Текст книги "Mark of the Demon"

Автор книги: Diana Rowland

Соавторы: Diana Rowland
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He nodded, then gave the collar a slight jerk as the dog growled again. “Easy, Butch,” he said to the dog, then he looked back up at me. “Ask away, ma’am.”

I asked the usual identification questions, quickly jotting the info down in my notebook, and was surprised to find that he was actually in his early seventies. He was the preacher at a nondenominational church in town—one with which I was familiar, though certainly not as an attendee. It was a popular church—so much so that the church hired off-duty officers to help with traffic control on Sundays. I’d worked that particular detail a couple of times when I was in desperate need of extra income.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

“I was out walking Butch this morning. I go out every morning at about five a.m., unless it’s raining.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “Fortunately it does that enough in Louisiana that I get a break every now and then.”

I echoed the smile and waited for him to continue.

“Butch started acting really strange, pulling on the leash and barking. Then he finally pulled right away from me and ran over to the ball field.” Reverend Thomas grimaced. “He was going crazy, and so I had to go get him and pull him back. I saw it was a … body, so as soon as I could drag Butch away, I tied him up here and called 911.” He patted his pocket. “Thank God I always carry my cell phone.”

“Did you see anyone else in the park while you were walking?”

“No, I’m usually by myself this early in the morning. I don’t worry about it too much, since Butch looks fairly intimidating.” He gave me an apologetic smile as the Rottweiler continued to emit a low, unnerving growl in my direction. “I really am sorry. He looks fierce, but he’s normally incredibly placid and friendly. I guess he’s unnerved by the body.”

“But you don’t seem to be,” I pointed out.

He met my eyes. “I was a POW in Vietnam. Unfortunately, I’ve seen quite a bit of what one human can do to another.”

I exhaled. “I see.” I made a note to myself to check his military record. “Do you always walk in this park?”

Reverend Thomas shook his head. “Not always. I mix it up a bit, among this one and the lakefront and some of the parks south of here. Depends on how far I feel like driving. But this one’s closest to my house, so I usually end up here at least three days a week.”

“Do you think you would notice anything unusual? Any vehicles?”

“I think I would notice,” he said. “But, unfortunately, I’m fairly positive that I saw no vehicles other than mine this morning.” He gave me another apologetic smile. “However, I think I can be of help with identifying him.” He gave a nod toward the body, an expression of pain crossing his features.

“You know him?” That would be a hell of a break.

“I … think so. I would have to take a closer look to be sure, but I think it’s a young man who was in a rehab program I used to work with.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face. “It’s so disheartening when these young people get caught up in drugs. It’s like they’re drowning, but by the time they realize that they’re in the riptide, it’s too late for them.”

I nodded in full agreement. “I know. I’ve watched people completely destroy themselves. It used to be crack, but lately it’s meth.” I closed my notebook. “Would you be willing to come take another look at this victim, to see if you know him?”

He hesitated. “Yes … yes, of course,” he said after a few seconds. He bent and made certain that the leash was well secured to the bleachers, then stood. The dog gave a soft whine and the preacher patted his head. “I’ll be right back, Butchie,” he said, then followed me as I turned and walked back toward the crime scene.

The coroner’s office personnel were just finishing placing the body in the body bag as we approached. The reverend leaned over the bag and then gave a heavy sigh. “Yes, that’s him.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Mark Janson. He used to live with his mother, but she died a couple of years ago of various health problems, and after that he just went downhill. He’d always had issues, but she managed to keep him vaguely in line. Without her guidance, he fell apart.”

I wrote the info in my notebook. “Reverend Thomas, you’ve been a huge help. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

“I appreciate everything that you and the other officers are doing.” His smile was warm and sincere. “Please don’t hesitate to call or come by the church.”

“You can count on that,” I assured him as I shook his hand. I could see why his church was so popular. Too bad his dog hated me.

CHAPTER 7

I made a quick detour home after leaving the scene to grab a shower and change of clothes, then raced back to the station to get started on putting my notes in order. It was nearly mid-morning by the time I made it back, and I circled the tiny lot reserved for detectives and patrol several times, looking for a space, before finally giving up and parking on the street.

