by Tim Marquitz
“No!”
Agent Kent sat back in his chair, blinking in astonishment. Robert could almost smell the fear on him, on both of them. It would be many, many years yet before they became like him. Robert held the file in his hands and sighed. He stared at the FBI insignia on its cover, the case file number, the name of the Special-Agent-in-Charge. The agents didn’t understand that there was no need for him to open it.
“There’s multiple stab wounds, correct, mutilation of the bodies, pre and post-mortem.” It wasn’t a question, but both men nodded in response. “But the wounds have a certain…symmetry to them; like they’re words.”
“Yes,” Agent Kent said. “The last victim had seven stab wounds and there was not a drop of blood in him.”
“The wounds are the signature.” He glanced at Colton. “Have you had the wounds analyzed?”
“Forensics said they were made by a very sharp blade—”
“No, no, have you had the wounds examined for patterns? The Bureau still employs linguists, don’t they?”
“Of course we do,” Kent said, before glancing at his partner. “They just haven’t been able to decipher it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Robert sighed. “This is just typical of Van Nouten.”
“Sir?” Kent said.
Robert tossed the file across the table. Colton caught it, managing to halt all its contents from falling out. He didn’t want to see the photos either, Robert realized, but because he was scared. Robert got to his feet, the chair scraping the floor. He moved to the coat rack by the front door and grabbed his jacket.
“He sends two rookies over here to frustrate me, leaving me no choice but to come to Quantico to see it for myself. God, how I hate that man.”
#
The incident room might as well have been a shrine.
Where Robert had strived not to look at the file the agents had brought him, the murders were now on full display, an exhibition of blood and madness. The room brimmed with agents, milling about in a desperate attempt to put the puzzle together. Countless photographs adorned the wall, all of them a different representation of flesh and blood—of the killer’s art. When Robert entered the room, he envisaged a sign above the door which read, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the milling stopped and every eye turned to consider him. Robert was astounded at how young they all were; fresh-faced, full of fire, the fear nowhere to be seen—yet.
Special-Agent-in-Charge Max Van Nouten pushed through the crowd toward him. The desperation in in the SAC’s gaze surprised him. The six foot five, lanky Van Nouten had aged, his brow carved with deep furrows. Perhaps he should have retired all those years ago too? But then, he was still intact. Van Nouten offered a hand to his old colleague.
“Good to see you again, Bob.”
After a moment, Robert accepted the handshake, “You could have just picked up a phone,” Robert said.
Van Nouten shrugged. “And you would have just let it go through to the machine—I know you too well. I appreciate you taking the time to come down.”
“Like I had anything better to do, right?” Robert noticed the agents had gone back to work, scrutinizing potential subject profiles on the offender database, talking in circular conversations with local law enforcement. No, Robert didn’t miss the hunt at all.
Van Nouten put a hand on his shoulder. “Can I get you a coffee?”
Robert shrugged him off. “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell I’m doing here?”
#
Van Mouton’s office was just a condensed version of the mayhem in the main investigation room. There were files stacked high. The Bulletin Board was a pastiche of faces; APBs and missing persons, victims and their potential killers screaming out to be found. They would likely decorate the SACs walls for many years after he’d moved on. Van Nouten sat and invited Robert to do the same, but the retired special agent was too on edge.
“Look, Bob, we need your help,” Van Nouten said, sighing. “We’ve really hit a brick wall with this one.”
“So what do you expect me to do?”
Van Nouten chuckled nervously. “I don’t expect you to do anything. I thought you might be willing to help us.”
Robert felt his hands clench and his chest tightened, spikes of pain in familiar places across his abdomen. “What—out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Jesus. All I wanted was for you to take a look at the file—you didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You knew how this was going to play out. You knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
Van Nouten nervously shuffled files on his desk. “You’re the one with the curiosity complex. It’s why you were so fucking good at your job.”
