“It’s scapegoat… Did a search on my phone on the way up here. Not much in the scope of strange happenings, but there’s only so much that you can do while driving down the interstate. I’ll have more luck here.”
“Glad you gave that up. How crappy would it be to hunt monsters and die because of a cellphone?”
I shrug, pull out my laptop, and plop down on my bed, ready to begin our mutual search. “It’d be pretty bad. Worse if I were maimed.”
“Or if you ruined someone else’s life.”
“Enough soapbox talk, more research. It was an open road.” I twirl my hand in the air from my bed. “Darius is the guy we’re looking for. Darius Artenie, the name in the book on that page I showed you before we left the diner. No social media. No pictures. Dude doesn’t exist whatsoever on the internet.”
“As they rarely do.”
“Madam whatsherface proudly advertised her hours and had a handful of five-star reviews.”
“Here,” Roc says, shifting the conversation. “Woman commits suicide with self-inflicted knife wound.”
“And? It’s Missouri.”
“She had, and I quote, ‘occult symbology’ written across her forehead in blood. Her own.”
“Now we’re cooking. When was this one?”
“Two days ago.”
“Any witnesses?” I ask as I peck away at my computer.
“No. None reported from what I can see. The official report will have more information available.”
“Crap. Okay, well narrow down the location and cross reference it to any fortune tellers or psychic setups in the nearby area.”
“I appreciate the tutorial, but no one likes a backseat driver, buddy.”
“I think I found the same thing you found…and now, I’m going to see if I can find something going backwards. Weird graffiti, sketchy sightings, assaults, break-ins to museums…were you able to get an image of the symbol on her forehead?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Same here…we may have to go and check out the autopsy for ourselves. Get in, run a routine, and get what we need. Got your suit and badge in your car?”
“Yeah. Always. I just have to give it a quick press and it’s good to go.”
“Perfect. I’ve got the address. We’ll drop-in first thing in the morning and use the remainder of the day to work through whatever we come across in the meantime.”
“Good. Nothing like impersonating the FBI to start a case off right.”
“Think we’ll find a pattern?”
“Maybe,” I confess with a shrug as I continue to click away. “But I doubt it. Nothing’s coming up that notes anything remotely occult. I’ll be sure to ask around tomorrow.”
“What about this?” Roc asks.
“I’m listening.”
“Man sees zombie, hungry for blood.”
“Are you sure it’s not Flakka? It’s a pretty hardcore drug that makes people do wild things. There a video?”
“Yup. It has a couple thousand shares online.” Roc adjusts himself so that I can get a proper view of the screen before hitting play. “You see how he’s walking? He’s definitely not all the way there.”
“Right, and his clothes look like shit…no blood…he’s not saying anything, either. Damn. Maybe he’s in a trance? Anyone identified the man in the video? The zombie? Did he pop up later somewhere?”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t see anything on the guy, but I do have the credentials of the man who filmed it.”
“Great…yeah, that’s a good start. Whether it’s mind control or an actual zombie, we should be able to connect the dots…at the very least. Let’s just flesh out what we got…browse a few comments, follow the video for a bit. I’ll see what I can get on murders or recent disappearances in the area. The coroner will have an idea with what’s going on in the area. If we’re going that route, it’s best that we have a few questions under our belt.”
“Agreed.”
And with that, Roc and I dipped into a mutual silence, scouring the net for clues. I admit it. It’s nice having Roc around for this part of the job. In general, working with someone you trust gives you a baseline of comradery, by default. It’s awesome. Quicker work, someone to bounce ideas off of. The only thing that sucks is that it reminds me of Sailor and her pops. We’d have nights just like this and make it feel like it wasn’t work at all.
“Hey, Blaze?” I break away from my gaze and catch a glimpse at the clock in the bottom-right corner of my laptop. It’s been hours.
“Food run?” I ask, intuitively. I didn’t notice it at first, but with my attention away from my work, I’m starving, too. Outside of the meal earlier with Roc, food hasn’t necessarily been a priority. Witch hunting, bar hopping, and canceling out a curse has a way of doing that to you.
“Yeah, just a quick bite to fuel the engine. You want to come with?”
“No, I don’t like to stop once I start. Just grab me something on the way out. Cool?”
“Got it.”
Roc leaves and I continue to dig. So far, I’ve come across a variety of happenings but nothing related to what we’re after. Some kids on some forum swore they saw a monster in the woods. Bigfoot of all things. I humored them and clicked on the video, but it looked more along the lines of a well-thought prank as opposed to a serious threat. I was thinking they managed to see a werewolf or something on the move, but no dice. They lucked out in that sense. Nine times out of ten, if a werewolf wants you dead, you’re going to die unless you’re trained and prepared. Things would have been bad if they actually managed to catch one on tape. For one, it probably wouldn’t have reached the internet, because, well, that’s the type of secret you kill to keep and werewolves are hyper-vigilant about keeping their existence solely in the storybooks.