The broad glass doors at the front of the station swung in at a touch, revealing a spacious lobby with the Beaulac PD emblem worked into the tile of the floor. A scattering of people sat on chairs, probably waiting for copies of police reports or for appointments with detectives. I avoided eye contact with any of them and went straight to the door that led to the offices, swiping my ID card and heading on through as soon as the lock clicked open.

I hardly ever entered through the front door, but I couldn’t see the point of walking all the way around the building to get to the back entrance that patrol officers and detectives often used. However, using the front entrance meant that I passed right by all the offices for administration and the higher-ups. Normally that was no big deal, but to my surprise I heard my name called out just as I passed by Chief Morse’s office.

I blinked and took a step backward, peering around the door frame in case I’d misheard. It was by no means common for the chief to call random passersby into his office. In fact, he hardly ever associated with the troops, and I didn’t think he even knew my name.

I was wrong. Chief Eddie Morse stood in the foyer of his office, in front of his secretary’s desk, a manila folder in his hand and a slight frown on his face as he looked at me. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, white shirt starched within an inch of its life and tucked perfectly into place, dress slacks immaculately pressed, tie in a tight double Windsor. Not a single steel-gray hair on his head was out of place. “Detective Gillian,” he repeated. “Do you have a minute?” It was asked in a tone that said that he didn’t give a shit if I had a minute or not but that I’d better make a minute.

I resisted the urge to gulp nervously and merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He jerked his head toward his office, then headed that way, clearly expecting me to follow.

I obliged and followed him, taking in the surroundings in a quick glance as he moved to the far side of the broad oak desk. The office was neat and perfectly styled, much like his person. Dark-blue carpet matched the colors in the Beaulac PD seal, which had been painted on the wall behind his desk. Books were arranged by height. Certificates and plaques on the wall were ordered in perfect harmony with one another. One shelf was devoted to trophies, and the brief glance that I was able to make told me that they were either for athletic events or firearms competitions.

The chief motioned me to sit with the folder in his hand. So I sat, trying to not appear uncertain, even though I definitely felt that way. Chief Morse never called nonranking detectives or patrol officers in. Even if someone was in serious trouble, the chief preferred to have his immediate underlings take care of ugly tasks like discipline or firings.

He leaned back in his chair while I remained sitting stiffly upright. He flipped open the folder, looked at the contents for a second, then made a “hmmf” noise and looked over at me.

“You’re working these murders,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a question at all, but I gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

His frown deepened, though I couldn’t tell if it was a frown of displeasure or of thought. This was the first time I’d spent more than five seconds in the man’s presence, so I didn’t have much experience to draw on.

“I read your initial report on the first case,” he said, voice clipped. “Same symbol on this latest one as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve read up on the previous cases?”

“Yes, sir.” I resisted the urge to fidget.

“So you’re the resident expert.” There was still no clue from his tone as to where he was going with this. He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but he was looking at me as if expecting a response.

I hesitated briefly before answering. I didn’t want to appear cocky, but I probably did know more about the case than anyone else in the department. “I don’t know if expertis the right word, sir,” I finally said, “but I have a strong familiarity with the case.”

Chief Morse set the folder down, expression still unreadable. “Captain Turnham says that you asked for the Symbol Man files not long ago.”

“Yes, sir. I was transferred to Violent Crimes just a few weeks ago, so I figured I’d take a look at some old case files to start getting a feel for it all.”

His lips pressed together and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk and lightly clasping his hands together. “Why the Symbol Man cases?”

“Well, sir,” I said, as I tried to gather my thoughts into something coherent, “it’s not often that any detective gets the chance to work this kind of case, or even see the details of the case. I’ve been a detective for only a couple of years—in Property Crimes—and I thought that by reviewing the files I could learn something about homicide investigations. And that’s pretty much the biggest unsolved case we have, and … Well, I’ve been interested in the case for quite some time.”

His eyes were intent on me, as if expecting me to say more. “I see. So you’re just trying to be a better detective?”

I couldn’t read his tone at all. Very frustrating. “Well, yes, sir. I mean, I really enjoy police work and intend to make a career of it.” I could feel myself getting flustered despite my best efforts at control. “I’m sorry, sir, but have I done something wrong?”

“I saw you out on the scene at the wastewater plant, Detective Gillian,” he said, ignoring my question. “You seem to be pretty meticulous and organized.”

He’d obviously never seen the inside of my kitchen cabinets. “I do my best, sir.”

“What were you doing to the body?”

