military-grade explosive unlike anything we’ve ever seen before detonating on the outskirts of a small town in the middle of America is understandable cause for alarm.

At first, it was just the FBI. They ruled out terrorism fairly quickly, but they struggled to find a plausible motive or even an explanation for the attack. They told me they wanted to bring in more resources and experts, to which I was originally receptive. "The more the merrier," I thought at the time. Then they told me they wanted to bring in the ATF, and I was immediately resistant. I didn’t like the ATF. The agency’s whole mission is to confiscate our guns and shoot our dogs. I scratch Sparky’s head as I blow out another puff of smoke. Sparky’s all I have left since Linda died… The thought of those sons of bitches doing anything to him… my mind wanders angrily. I can sense that this is a pointless diversion and put it out of my mind as my thoughts return to the week’s events. I started asking why they had to bring in the ATF, and the smug dipshit told me that they were America’s foremost experts in alcohol, tobacco, firearms, and explosives. I still wasn’t happy with this and immediately started fumbling for reasons to deny their involvement. 

“How do you know there was an explosion? Nobody heard or saw anything! The mailman stumbled upon the residence and reported he didn’t hear any explosion!”

The agent frowned, but I saw a slight grin form in the right corner of his mouth. “How else does a building get so thoroughly destroyed? The wreckage was all over the yard, the structure was flattened. Are you proposing something else did this?”

Thinking on my feet, I retorted, “This ain’t like any explosion I’ve ever seen. And it ain’t like anything you’ve seen neither. It’s possible it was something else.”

The agent seemed to concede, but replied matter-of-factly, “Regardless, there is a possibility that it was an explosion. And we need explosive experts to determine whether that possibility is reality or not.”

I huffed, but I could not think of another response. And so the ATF came. My men and I were relegated to traffic duty for the remainder of the week as the Feds conducted their investigation. We kept the townspeople and media away from the crime scene and by Thursday, the Feds had concluded their investigation. Though they were still waiting for the results of the DNA tests, they seemed confident in their theory of the tragedy. They explained that it was a special kind of pressurized explosion originating from within the house. Two devices at opposite ends of the home simultaneously detonated, flattening the structure and the entire Bell family within. They did not have a motive and were regarding the incident as an accident resulting from one of Mr. Bell’s experiments. The government confiscated his lab and all of his work at the university and considered the matter closed. I still had my doubts. They didn’t explain the indents in the ground leading away from the house. They didn’t explain why the remains of the house’s roof remained in the yard instead of being scattered all over the hills. But frankly, I was just happy to see them go and didn’t put up a fuss. I’m not a scientist. I don’t have the resources to solve this. Maybe Mr. Bell was developing some new device that malfunctioned and this was the aftermath. I’m just happy for some peace and quiet again.

As I puff another cloud of smoke from my cigar, Sparky suddenly stood alert. He stares intently at the door. I frown and squint at the door as well, wondering what could possibly be happening to ruin my Friday evening. Soon enough, I hear a knock at the door. I shout in a neighborly but authoritative voice, “Come in!” There is no movement. No sound. I shout again, this time less neighborly and more authoritative, “Come in!” Again, nothing. No response.

I place a hand on my revolver as I get up and approach the door. With my dog at my side, I quickly swing it open and stare out into the parking lot in front of the police station. There’s nothing out there aside from a few police cruisers. The bushes rustle in breeze, but the air is dead. Must have been a prank. I begin to close the door, but notice my German Shepherd is no longer at my side and is sniffing intently. Looking down, I realize there is a small blonde girl standing at the door. Turning her attention away from Sparky to look up at me, I see her green-blue eyes meet mine. Her face is pale, clearly freezing from the cold sidewalk in the evening air. She’s not wearing anything on her feet, which appear to be a ghostly white except for the dirt that cakes them in a few places. Recognizing the spectre that stood before, I nearly screamed, but caught my tongue. It was Cassidy Bell.