Robert could have spat in his face, instead he pointed his finger. “You wouldn’t have caught half the killers without me and you know it. I gave everything to my work, almost gave my fucking life on my last case! And what did I get from the Bureau? A nice regular pension check; how the fuck is that supposed to help me deal with the pain day after day?”
Van Nouten offered him a conciliatory glance. “I’m sorry about what happened to you —
Robert stood, fuming, but he could see that Van Nouten was sincere. He took a breath and regained his composure. “Look, I’m here—just tell me what’s going on so it doesn’t end up being a complete waste of time for the both of us.”
His old friend’s next words disarmed him.
“We think this guy is copying the Sickle Killer.”
#
Robert entered an empty interview room and sat down with the case file.
Dante was at the gates and it was time to open them. Robert peeled back the cover and skipped the introductory report. He already knew there were two victims; what he had to read now was the finer details: the post-mortem report, the list of suspects, and of course, the crime scene photos. As he turned the pages, he turned the pages of his memory; sheaves of pain rolled over and crashed down like waves. He squeezed his eyes shut, eager not to let the past slice into his head. But this is the price Dante had to pay every time he abandoned all hope.
The killer had abducted his victims, stripped them naked and opened their torsos with a broad, arched blade. The wounds were scattered evenly over the torso, arms and legs in sets of seven. In Numerology, 7 is the thinker, the seeker of truth. Seven times seven, times seven. It was clear this killer was seeking some hidden truth, just like Sickle. And just like Sickle, this killer had disposed of his victims by displaying them inside abandoned buildings throughout the city.
A twinge of pain flowed down his right side. He pressed his hand to his abdomen, desperate to stifle it, but the pain was back now, as fresh as it ever was. If someone was copycatting the Sickle Killer then there would be five more victims. The magical number seven. A ritual of madness.
There was a knock at the door, wrenching Robert away from the pages of the case file. He turned and found Van Nouten looking at him with a pitying stare.
“The troops are ready for you, Bob.”
#
The men and women of the Behavioral Sciences Unit waited for his sermon, parishioners at a black mass of violence. He had a reputation at the Bureau; irascible, determined, obsessed—Dante. He guessed he better live up to it. Van Nouten introduced him and let him take the stage.
“Matthew Eric Kolbe was the only son of Mary and Tobias Kolbe, an eccentric Methodist minister. Tobias’ primary method of rearing was home-school him in all forms of the occult. He used his minister position to inject his beliefs into the general public, adding slivers of lore into his sermons, even the hymns. Tobias believed the body was a shield to the secrets of creation and he pushed this belief upon his son and urged him to go out into the world and deliver his own message.”
Robert paused and let the agents take it in.
“Matthew Kolbe’s first step into preaching began in 1981. He spent a night digging up the freshly interr
ed body of Douglas Mitchell, a Boston public school teacher and father of three who’d had a heart attack. Matthew took the body back to his house and dissected it, carving sigils into the body. Matthew didn’t really know what he was doing then, but his intention was there. He had a purpose for cutting the bodies, but we didn’t find out the specifics until much later.”
A young agent raised a hand.
“When did he start using the sickle?”
Robert ran a hand over his lips, the reminiscence leaving his mouth dry. “Not until his first official victim. He used what’s called an Athame, a ceremonial blade. His weapon of choice was a sickle. His first live victim was an investment banker—Alexander Burchett, aged 56. Matthew entered the offices of Strecker & Hutchison and attacked Burchett, tied him up and systematically stabbed him over seven hours, stabbing him once on the hour ever hour, taking great care not to sever vital arteries. Matthew studied anatomy just as fiercely as the occult books his father had made him read as a child, you see.’
Another agent piped up and Robert was grateful for the opportunity to clear his tightening throat. The spikes of pain recommenced their dull aching.
“So he killed six others over the course of seven months, right?” she said.
Robert coughed and Van Nouten poured him a glass of water. Robert gulped it down. “Correct. We were called in after the second victim.” He frowned in concentration. “Lucas…Lucas Adams, I think his name was; a heart surgeon from Boston General. Rather ironic when you consider what Kolbe did with the heart.”