“Er, what?”

He scowled. “You were squatting by the body and waving your hand over it.” He made a horizontal waving motion with his own hand. “What was that all about? Did you touch the body?”

Shit. He’d seen me trying to feel the arcane resonance. “No, sir, I didn’t touch the body,” I said, thinking furiously. “I, uh, was trying to see some of the cuts better, and there was some glare from the halogens.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Glare. Uh-huh. And Tessa Pazhel is your aunt?”

I just nodded, not wanting to say anything that could make me look like more of an idiot. Glare? That was the best excuse I could come up with?

“She has a rep for being a weird little bird,” he said, “but I’m sure you know that.”

I couldn’t help but bristle at the slight. “Sir, my aunt is—”

He lifted his hand, cutting me off. “I know, I know. I’m out of line maligning your family. I shouldn’t have said that. But I want to make it very clear, Detective Gillian,” his sharp blue eyes stayed on mine, “that I want these murders to stop, I want the bad guy to go to jail, and I don’t want any bizarre shenanigans on scenes. It’s not enough just to solve a case. We have to be able to take it to court as well. You weren’t wearing gloves, and it looked like you touched the body.”

“Yes, sir.” What more could I say? He was right. “I didn’t mean to get so close to the body. I’ll be more careful, sir.”

He looked steadily at me for what seemed like several minutes, though I knew it was probably only a few seconds. I willed calm, maintaining my demeanor as he regarded me only by utilizing my training as a summoner.

Finally he waved a hand at me. “You’re dismissed, Detective. Just keep in mind what I said.”

I stood. “Yes, sir. I will.” I turned quickly and exited. The secretary glanced up as I passed, giving me a small wink and smile that managed to drag my morale back to normal levels. She’d probably overheard quite a few ass-chewings over the years, and I felt a bit better after the silent reassurance.

Returning to my office, I shut the door and sat heavily at my desk. I deserved that, I had to admit. At least he hadn’t pulled me off the cases. I forced myself to take some comfort in that—not easy after being rebuked by the chief. But apparently he still had faith that I could handle it. I just had to be more careful. The last thing I needed was for people to think I was as strange as my aunt. It was besides the point that I wasas strange as my aunt, but that didn’t mean I wanted people to think it. Who are you kidding, I thought wryly. They probably already do.

I finally exhaled heavily and spread my hands on the top of my desk. Ican handle it. I’ll solve these cases, using every fucking trick in or out of the book. So what if no one had been able to solve the Symbol Man murders the last time he was doing his killing. None of them could see the arcane. That gave me an advantage.

Now I just had to use it.

Leaning back to reach my filing cabinet, I yanked open the middle drawer, then riffled quickly through the files until I came to the thick folder containing the pictures from all the previous murders—Series One, as I was beginning to mentally refer to them. I flipped through the pics quickly. All those bodies had been dumped in places that were traveled infrequently, which meant that they were often not found for days or weeks. The body at the waste-water plant had been found quickly, but the fracture injuries made me think that he’d meant to place the body up on the vat, or somewhere else less visible.

But the victim at the ball field was meantto be found quickly. So why the change?

I worked my way through the pictures, taking note of something else. The Series One victims had been killed in a variety of ways, except for the last two—who’d been strangled. They’d all shown evidence of prolonged torture, but the main feature that had tied those murders together was the symbol. Always the same symbol, though not always in the same place on the body. Sometimes not even in an immediately visible location. Both victims from my cases—Series Two—had been strangled. So, why the change? Couldit be a copycat?

It doesn’t matter, I finally decided. It’s still a murder investigation.

But there was one more striking similarity between Series One and Series Two. Every single victim was the type of person who had no one to miss them. Homeless, prostitute, drug addict, mentally ill. Sometimes all of the above. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian—all were represented. And the victims were chosen carefully—of that I was sure. These were not random snatches off the street. The killer studied them, followed them, and made certain they were alone and would not be missed for some time.

I sat back in my chair, drumming my pen on my chin. How did he take them? Tox screens on the victims had never come up with anything more than traces of “street” drugs, which was to be expected with the types of victims he chose. But if he was holding them for several days before killing them, then any drug he used to subdue them would probably have time to clear from their bodies, though I’d need to check with Doc for specifics. Did he gain their trust? Was there a connection? The investigator on the original case hadn’t found any link between the victims, but I had no idea how deeply he’d dug either. Somehow, the Symbol Man snatched his victims without anyone seeing it happen, then transported them to a secure location where they were heinously tortured for several days and then ritually killed, sometimes suffering for up to a week before finally being put to death. And always the arcane smudges left behind on the body, as well as that unidentified symbol.

