This excerpt is from the start of chapter one of the novel I’m currently working on, Genetically Modified Organism, and introduces the novel’s main character. Please keep in mind as you read that this is a very rough draft, so beware any typos or other bloopers! Enjoy!

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Jack Dawson stared out the window, his bright gray eyes watching the rain fall from the dreary gray skies over Washington, D.C. The wind was blowing just hard enough for the rain to strike the window, leaving behind wet streaks that ran down the panes of glass like tears. The face he saw reflected in the glass was cast in shadow by the overhead fluorescent lights. The square jaw and high cheekbones gave him a predatory look, while his full lips promised a smile, but were drawn downward now into a frown. The deeply tanned skin, framed by lush black hair that was neatly combed back and held with just the right amount of styling gel, looked sickly and pale in the glass, as if it belonged on the face of a ghost. He knew that it was the same face he saw every morning. But it was different now. An important part of his world had been killed, murdered, the night before.

He watched the people a few floors below, hustling through the downpour with their umbrellas fluttering as they poured out of the surrounding buildings, heading home for the evening. Cars clogged Pennsylvania avenue, with the taxis darting to the curb to pick up fares, causing other drivers to jam on their brakes, the bright red tail lights flickering on and off down the street like a sputtering neon sign. It was Friday, and everyone was eager to get home to their loved ones, or go out to dinner, or head to the local bar. Anywhere to escape the rat race for the weekend.

He didn’t have to see this building’s entrance to know that very few of the people who worked here would be heading home on time tonight. The address was 935 Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest. It was the J. Edgar Hoover Building, headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI. Dawson knew that other than the teams of special agents who had departed an hour earlier for Lincoln, Nebraska, very few people would be leaving any time soon this night, and many wouldn’t leave until sometime tomorrow. Some would be sleeping in their offices and cubicles after exhaustion finally overtook them, and wouldn’t go home for more than a few hours over the next several days.

A special agent had been brutally murdered, another name added to the list of the FBI’s Service Martyrs, and every resource the Bureau could bring to bear was now focused on bringing his killer to justice. Every available special agent from headquarters and the field offices around the country were headed to Nebraska, along with an army of analysts and support staff that were already sifting through electronic data looking for leads.

Every one had a part in the investigation, it seemed, except for Jack Dawson. In his hand, he held a plain manila folder that held the information that had been forwarded by the Lincoln field office. It was a preliminary report sent in by the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the Lincoln field office, summarizing the few known facts of the case. In terse prose, the SAC’s report described the crime scene, the victim, and what had been done by the local authorities before the SAC’s office had been alerted. And photos. Lots of photos. If a picture was worth a thousand words, then the photos Dawson held in his shaking hands spoke volumes about the agony suffered by the victim before he died. Because it was clear from the rictus of agony and terror frozen on Sheldon Crane’s face that he had still been alive when–