“What did he do with it?” an agent asked.
“He cut it out and carved sigils all over it. Matthew Kolbe believed that the essence of evil, its origins, rested in the blood of man. In a sense, his ritual relied on blood magic. He sought to extract the evil from the blood, to extract demonic forces.”
“How did you work all of this out, Mr Fraser?” a petite brunette agent said.
“It was clear from the get-go that we were dealing with a killer obsessed with the occult. I spent many weeks studying the sigils and symbols on each victim. I read every book on the occult I could find, spoke with academics in Europe and the US. I’ll admit, it took me a while to discover the significance of the number seven. The body has seven obvious parts, the head, chest, abdomen, two legs and two arms. There are seven internal organs, stomach, liver, heart, lungs, spleen and two kidneys. The ruling part, the head, has seven parts for external use, two eyes, two ears, two nostrils and a mouth. I could go on. Essentially, I knew he planned on taking seven victims. However, by the time I figured this out, Kolbe had already taken it upon himself to contact us.”
“He contacted the Bureau?” the petite brunette said.
Robert nodded. “He literally invited us to catch him and even narrowed down the location and the type of victim.”
“Jesus—why would he do that?” another agent asked, chuckling uncomfortably.
Robert glanced at Van Nouten and then looked the agent in the eye. “You have to remember, this was his sermon to the world and he needed a seventh victim.”
“And that’s how you ended up almost—?”
Van Nouten stepped forward. “Bob is here today because there are clear correlations between these latest crimes and the Sickle Killer that he closed back in 1985 in Boston. Robert wasn’t just an investigator on that case—he was also a victim—
A phone rang and Van Nouten answered it. Robert watched him listening to the caller on the other end of the line. The SAC’s face slackened, his eyes widening before he turned them to his old friend. After a moment, he thanked the caller and put the receiver down. He spoke to Robert through trembling lips.
“They’ve found five more bodies.”
#
Robert sat in Van Mouton’s car and watched the lights of the police cruisers and FBI sedans paint the scene the appropriate colour of death. Funny how time can repeat itself, he realized. He’d been at a place astonishingly like this before. But Hell was in Hell wasn’t it? It wasn’t expected to change location.
If he left the car and walked into the crime scene, he knew the memories would engulf him. The pain would return, renewed and vibrant. He clutched his chest, felt the rises on his skin through the fabric of his shirt. Six of them there were, but seven there could have been.
A knock on the window startled him and he turned to find Van Nouten looking down on him with pleading eyes. Robert rolled down the window and let in the chill night air and sights and sounds of people trying to come to terms with the latest unspeakable horror.
“You don’t have to come in.” Van Nouten said.
Robert glanced at the ramshackle building, a four story concrete slab with broken windows, graffiti and piss stains. He opened the door and stepped out.
“No, but you need me to.”
Van Nouten ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Bob, this is going to be tough for you. It’s almost as if…” He licked his lips. “This guy has recreated the scene down to the last detail. I don’t know how, but it’s the same, just with more bodies.”
Robert nodded. “Then Kolbe must have had an acolyte, a pupil. And he’s eager to learn, judging by the number of victims this time.”
Van Nouten sighed. “God damn it.”
Robert started walking towards the scene, the wounds in his chest burning all the while.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and meet the new student.”
#
The five bodies were in various states of grace, but they all bore the same marks of a killer that had been dead for 28 years. Sigils and deep wounds had been gouged into the flesh of the arms, torso and legs; a secret language that sought to bring evil into the world. Robert felt as if he had been transported back in time, that he was stuck in a loop of depravity. He rubbed his chest, his own scars sensing the bloody spectacle.
“Forensics just finished taking photos and marking the scene,” Van Nouten said. “I thought you’d like a few minutes to take a look without any distractions.”