But why? What was he doing arcanely? There were a number of things that involved death and blood, but unfortunately—or fortunately—Aunt Tessa wasn’t an expert in any of them, other than the basic knowledge of Things That Are Bad.

I picked up the picture of the girl found at the treatment plant and scrutinized the parallel cuts and the symbol carved onto her chest. That shit had to hurt like crazy. And the knife had to be insanely sharp, judging by the precision in the cuts.

I sighed and pulled out the pictures from the very first body, seven years ago. This one was a young black male in his mid-twenties who’d hit three of the four factors: homeless, prostitute, and drug addict. I flipped through the pictures quickly until I found one of the symbols. It had been meticulously burned into the inside of his left upper thigh, just below the scrotum.

I replaced that file, then grabbed up the next: a white male in his sixties, homeless, no family, mentally ill. His symbol had been seared directly onto his genitals. More torture. Not just a brand, but one that was meant to cause incredible pain as well.

But why should that surprise me? It didn’t tell me anything new about the killer. But maybe it told me something about the symbol itself. If it was an arcane marking, then maybe the pain involved in its placing was important. Somehow generating more potency?

I replaced the files, then pulled out the one on the victim I’d actually seen when I was a road cop. But I didn’t need to look at the pictures. I remembered vividly where that symbol had been. In fact, at first the detectives hadn’t believed it to be the same killer, because no symbol had been found on the body. It wasn’t until the pathologist removed the tongue and trachea during the autopsy that it was found—seared onto the base of her tongue.

I jumped at the knock on my door and bit my tongue against the yelp. “Come in,” I called, then had to work to control my expression when Cory Crawford opened the door. His flat brown eyes flicked over the files and pictures scattered around my desk, then he looked at me, a sour expression curling his mouth.

“Dr. Lanza called to say he has court in the morning, so he’s not cutting your latest until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Okay,” I replied, guarded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Cory’s gaze swept my office again. “You making any headway?”

“It’s … a lot to go through. I’m trying to find a link between the victims now.”

He gave a stiff nod, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then shook his head. “Kara, I was a dick the other night. You’re going to do just fine. Sorry.”

I let my breath out. “It’s cool.”

He nodded again, then closed the door. I could hear his footsteps fading down the hall as I leaned back in the chair, feeling as if a bit of the weight on me had been lifted. Yes, all better now. Now you only have to stress about the chief thinking you’re an inadequate nutjob, Agent Kristoff thinking you’re incompetent, your one-night stand with a demon … oh, yeah, and a serial killer still on the loose. I made a face and sat up again, pulling the scene pictures to me and wishing for the millionth time that there was some way to photograph those arcane smudges.

I can’t photograph them, I thought with a growing realization, but maybe I can sneak Aunt Tessa in to look at them. If Doc wasn’t going to cut until tomorrow afternoon, that would give me the time to do it.

I chewed my lip as I mulled over the utter stupidity of such an idea. “Ah, screw it,” I muttered, grabbing my bag. “It’s only my career.”

CHAPTER 8

Breaking into the morgue was painfully easy. The coroner’s office suffered from a lack of funding more than any other agency, mostly due to the fact that people didn’t like to think about death and thus didn’t want to fund it any more than absolutely necessary.

“I’ve done my share of crazy things in my day, kiddo,” Aunt Tessa remarked dryly as she watched me work the lock, “but I don’t believe I’ve ever broken into a morgue in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, this would normally be far too tame for you,” I replied as I slipped the edge of my folding knife into the doorjamb, noting with wry amusement that the jamb was already scored a dozen times over, probably from people who worked for the coroner’s office. The door clicked open and I stepped inside, wrinkling my nose at the ever-present odors—the combination of cleaner and decomposition and bleach, each struggling to overpower the others.

I quickly flicked on my key-chain LED flashlight, then stepped inside and pulled Aunt Tessa in, closing the door behind her.

“Needs incense,” I heard her mutter from behind me.

