Both rise up from examining the marking, looking at McNeese.
“Interesting, isn’t it, that the killer avoided this area entirely,” she poses, eyebrows very subtly perked. “This killer has shown a savagery unlike anything I have ever seen, and yet it seems they deliberately refrained from marring this tattoo.”
“Well, it seems that way, yes, but we can’t be sure,” Mahler points out.
“Of course, you are correct, Detective,” the coroner concedes, “but still, the other bodies have been shredded so thoroughly as to almost hinder identification, and yet this somewhat sizeable area of the thigh has been left untouched.”
She looks between them both, light colored eyebrows raised more openly.
“What are you driving at?” Pasztor demands, though his tone is somewhat tempered.
“An animal would not be so exacting,” she says.
“Ah, yes,” Mahler nods, thoughtfully, but the other sort of furrows his brow.
“We’re not entertaining that option,” he quips.
She shrugs. “Suit yourselves, Detectives, but in case you wanted to leave open all possible avenues until proven otherwise, I thought I might try to offer some help.”
“We need to get this one closed, like the others,” Pasztor says, moving away a bit, hands on his waist.
“Others?”
“Well, yes, there has been an unfortunate rise in deaths of young ladies like … these.”
“And what are these like?” McNeese somewhat puffs up, going on the defensive.
This gets a roll of the eyes from Pasztor.
“Runaways, missing persons, prostitutes, drug addicts, some combination thereof,” he elaborates. “We’re not judging them, Harriet,” he says, giving a little shake of his head to emphasize his point, “We’re trying to catch who did these things to them.”
She takes a few moments, glaring at him, her eyes narrowing, a slow inhale giving rise to her chest within the white coat she wears. She then exhales sharply through her nostrils.
“Good,” she finally says, “You do that.”
Chapter Nine
Skot sits at the same place, the one that feels like “their” table now. It has, of course, become something of a desk for him during his time of study here, his own inclination for routine bringing him to sit in the same seat each time he arrives to further examine the book.
It is quiet in the room, a simple slurp of his coffee like the sounds of a gurgling brook, and he continues to look at the pages of the rare, open tome. The assistant, Amanda Honeycutt, is also in here, appearing to be engrossed in her own task of putting away some of the books that reside in the more crowded shelves toward the front of the room. They are much less valuable than the ones deeper within, being lent out or available for access under much more generous restrictions than the one he examines.
He flips a leaf, the short, generally unobtrusive sound again seeming something louder than usual in the quiet room. He draws the pads of his fingers along the resilient paper, smoothing it down gently, feeling the ridges formed by the lettering, his eyes on the recto page. The cabalistic information is almost entrancing, perhaps made to even be so, covering an abundance of subject matters and styles, a sure-flowing river as opposed to a maelstrom. It is as though an arrangement of matters that may immediately be thought of as too conflicting and presenting them in such a way as to expose the constant communion, not create it, merely move veils aside to reveal. He becomes lost in it.
“Is this the chapter on mathematics?” asks a soothing, alluring voice.
He looks up to see her there, having walked up behind him, placing her hands gently atop his shoulders to lean in and peer at the cause of his fixation.
“Geometry,” he says, smiling warmly into her similar expression, “Physics, perhaps … or metaphysics. Cosmology.”
They both grin further, then bubbling into a light chuckle. The sound is just as quickly dissolved as he turns to look about the room.
“She’s gone,” Lilja informs, leaning in further to speak this, giving it in the tones of an almost suggestive whisper, then sneaking a quick placement of her lips at his upper jaw, just beside his left ear.
“Ahhhh,” he nods, “I didn’t hear her leave.”
“I noticed,” she says, still speaking in that quieter tone of voice, leaning in to him, hands sliding down his shoulders to his upper chest before she wraps her arms together, snugging him.
He turns to look at her, smiling warmly, and they share a kiss, lingering at it a short time, but not too long lest they be discovered in such an amorous exchange.
“Don’t you have video surveillance in here?” he asks, looking about at the tops of the walls of the room, “To protect the books?”
“Only for the more valuable ones in the back of the room,” she reveals, still holding onto him, though having relaxed into a more comfortable embrace.
“So, we’re not being spied upon, then?” he smirks, the expression appearing slowly, subtly, then growing, even as his eyes narrow slightly.
“No,” she says, grinning back at him, and he merely continues to return the expression she wears. “What are you thinking about?” she presses.
“You,” he says, giving length to the word, letting it taper at the end into a breathy hint.
“What about me?” she continues, that curve still upon her inviting lips.
“You obviously do not weigh much. I am certain this table would easily support you.”
She blinks, her eyes going wider, then she tucks her chin in a bit, and that lovely flush rises to her skin, “Oh…” she realizes his implication, then cuddling into him again, another kiss to his cheek, “We can’t do that.”
“Well, we can, but I suppose we shouldn’t.”