Robert looked to his old colleague again. “I appreciate that.” Van Nouten nodded and stared at the bodies. “I need you to leave as well, Max.”
Van Nouten smirked. “Right, got it; leave the man to his thoughts.” He made for the door, but looked over his shoulder. “You got ten minutes before they take away the bodies, okay?”
The SAC left Robert with the dead, alone with the smell of blood thick as smoke and the secrets of the flesh. Former Special Agent Robert Fraser breathed it in and crouched down beside the first victim to read the message their killer had left for him.
There was no doubt the message was for him, as it had been 28 years ago. Back then though Robert was meant to be the final victim of the seven, but here, now, with these five bodies, the killer’s supposed masterpiece was complete. The conundrum furrowed his brow. Had the ritual worked, had the killer succeeded in unleashing Hell where his predecessor had failed?
After 28 years, the killer’s language appeared scrambled to Robert. He looked at the wounds and saw only exposed viscera. Yet his own wounds, the ones he’d received, and almost died receiving, spoke to him like a flesh telegram, beating and pulsing, almost as if they had heartbeats of their own. The wounds seared beneath the flesh and he clutched at them with trembling hands. What were they trying to tell him?
Robert stood and walked around the corpses. They were all men, of average height and build, all side-by-side; paper-chain-people. They could have been the same victims from 28 years ago, he thought. His wounds blazed and faded, but he pushed the pain aside and tried to do his job. He went to the fifth victim and looked at his face; sandy brown hair, aquiline features. Strangely, there were wounds on the face, one on each eye, one between the eyes, cuts on the nose and nicks on the lips. Seven in total. The wounds beneath Robert’s breastbone sizzled. He tried to remember back 28 years; whether any of the victims had marks on their face. They didn’t. So this was new. Was it an escalation?
He reached out and to
uched the closed eyelid of the victim. Instinct told him that there was message underneath. The eyes are the windows to the soul are they not? He peeled back the eyelid and found a startling blue iris there, the pupil a pinprick of black. He was telling himself there was no message to be read there, when the iris turned to look at him. Robert’s wounds screamed.
Robert recoiled as the corpse sat upright and turned its head to consider him. The veteran agent tried to get to his feet, but he slipped in the congealed pools of blood and he fell backward on to the other bodies. The fifth victim got to his feet and took a long deep breath, his wounds healing before Robert’s horrified eyes.
“Hello Robert, it’s been a long time,” the fifth victim said.
Pain tore at Robert’s side, almost as if his old wounds were trying to detach themselves and flee. “Kolbe?” he wheezed.
Matthew Kolbe stepped towards Robert. “You know it’s me, Robert. This was always going to happen, as it did before.”
The corpses shifted beneath his back as Robert tried in vain to stand. “But I killed you…”
“Yes, you did. You did exactly what I needed you to do.”
Robert saw himself 28 years ago, strapped to a chair, Matthew Kolbe, deftly probing the flesh of his chest and abdomen with his sickle. Through some miracle, after the sixth wound had been inflicted, Robert had managed to slip his bonds and attack Kolbe, turning his own sickle against him. They said Robert stabbed him 49 times. He’d been a fool to go after Kolbe on his own, but he’d been invited because Kolbe had always intended on him being his seventh victim. Or so he believed.
“You… you were the seventh,” Robert whispered.
Kolbe smiled and Robert felt his wounds tear apart. He pulled his shirt open and gasped at the torrents of blood pouring from within. He tried to scream, but agony left him mute. Kolbe crouched beside Robert and caressed his face.
“Yes, I was the seventh then. I gave myself to you. By killing me, you completed the ritual. Seven times seven; seven to release my soul and seven to bring it back, but I couldn’t do it myself. Now I need seven more to stay. Hence, this.” He produced a sickle from nowhere and gave Robert the seventh wound. Then he held his hand over Robert, who shrieked without sound as his blood became weightless, drifting up towards Kolbe’s face, his eyes. The two orbs drank Robert’s blood; a slow, numbing ebb of release.