A Friend of the Devil

by David Beers

  Chapter Three

  Emi Laurens stood at the curb, waiting for her partner to walk around from the driver’s side of the car. The sky was gray overhead, though Emi wasn’t sure how long the rain would hold off. It’d been raining for days and she had her umbrella in the back of their cruiser, just in case.

  Brett Lichen walked around and stood next to her. Emi wore her badge around her neck, he on his belt—both badges identifying them as FBI agents. The door to the house was open, the yard taped off from the public.

  “Not looking forward to this,” Brett said.

  Emi was chewing a piece of gum. She didn’t reply immediately, because she didn’t want to see it either. The bodies had been sitting inside for two days, and from the original reports, it wasn’t pretty.

  “Let’s go,” she said. Emi swallowed her gum; some detectives chewed gum at crime scenes, but she couldn’t imagine doing so. Somehow she felt the death—the blood particles—would get into it, and she’d be chewing on the dead.

  Brett started a step behind her, but caught up quickly.

  The two entered the house, stopping just inside the door.

  “You smell that?”

  “Yeah,” Brett said.

  It was blood, and the house was thick with it. A salty, coppery smell—and for it to be so heavy, that meant a lot had been spilled.

  “Agents Laurens and Lichen,” Emi called their names into the house.

  “Back here,” Plains said from beyond the living room.

  Emi moved first, Brett taking up the rear. She looked around the house as she moved, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of struggle, no moved furniture or broken glass. Everything appeared to be in its place … except for the smell of blood that filled the entire house.

  They entered the hallway, the light fixture above chasing away any darkness. Maxwell Plains stood at the end of hallway. Emi and Brett worked with him almost constantly, though their division wasn’t the only one he supported—the Exceptional Crimes Unit. Plains managed four forensic technicians, the people that scraped the scene for all possible evidence.

  “Hey, guys,” he said, extending his hand. Emi took it first, then Brett. They stood in front of what looked to be the master bedroom, though far enough in the hallway to prevent either of them from getting a clear view.

  “I know you two deal with these types of situations on a daily basis, but I wanted to give you a little warning before you walk in. I’ve had two techs vomit already,” Plains said.

  “We heard it was bad,” Brett said.

  “It’s the worst thing I’ve seen in two decades. My second year in, I saw something close, though that might just be me remembering it wrong because I was so green. What’s in that room ….” Plains looked down at the floor and rubbed his hand across his mouth, the sound of his fingers scraping whiskers filling the quiet. He looked up and his face was somber. “It’s vile. I don’t know any other way to say it.”

  Emi nodded.

  “Let’s get started,” Brett said.

  “Might as well. The quicker we look, the quicker I can get out of here.”

  Plains turned around and walked into the room.

  The two partners followed.

  When Emi crossed into the room, the salty copper she’d smelled grew tenfold. Her eyes quickly focused on the room.

  She stopped and Brett walked right in to her.

  “Christ Jesus,” she heard him say. “Christ Almighty Jesus.”

  Emi stared at the scene around her and wished that she hadn’t denied herself the shot of vodka in her coffee this morning. Emi had stared at the coffee mug for a good five minutes, just looked at it as the heat inside dissipated, and finally decided against it. Standing in front of this, she wished more than anything that she would’ve filled her coffee mug with three fingers’ worth of vodka.

  She hadn’t though. Emi had resisted. And now staring at all of this, she was stone cold sober.

  “Christ Jesus,” Brett said again from her side, and in three years, she’d never heard him say those words when entering a crime scene. Yet now she’d heard it three times before a single minute had passed.

  The bedroom lights were on, but they cast a red glow across the room, making the whole place appear soaked in blood.

  It doesn’t just look like that, Emi thought. It is. It is soaked in blood.

  Her eyes went to the lightbulbs on the ceiling fan. Blood was splattered everywhere, but the lighting was still a red hue.

  “Yeah,” Plains said. “I had to double check, too.”

  The bulbs were coated in blood. Whoever had done this had taken the blood from the bodies and rubbed it over all four bulbs, for the distinct purpose of—

  “He’s creating a scene,” Brett said, stepping past Emi and underneath the fan. He tilted his head straight up, staring at them. “He wanted us to come in and see everything this way. That’s not an accident.”

  Emi’s eyes narrowed and she looked away from the bulbs, hurting some from staring at them too long.

  “The woman’s name is Terrie Klindman,” Plains said. “The baby is named Kayla, though a different last name. Ms. Klindman was divorced and reverted back to her maiden name.”

  Emi was completely still as she looked at the wall. It wasn’t the woman that made tears spring to her eyes, but the baby. If it’d just been the woman, Emi could have looked without any tears.

  She heard Brett sigh, but didn’t look to him. As much as she wanted to pull her eyes away from the wall, she simply couldn’t.

  “I need a second,” Brett said and walked by her and out into the hallway. She heard his footfalls continue through the house until they completely faded away.

  Emi swallowed, wanting to follow her partner, but still unable to turn from this.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Plains asked.

  She shook her head, opening her mouth to speak, but no words came.