Another notable dead end that I came across was a local lady who claimed to be hearing her deceased sister speak to her once a week; only on Tuesdays at the same time every night. She was on the thread, but what she was saying didn’t make sense. Her sister wasn’t warning her or even trying to hurt her for that matter. It was just her. She would talk to her in dreams, but she wouldn’t give any practical advice. They’d be doing something random together or relive a moment from the past, but nothing more. It made for an interesting read, but there was no evidence of anything beyond a small string of coincidences. She’d experienced a cold chill and the occasional bump in the night, but never anything beyond that. Seeing someone that’s passed away can mean a lot of things, but it can also mean that you’re in mourning. I’ve seen Sailor in my dreams multiple times and never once was I thinking that she was trying to reach out to me somehow. Not even to tell me that everything’ll be okay. I threw that out the window when my family passed.
Better to stay grounded that way, as Joel would say. And I sure as hell believed him.
Roc comes back about thirty minutes later with a brown bag, the kind with handles when you place a large order. “I’ve got a couple of burgers and some fries. It even comes with a little container so you can eat on the go.”
“Righteous,” I answer halfheartedly as my eyes scan over my work.
I shift my gaze over to Roc and watch him set the bag down. My cue to get my meal for the night.
“Manage to see anything fishy out there?” I grab one of the carryout containers from the bag and sit back on my bed.
“Not at all. It’s pretty bland out here. Anything new on your side of things,” he says as he pulls a chair out from the table and takes a seat.
“Nothing that I haven’t told you already.” I shut the lid of my laptop and place the container on top. “I think I’m done for the night, to be honest. After I eat this, I’m gonna get some shuteye.”
“Do what you do. I’m going to work at this a bit more.”
“Cool…just catch me up to speed in the morning.”
Roc flicks his thumb up in approval and I begin to scarf down my meal.
We shoot the breeze for a bit until my food an
d fatigue catches up to me and I call it quits.
Chapter 7: Gut Wrenching Irony
“Looks like this is something right up our alley, eh, Bruno?” I shift my weight, trying to act intrigued, yet professionally intact… Like an occult-suicide-kill is just a Monday morning mishap that’s really a killer trying to be cute. The biggest thing about impersonating an officer is confidence. Confidence and an aura of detachment; the cool and collected flow of someone who’s been around the block a few times. “And you said there wasn’t anything on file regarding a distress call of any kind, right?”
“From her? No. It was a suicide.” The coroner’s prompt with her response, but there’s an air of curiosity. I imagine the FBI doesn’t come barging through her workplace on a daily basis.
“Or so we’re led to believe. Who called it in?” I follow up.
“A friend of hers named Maria.”
“Okay, yeah. And what did she say?”
“That she didn’t know why she’d do this to herself. Unfortunately, you get that a lot with things like this.”
“Hmm. Right.”
“What? Do you think she was lying?” the coroner asks, her curiosity finally taking hold.
“No, but we’re going to have to speak with her to get a more complete picture. What do you think, Bruno?” I pivot and ask Rocco. He’s studying the body, but also looking at her file, taking note of the little things that may come in handy later on. Given my age, faking as an operative for the FBI is a little harder for me than it is for Roc. He’s a bit older and has a more mature look to him. He plays his role well. Agent Bruno. I’m Rivers.
“The wound does seem self-inflicted. No signs of struggle…one incision. The blood that’s under her fingertips is her own. I see the contact right here…Maria Hudson. Yeah, we can have a word with her. I’ll arrange it once we’re done here. Do you have access to the weapon, by chance? I’d like to have a look at it.”
“The knife? Sure. Let me go get it. One moment please.”
The coroner steps away from Roc and I, leaving us to ourselves with the victim’s body.
Creshell Martin. Twenty-eight. Worked in Pharmacy and died ahead of her time.
“So, what are we looking at?” I ask Roc as he resumes rifling through the files. I decided to do most of the talking on this one since research is more up his alley. I thumbed through her file already, enough to get the gist of things before I handed it off to Roc. It helped with his act. “Any missing organs? Interesting incisions?”
“No. None that I see.” Roc gestures at the security camera with his eyes. It was something we’d taken note of when we entered the room, but now he needed me to run interference.
He places the folder on the table and together we lean over it while he slides his phone out from his suit jacket. While he snaps the pictures, I conveniently block the camera’s prospective view. As FBI, we’re allowed to get files regarding a case, of course. Only problem is we’re not FBI. Requesting information of that sort can get tricky, so we try our best to keep matters in our own hands and leave as little strings as possible.
“Hey, look at these markings,” I say once Roc stops on that particular page for a photo. “It might sound crazy, but what are the chances that this is a calling card?”
“Slim to none,” Roc says flatly. “It’s odd that she’d mark herself, but best believe it served some sort of purpose. No other reason.”
“Either an ingredient or a fulfillment,” I muse.
“Maybe. Once I figure out what’s up with the markings, I’ll get a better idea. They mean anything to you?”
“No, but she’s related to the last case either way, which means we’re dealing with blood magic. Fun, fun,” I say with no inflection.
“Crazy deals gone awry.”
“Possibly, but maybe something else. We have that name to go off of…and we have Maria, Creshell’s friend.”
“And a deadline,” Roc adds.
“Yeah. We still have no idea what’s going down on that date we scrounged up in that witch’s notebook.”