And now it is her turn to smirk, rising up and giving him a playful smack on both shoulders with her hands. She then slides gracefully into the chair beside him, scooting it very close, her right hand going to his left leg under the table as they both lean in to look upon the book.
“Geometry and cosmology?” she tries to lead him back to less salacious subjects.
“Yes,” he smiles lightly, managing to tear his eyes from her and look down at the open pages.
“I am not as familiar with cosmology,” she informs him.
“It is something like studying the history of the cosmos through its physical properties, trying to discern and understand those ‘laws’, then even using that to predict its future.”
“Like geology is for the Earth?”
“Somewhat.” He gives her another small grin, and she glances up at him for that brief moment to share in the expression before they both return to the tome.
“So, using the geometry of the … cosmos,” she says after the brief pause in thought, “You can deduce its history and its future?” she posits, shifting her eyes to him for an answer.
“I would presume that is the point, but I am not a professor of either subjects, and this is not exactly an accepted academic text.”
A brief smile traces over her lips at this, but then she as quickly looks serious, that same expression of open curiosity on her that she often wears. He thinks it is fearlessness, though he suspects she would disagree.
“We know next to nothing about the author, Domitus Caelum,” she muses, “It sounds like a pen name, anyway. Who would have been named Domitus Caelum at that time?”
He nods, weightily. “We’ve come to the same conclusion. The name may be translated as ‘to tame or dominate the heavens’, which could merely allude to the idea of trying to understand the universe through the means presented in the text.”
“Knowing something doesn’t mean dominating it,” she remarks.
“Not necessarily, but it may connote a form of possession or control, or it may even be giving an even more subtle commentary on the presumed power that comes from knowledge.”
She nods further at this, obviously giving his words some thought, then looks back at him. “But kno
wledge is power.”
“Well, that does seem to be a popular saying, and I would agree with it to a degree. We may certainly gain some power through knowledge, but does knowing something, like knowing this book, for instance, gives us dominance over it?”
“Not over the book, I suppose,” she carefully, if not somewhat reluctantly, admits.
“Our general presumption at this time is that it is to be taken metaphorically or that the author or authors may have been rather arrogant.”
“Maybe both,” she somewhat murmurs.
“Maybe,” he offers her a smile, which she returns as she looks back at him.
“So, what is this, then?” she gently touches the woodcut figure on the right page with the tip of her index finger.
“It seems to be the plotting of many confluences, a schematic, as it were, or a map, showing connections between … well, passageways,” he looks at her carefully after he says this.
She finally looks back to him as the silence grows, noting his attention on her. She merely nods, accepting of what he has said and desirous of more.
“The book purports to document different dimensions of existence, such as we may sometimes consider there to be a corporeal and spiritual realm, for example.”
“Who is ‘we’?” she asks, giving her eyes fully to him.
“Oh, humans,” he expands, showing something of a sheepish smile.
“You were using plural pronouns earlier when referring to the book, so I wasn’t sure.”
“Oh,” he says again, his smile increases, “I meant my family then, but now I was just using a general example from human history … for comparison.”
And again she gives that simple nod of open acceptance.
“So, this book talks about such different dimensions and how to travel between them?”
He just looks upon her for another lingering moment, and as before, the increasing silence finally scratches at her mental focus, giving her to look back up at him. “Well, yes, some parts of it do,” he gives her.
She smiles very lightly at this, and he continues to just stare. Not sure what exactly to make of her incredible open-mindedness. She notes the gaze, not looking back at the object of their study this time, and the pleasant curl at her lips increases, no bashfulness this time, just smiling at him. She then leans in for a kiss, which he willingly accepts, their lips meeting briefly, almost casually within the comfortable intimacy such implies.
“So who travels between these gateways?” she asks, and he notes the particular choice of word, ‘gateway’, and the instinct and understanding it suggests on her part.
“When they are open,” he qualifies, “Those who are able,” then going to the book, moving through its contents with a sure familiarity, though still being mindful of its rarity and value, “This part spends some time describing the various denizens who dwell in the dimensions, though, there do seem to be more dimensions listed than populations …”
“Are they uninhabited, or did the author just not know?” she asks, showing more of her astute insight.
“We’re not sure.”
She nods, thoughtfully, realizing what it means for them to not know. “And you said ‘when they are open’,” she continues, “So, they are sometimes closed, and does that mean that opening them is not very easy?”
“Not easy at all.” He nods, continuing to be impressed by her, “Imagine it is like a tunnel with ends that may be open to varying degrees,” he says, holding up his right hand and making a fist, the side of it angled for her perusal, and she watches closely. “It may be closed entirely, and no one gets through, but it may open some,” and he relaxes the clench, allowing a tiny opening through his fist, “So, those that would fit may get through, and it may be compelled to open further,” and he makes a larger opening, “Allowing more through.”
“Compelled?” she asks, “Are the gates alive?”
“No. But they obey their natural law like anything else.”