  The mother and child were on the wall. They were right next to each other, hanging upside down. The child was placed to the right, half-way between the mother’s feet and head. Both of their arms were splayed to the side, with their fronts facing the open room. Both bodies looked similar, one simply larger than the other. The killer had hammered large spikes through each hand, then crossed both feet over each other, using a single spike to split through both.

  “He hung them upside down,” Plains said. “Found studs and hammered into them.”

  The clicking of a camera dotted Emi’s awareness as one of the techs took a picture.

  Blood had dripped from the woman’s mouth, down the side of her cheek, into her hair, and then finally trickled to the carpet beneath. A dry, red river ran down the side of her face.

  The child was a toddler, her chubby skin looking pale and waxy beneath the red hued light. Blood covered her face, her throat having been slit and the red liquid inside flowed toward the floor, painting her face as it did.

  Both were completely naked, and the woman’s body sagged to the floor, her weight pulling on the spikes more. Emi stared at their chests, one a fully developed woman, the other merely a baby. Torn skin ran nearly from their groins to their necks, with a perpendicular rip across both of their chests. He’d carved upside down crosses into their chests, mimicking the way they were hanging.

  Brett walked back in, a paper towel in his hand.

  Emi stepped forward, ignoring the rest of the room. She squatted down in front of the woman, not wanting to examine the baby yet. She stared at her lips. Tape of some sort had been placed over her mouth.

  “He made her watch,” Emi said. “He killed the child first, and he made her watch. He taped her mouth shut so she couldn’t scream. She died knowing that her baby was already dead.” Emi stood up. “Can we get some gloves?”

  A tech handed her a pair, then Brett. The room was quiet.

  “The media hasn’t gotten a hold of this yet?” Brett asked.

  “No, not yet,” Plains said.

  “S
omeone’s going to leak,” Emi said. “They’ll be here soon.”

  She pulled on her gloves. The tears were gone from her eyes, though the desire for a drink burned as strong as ever.

  Emi Laurens went home that night, her hand shaking as she unlocked the door to her apartment. Her mind wouldn’t let go of the images from earlier in the day. That was abnormal, highly so. FBI Agents, and law enforcement in general, were adept at compartmentalizing. Many of the criminals they came across did the same, taking the crimes they committed and shoving them` into a separate part of their brain—not letting it touch the rest of their lives. Emi had learned to do it as a child, her home life definitely not something one brought to school. Doing it as an adult was a natural as breathing—and necessary—because the things she saw day in and day out … they would warp her mind if she allowed them free reign.

  She closed the apartment door behind her, turned around, then pressed her forehead against it.

  Her hands were still shaking.

  She wasn’t able to compartmentalize this, at least not yet.

  The baby, upside down, her chubby cheeks lax and her eyes staring blankly out at the world. Never to see anything again. The mother first watching her daughter die before being hoisted up onto that wall.

  Emi straightened and walked through her apartment and into the kitchen. She hadn’t had a drink all day, or anything to eat since breakfast for that matter. She didn’t care about eating right now. Emi grabbed a glass from the cupboard. She went to the freezer, grabbed two ice cubes, and then went to the liquor cabinet.

  She opened its door, and without looking, pulled out the first thing she saw.

  Whiskey.

  She poured the glass nearly to the brim, then tilted it to her mouth. The ice barely had time to cool it, and the warm liquid first filled her mouth, then burned as it flowed into her body.

  Emi didn’t stop drinking, her right hand shaking as it delivered the goods.

  Finally, the glass drained, Emi sat it down, her face grimacing as her body struggled to hold the liquor. Even for her, that had been a lot.

  She looked at the empty glass, deciding whether to have another. It didn’t take long; the bottle’s cap was still unscrewed and she filled the glass once more. She didn’t take it all at once this time, but screwed the cap back on the bottle and walked into her living room.

  Emi collapsed onto the couch, the television in front of her dark. She didn’t reach for the remote, but brought the glass to her lips once more. Her hand was stilling somewhat, the amber liquid not jostling as much.

  Brett hadn’t asked her if she was going to drink tonight, but Emi supposed that was only because he didn’t need to. Hell, she thought Brett would drink tonight, regardless of what Jessie said when he got home. His little girl was the one that resembled the baby hanging on the wall. Allie might be a year older, but Emi knew that’s why he’d went outside.

  Brett had seen Allie when he looked at that wall.

  Emi took another sip, her nerves calming even more. The liquor was doing its job, what she paid good money to make sure happened most nights of the week. She wanted to just numb out, to not be bothered by anything that happened today, even if she couldn’t fully escape.

  Emi closed her eyes.

  What had Plains asked her?

  Have you ever seen anything like this?

  And she’d shaken her head, telling him no.

  Emi had seen plenty of horrible deaths over the years, especially in this division—the Exceptional Crimes Unit. Yet, none of the serial killers or psychopaths they chased had ever done anything like this.

  She had shaken her head in front of Plains, but that wasn’t completely true. She’d never seen anything like it with the FBI, but what about before the FBI? Before she was given a badge and a few promotions? Before Stanford, and before Quantico? Yeah, back then—a long, long time ago—Emi had seen something … Well, not similar (she didn’t think anything would be similar to that) but something just as dark.