I swung the tiny flashlight in an arc, blue light reflecting eerily off the metal table and stained walls. “Let’s just hope no one gets brought in while we’re doing our little bit of breaking and entering.”

The cooler was locked, but I knew that the key was oh-so-cleverly hidden in a drawer right next to it. A wave of cold dead air rolled out as I swung the door open, and once again I pulled my aunt inside, this time propping the door slightly ajar with an office chair. I panned my flashlight around the cooler, relieved to find that there was only one stretcher with a body bag atop it. I checked the tag on the outside of the bag to be sure. Yep, this was my victim, Mark Janson.

The bag was secured with a plastic zip tie, which I sliced through with my knife. I quickly tugged on latex gloves, then unzipped the bag, exhaling as the sight of the young man struck an emotional chord once again. Then I grimaced. The arcane smudges had faded drastically, as I’d feared.

“There’s not much left of them, Aunt Tessa. Can you see anything?”

Tessa leaned over the bag, slowly scanning the body, nose wrinkling at the faint odor of sweat and blood and death. “I see what you’re talking about.” She frowned. “Turn your flashlight off, please.”

I switched the flashlight off, suppressing a shudder at the near-absolute blackness inside the cooler, broken only by the faint illumination sneaking past the propped-open door. But I could see why my aunt wanted less light. The smudges were far more visible to othersight in the dark.

“There’s not much to see,” Tessa said, “but it’s definitely a male who left these.”

“The profiles that were done all indicated a white male in his thirties—”

“Lives alone, parents divorced, yeah yeah yeah,” my aunt cut in with a laugh. “Isn’t it funny how every profile is darn near the same?”

“No shit! But I was going to add that I also got the impression of a male.”

“Hmm … But that doesn’t mean he’s the killer.”

“Sure, but that’s some pretty damning evidence.” I shrugged. “I mean, if any of this were admissible in court.”

Tessa made a low noise in her throat. “They.”

It took a second for my aunt’s comment to register. “Wait, there’s more than one?”

“Yep. At least, there are two different sources on this body.” She sighed. “But I can’t really tell anything about the second one. Can’t even tell gender or species.”

“Species?” I said, startled. The dark shape of my aunt’s head turned toward me.

“Yes, dearie. Not necessarily human.”

I groaned. “Aw, crap. So this guy could be teaming up with a demon?”

“You weren’t listening,” she chided. “I said I couldn’t tell. It could still be a human, it could be a demon. It could be a squid person from Mars.”

I snorted softly and smiled. “Of course, Auntie Dearest.”

“Oh, please,” she groaned. “Enough of that. Now gimme some light, Darling Niece.”

I flicked the flashlight on again, only to have Tessa pluck it from my fingers and shine it directly on the symbol on the man’s lower abdomen. She stared at it, mumbling softly under her breath, then finally sighed and shook her head. “I can’t figure that thing out at all.” She handed the light back to me. “We’ll have to ask one of the demonic ilk for advice on that one. I wish we knew how you muffed up the Rysehl summoning.”

My jaw tightened. “I didn’t muff it up.”

She winced. “Sorry, that came out harsher than I meant. But something went wrong, and I’d be a lot happier if I knew what it was.” She smiled and patted my cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll figure it out.”

I zipped up the bag, then pulled a fresh zip tie out of my pocket and resealed the bag. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go.”

We left the cooler and I relocked it, but Tessa paused before following me out of the morgue. “I’m not your enemy here, Kara. I know I’ve screwed up in the past, but I’m really trying here.”

My shoulders slumped. I was being a jerk and letting my own stress spill onto her. “You haven’t screwed up.”

She shook her head. “You and I both know that’s not true. That month while I dithered in Japan and left you in that awful foster home—”

“You made that right,” I cut in, voice a bit rough. I looked at her, seeing the guilt on her face again. “Aunt Tessa, that’s in the past. You … did the right thing. You made it right,” I repeated.

She exhaled, nodded. “Well, I should have made sure you had more friends in high school. Made you get out more—”

“Okay, are we just going to stand here and flail around in guilt all night long?” I gave her a mock glare. “Because if that’s really your plan, I’d like to do it someplace that doesn’t stink so damn much.”

She laughed and gave me a quick, bony hug. “Impudent little bitch. I don’t know why I bother with you at all.”

“I don’t either, but you’re fucking stuck with me.” I gave her a squeeze, then released her. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”