A faint set of taps registers in my ear and our conversation falls flat just as the coroner opens the door and steps in. “Sorry for the delay. “Here’s the weapon.” She hands over the evidence bag and Roc observes it from its see-through packaging.
“It’s just an ordinary kitchen knife?” Roc asks. I can tell where his eyes are going; the blade, itself. He’s looking for markings. Runes. Anything that can point him in the direction that we need to go. “Nothing peculiar about it?”
“Not at all,” the coroner answers. “Just your average knife.”
“No traces of poison or anything on the blade or in her system? Drugs?” Roc leads in a series of questions to veer things back to normal occurrences.
“Correct. The toxicology report is somewhere in her file. It highlights what we found.”
“Which was nothing,” I add.
If she wanted to truly die, being in the field of Pharmacy allowed her a variety of options; more peaceful ones. All she would have to do is steal someone’s pain medication and overdose. Of course, Roc and I know this wasn’t her doing. At least, not of her own volition.
“The finger prints are hers, too. She lived alone, to our knowledge, and apparently didn’t have too many guests.”
“None that cooked for her, at least,” I murmur. Roc glares at me and I smirk. “Has anything similar to this instance happen recently? More specifically, a dead body with strange markings?”
“No, not that I can recall.” The coroner shifts her body away from us. “Wait, do you think there’s a cult around here?”
“Well, it is Missouri,” I answer back, more so to rile up Roc than anything else.
“No. We’re just leaving no stone unturned. The markings would be an interesting calling card,” Roc cuts in.
“So, a serial killer?” The coroner folds her arms after asking. It comes out as more of a statement than a question.
“Maybe,” Roc responds. “But to be sure, we’ll need go deeper than this. A body can only show us so much. She had no signs of struggle, no track marks, and no illegal substances found in her body.”
Exactly.
“I just feel like the way she chose to die—if in fact it was her choice—seems unnecessary,” Roc continues.
“It’s one thing to not want to live, it’s another to stab yourself in the gut,” I say. To do that under normal circumstances is gruesome.
“Okay. Thank you for your time,” Roc says, bringing an end to an awkward silence between the three of us. “I think we have everything we need to take our investigation further. If you find anything else, don’t hesitate to contact me. Here’s my card.” Roc hands her his card and she tucks it into the pockets hidden by her lab coat.
“Mine too, if you can’t reach him.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a good day, Ma’am,” Roc says.
“You, too. I hope everything pans out for you two.”
“Same, Erika. We’ll be around. And seriously, if anything comes up, call us.”
Rocco and I make our exit and head back to my car. Once the doors are shut and I start the engine, I deem it safe to talk about the underlying nature of the case. “Yeah, so it’s definitely a witch and blood magic is involved. Cool. Now, how did Creshell bump into Darius or whoever the hell is behind this?”
“We won’t know until we hit up her place. There might be a clue of some sort.”
“Right, but after Maria. We want Maria, first. I don’t want to run the risk of going in blind and passing up on something relevant. The tape might be down, so we’re going to have to do a B&E. No need to do that twice in broad daylight, for obvious reasons. You’ve got the address, right?”
“Yeah, I’m about to type it in right now.”
“Cool,” I say as I put my car in drive. “To Maria’s place we go.”
****
“This it?” I ask as I pull over to park along the curb.
�
�Yeah, that’s the one. She should be there,” Roc answers back. “There’s a car in the driveway.”
“Awesome.” Roc called ahead of time, using my phone while his did the navigation. Maria was working, but given the manner of the situation, she was able to take off. That was about twenty minutes ago. The silver Kia out front is most likely hers unless she has a roommate or family in town. During times of tragedy, it’s more common than you think to have friends, a significant other, or family spend the night until the shock tides over. You get that a lot with these kinds of things. That or they’re the ones that move in with someone else. Especially in cases where the supernatural is involved. How do you sleep the night after you survived your first vamp attack?
Here’s a hint: you don’t. The world’s a scary place.
I exit my car and make it up to the doorstep of her place; a white one-story, starter-home. She answers within the span of three seconds after I ring the doorbell.
“Hello,” I say as I flash my badge. “I’m Agent Rivers, and this is my partner, Bruno. We’re here to talk about what happened to your friend.”
“Can we come inside?” Roc asks. “We know you’re busy, we don’t want to take too much of your time.”
“Sure, it’s no problem, come on in.” Maria tilts the door open and we march in behind her. There’s a heaviness in her words, as to be expected. Her friend just died and she was the one to call it in. “I don’t want to be rude, but what is this exactly? I already spoke to the cops already…and you guys are the FBI? Don’t you guys only show up when something is serious?” she asks after guiding us through her kitchen and into the living room, where we mutually sit.
“Excellent question, and you’re right,” I respond. “That’s why we’re here. Work being done in your jurisdiction hasn’t been done as accurately as we’ve thought. There’s a lot of distrust going around with the American people regarding law enforcement, so we’re just trying to make sure that policies are being followed and the proper steps are being taken when serving the people of this country.”
Blaze Monroe and the Shattered Heart: A Supernatural Thriller (The Hunter Who Lost His Way Book 2) Page 4