“So, compelling them means that if you know how, you can open or close them when they otherwise would not?”
“Well, something like that,” he thoughtfully answers, “It would be more like causing the normal stimulus that would naturally open or close them. Without that, they will not move.”
“Amazing,” she says, her lips curving into an appreciative smile, “It sounds like a fantasy or science fiction novel.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” he grins, “But I assure you,” he adds with a perk of his eyebrows, “The author did not intend it as such.”
*****
Several people are gathered in the office, not so many that it is uncomfortably crowded, but the tone of the meeting contributes far more to the unease than the number of bodies. Most of those are male, which seems to belie the continued current trend in gender dominance of these positions, though the few women present indicate a potential change.
It appears quite possible, though, that only one person wants to be in this room right now.
The man behind the desk is not the most powerful in here, though from day-to-day, he may be. Right now, he sits behind this piece of furniture, and such is typically not a position from which he takes a haranguing. The man who has come this morning has chosen this place to let the director know that even on his home ground, he is not immune.
The visitor had been seated, the others standing about as informal audience to the main event, but as he has picked up steam, he has risen from the comfortable chair offered to him, set just across from the director, the only other chair in here, as though an honor. The decent upholstery on the seat, back, and arms may have even been meant to possibly lull the man, but if that were the case, it has failed.
He wears a dark blue suit, obviously tailored, not too expensive, but certainly not cheap. His shirt is an off white, the tie bold, powerful. They all know who he is, and they all know he makes a rather good living. His sole income certainly does not come from his position on the City Council, and if his past record is any indicator, he is primed to rise much higher.
The man’s short brown hair is parted on the left side, thick and full enough to give indication of the waviness it would have it not so carefully controlled. His nose is broad, his face almost square, though his strong chin does provide something of a tapering effect. His dark brown eyes appear alight with a fire.
“Ten dead girls in barely two months,” he says, the words uttered carefully. “Ten,” he emphasizes, narrowing his eyes into something of a glare at the man behind the desk, “That is not acceptable in this city.”
“Councillor Keller, we are a city of some size, and we, unfortunately get dead girls quite often,” the captain tries to help, and the director closes his eyes, all he’ll show of the cringe at this attempt.
The so-addressed politician, Dominik Keller slowly looks over at the captain, his eyes leading the way. The intense glare gets various responses from the ranking detectives standing near their commanding officer, some wanting to defend the man, others wanting to move out of any potential range of those eyes.
“Ten dead girls in two months,” the councillor repeats, taking a few steps toward the man, “Pardon me, Captain, for not being more specific, but these ten girls are all linked to the human trafficking and sex slave problem we seem to be plagued with in this city, and of those ten,” he continues, picking up pace and more steam, “Two died from overdose, one of questionable cause, of the other seven, five are definitely murder. That is a one hundred and fifty percent increase over this same month last year, and if we include the others, since they seem headed in that direction, we have a three hundred percent increase. Three … hundred.”
The man does not shout, but the force of his words is undeniable.
“Councillor,” the one behind the desk summons the other’s attention, “Forensics is still working on those, and they are all open cases at this point. We’re taking this very seriously.”
“I hope so,” he asserts, “because I am.”
; “We can see that, Councillor Keller,” the director finally speaks into the heavy silence.
“I’ve read the reports, all of them,” the political man continues, going quickly on the end of the director’s words, “Even those that may not seem directly related to the victims. We have a very serious problem in our city, and it is trending upwards. This will stop.”
“Of course, sir.”
“This city will not be known as Central Europe’s prime destination for human trafficking and sexual slavery. Is that clear?” he pushes, and his question is greeted with several nodding heads, “I cannot fathom that you all are not more aware of and focused on this very serious problem.”
“We are, Councillor,” the captain presses in, whether out of recklessness or bravery, it is not clear. “We’ve put together task forces in addition to the normal method of assignments-,” he continues, but is cut off by one of his own men.
“Maybe it’s the vigilante,” this one blurts, “We’re working on getting him,” though if more were to be said after this, the beam of Keller’s eyes setting upon the one talking halts any further words.
Once the officer has shut up, the councillor looks back at the captain.
“The vigilante is not part of this,” he iterates.
“Sir, with all due respect, we have reports linking the-,” the captain tries, but he is again interrupted.
“Do you mean the report from that … town in Poland?” the councillor interjects, having thought better of whatever adjective he may have had in mind, “I’ve read that report, Captain. Have you?” he continues, drilling his eyes into the other’s face. “It’s bullshit.”
No one says anything to that, but many pairs of dumbfounded eyes stare.
“We have reports that the girl, Marina Potchak, Ukrainian, seventeen, was murdered in cold blood while chained to a bed and coming down from drugs,” he begins, “She suffered several gunshots wounds inflicted by an FN P90, at least three of which would have been sufficient to cause death, and there is a statement from a survivor that someone fitting the vigilante’s possible known appearance was there. Does that sound correct?”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 18