  That was a different life, though. A different person. It had nothing to do with Emi or this life. It had nothing to do with anything.

  Then why are you thinking about it? Why are you drinking? You can blame today on this drink, but what about last night, Emi? What about the past month? And the past year? You can sit here and say it has nothing to do with anything, but that doesn’t make it true.

  Another sip, doing her best to push the thoughts from her mind. They weren’t new. Emi had been dealing with them for years, though perhaps they’d intensified recently (and perhaps that’s because your drinking has intensified, Emi dearest). She didn’t want to hear it. Not tonight. Not after what she’d just finished seeing, and most likely would continue to see.

  Tomorrow the investigation would continue. Emi should get some rest, but she didn’t think that was going to happen tonight. In fact, when she finished this drink, she’d thought she would head down to her local haunt and start drinking there. It wouldn’t be nearly the first time she’d shown up at work bleary eyed and smelling of booze. Brett might or might not say something, but Emi didn’t care at the moment.

  She just wanted to stop thinking about the child. About the mother watching her baby die.

  Tonight, she would do whatever it took to make that happen. Her thoughts—both those of what happened when she was younger, and those condemning her present actions—they could all go to hell.

  Emi woke up lying on her back, her eyes staring at the ceiling. She knew immediately that someone was in bed with her, but she didn’t move. She’d remembered bringing him home, and slowly—very slowly—his face was coming back to her.

  She didn’t remember a name and knew she wasn’t going to. Emi wasn’t exactly inexperienced in this area; she understood how it worked for her.

  Emi turned her head slightly to the window in her bedroom. The sun wasn’t up yet, which was good. She’d set an alarm, but despite having drank until three or four hours ago, her body must have been primed to work.

  Emi didn’t remember a lot of last night, but she figured the guy next to her would know what she did for a living. She’d most likely told him she needed to wake up early, so what came next wouldn’t be too rude.

  Her mouth was dry and as she focused a little less on last night, coming to the current morning more, she realized how bad her head hurt. She blinked hard, as if that could force away the headache—though, of course, it did nothing.

  Emi stepped out of bed, her body naked. She went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and stuck her mouth to it. She drank deep and long, not caring what she looked like. She only knew she first needed water and then to get this guy out of her apartment.

  She finished drinking, shut the faucet off, and then walked back to the edge of her bedroom. It was dark and the man was curled on his side. The clock on her nightstand said she had an hour to get to the office, but she knew this was ridiculous.

  Brett was already there, without a doubt, and so was anyone else working on the case. Even the public knew the first 48 hours were the most critical following a murder, and they were on day four now. Yet, here she was, standing in a dark apartment with a hangover, looking at some man she didn’t know.

  You’ve got to get this under control, she told herself. Right now. You’ve got to …

  To what?

  Get to an AA meeting?

  Right. Emi wasn’t doing that for all the money in the world. What else was there? Therapy? No, she’d pass on that too, thank you very much.

  She didn’t need to look at her eyes, though, to know they were red. She didn’t need to think about last night to realize she still hadn’t eaten anything since the previous morning.

  I’m fine, she thought. I’m fine.

  And then, from some deep past, a voice she hadn’t heard in years came to her.

  Yeah, Emi. You’re fine as a frenzy.

  Emi’s eyes widened, having not expected to ever think those words again. Fine as a frenzy.

 
Because you always told him you were fine, she thought. No matter what was happening, you said you were fine, and then he would tell you that you were as fine as a frenzy.

  She didn’t want to think his name, though, standing in the room’s darkness. It was enough to simply remember those words without having to think back about everything else that happened. He was gone, and he’d been gone for a long, long time. He wasn’t coming back, either.

  Emi realized that she was looking through tear filled eyes.

  She gritted her teeth, hating that she was crying, especially about something so stupid. It’d been at least 15 years since she’d seen him.

  It’s because of yesterday. It’s because of what you saw in the house. You wouldn’t have thought about him if it wasn’t for that, not now, nor ever again.

  And probably that was true.

  Yet, yesterday had happened, and here she was crying, thinking about him.

  Just stop it, Emi told herself. All of this because you went out drinking last night and laid some guy. You’re acting ridiculous. Get this guy out of here and then get control of the drinking. At least for the next fucking week, and then if you want to pick it back up, go ahead. But for the next week, focus on catching whoever killed that child.

  “Hey,” Emi said loudly, wiping the tears away with her palm.

  The guy didn’t move, but again, Emi wasn’t inexperienced.

  “Hey,” she said louder, starting to move herself. She found her panties, pulling them on as she listened to the guy roll over in the bed. She looked for her bra in the darkness, finally snagging it off the floor and putting it on.

  “Time to get up,” she said even louder. She moved to the front of the room and snapped on the overhead light, flooding the room with brightness.

  The man groaned and Emi smiled, knowing exactly what he felt like.

  Goodness, she thought as she looked at him. You pick him up at high school, Emi?

  He wasn’t that young, but he was certainly less than her 32 years. He was probably out of college, but not by long.