Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  Some belonged to the employees. Working with the dead affected their souls more than they realized. Except for Chen. He was already cold and empty, even for a lyrriken.

  I jogged down the small set of steps to the exam floor. There wasn’t a lot of room. Extra tables had been brought in to accommodate the many lumps resting beneath white sheets; too small to be complete bodies. Rows of empty gurney were lined up against the wall. Their former inhabitants, already processed, were on shelves inside the freezer.

  Dr. Peter Chen was seated at a workstation at the back, bent over his laptop. A thin man with a shallow, sharp-boned face and dark hair, Chen’s credentials said he was formerly with the CDC. Maybe he was. He’d stepped seamlessly into the city’s medical examiner position after the death of Dr. Winters. But being stationed at the CDC didn’t make him a doctor.

  A lyrriken, put in place at Oren’s request to manage the increasing number of otherworldly crimes plaguing the Sentinel, Chen had proven himself. He could perform autopsies and fully assist the SCPD as skillfully as he ran interference and falsified reports. From what I’d seen, Chen was an excellent Guild operative. He was far less good at being human.

  Perched on a stool, wearing a customary white lab coat, he didn’t look up as I approached. Even if my footsteps were silent, my lyrriken scent had long since caught his attention. He simply saw no reason to greet me. Etiquette was a waste of his time.

  I didn’t take the snub personal, though. Chen wasn’t polite to anyone. His co-workers considered him highly intelligent, but aloof and arrogant. Creed generally skipped such niceties and went straight to “asshole”.

  I couldn’t disagree. Chen didn’t even pretend to have humanity’s best interest in mind. He didn’t care to understand them or put effort into posing as one. His cover was basic, surface. Unlike Nadine who dove into her life here with both feet, assuming many looks and accents during her time in this world, Chen’s attempt to adopt the sound of his human mother’s lineage, was wooden with disinterest and obligation. Every time I called him on it, his defense was the same: “What do you expect, Nite? The Guild sent me to work in a windowless basement of death on a world overrun with an inferior species.”

  As far as Chen was concerned, he was coping well enough.

  Waiting until I was nearly at his elbow to acknowledge me, he spun around with an exasperated, “Something I can help you with?”

  I pretended not to notice the clip on his nose, or the nasally sound it lent his voice. “I see you’re surviving the chaos from yesterday.”

  Chin jutting, he gave me a vague shake of his head. “What was yesterday?”

  “Sunday.” Getting no reaction, I added, “It was busy as hell?”

  “Right. And you’re here, why?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “About what? As you said, I’m busy.”

  Imagining my fist connecting with his jaw, I smiled. “Arms. Legs. Torsos. Skin. Take your pick.”

  “As always, the remains will belong to the indigenous species of this world or be labeled inconclusive. If that’s what concerns you.”

  “It’s not. If you sucked at coverups, Oren wouldn’t have given you the job.” I softened my mildly snarky comment with another smile. “I wanted to see if you’d found anything to help solve this.”

  “Solving it is your department.”

  “It is, but—”

  “Then go do it, so I can continue sitting here, crafting lies their simple but painfully curious brains will accept as truth.”

  “I thought I was clear about how this works?” It was only the tenth time I’d explained it since he took the job. “You tell me what you find. I tell you what I find. We compare notes. I take the clues and go catch the monsters.” I smiled again. My cheeks were going to hurt by the time we were done.

  “You’re not Guild. I shouldn’t have to work with you. It’s bad enough I’m forced to engage with my human co-workers,” he spat, “pretending to give a damn about their existence, consulting with their narrow minds like they have a clue what’s going on. It’s exhausting.”

  “Wow. Who pissed in your coffee this morning?”

  “No one.” He crossed his arms with an exaggerated shudder. “That disgusting slop will never touch my tongue.”

  Now he’d gone too far. “That disgusting slop, is one of humanity’s best inventions. And right now, the three cups I had this morning are all that’s keeping me from kicking your ass.”

  “If I tell you what I’ve found, will you go?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then, I’ve found nothing.” I took a threatening step, and Chen bolted up with a scrape of his stool and a quick, “Nothing you likely haven’t discerned yourself.”

  “Try me.”

  “The victims were from an assortment of species. A delicate knife was used to remove the organs and skin. The amputations were performed with a larger, sturdier blade. A cleaver or sword, perhaps. But there was evidence of other tools, including a bone saw.”

  “Huh. That’s a first.” I’d never known a creature to use such specialized human tools. “Anything else?”

  “I believe the bite marks belong to a species of wolf-shifter. I was working on narrowing it down when you interrupted.”

  “Harper gave me DNA from the skins to run my own samples. If you haven’t ID’d all of them yet, one was from an ulfar. I’d start there.”

  “Curious…” he mused, tapping a finger on the point of his chin. “If the bite marks belong to the same species as one of the recovered skins, wouldn’t that make the ulfar both predator and prey?”

  “It would certainly make it confusing. Just like the rest of it.”

  Chen plopped back down on his stool. “My vociferous human assistant, Todd, has theorized the missing parts were taken for a voodoo ritual, and the skin was discarded by a skinwalker. Perhaps one who’s ill or elderly and can’t hold a form.”

  “It’s not surprising. When the Chrysalis mutations became public knowledge, local conspiracy theorists were all over the skinwalker legend. He could have heard it anywhere. But skinwalkers fuse with what they steal. When they change skins, what they slough off is dehydrated and rotting. Harper said this was preserved.”

  “Not all. Some did show signs of rot. And there’s the puncture holes. The size and placement are consistent with a sewing needle.”

  I stared at him, my initial surprise dwindling swiftly. If sewing holes were present in the skin recovered at the river, and yeren hide was sewn into the black uniforms… Maybe they were lined with other skin as well? But for what purpose?

  “Todd has a plethora of theories,” Chen went on. “I did my best to dissuade him from sharing them with the rest of the staff, but the man is high-strung and easily influenced by the tales of some decrepit family member he quotes incessantly. Though, his idea of a ritual has merit. Someone who fancies themselves a witch or a student of the occult? Humans are forever striving to attain what their bodies and minds weren’t born to wield. You’d think, by now, they’d have learned to accept their place, to understand the magic they believe in isn’t for them.” He shook his head. “Such an inherently illogical species.”

  “They can be. But it’s not merely stubbornness or foolishness that keeps them reaching for the impossible. Humans have something in abundance our species doesn’t. Something the elders never allowed us to cultivate. Hope. With enough of it, they can do anything.”

  “Except solve their own crimes, apparently.”

  “Have you looked at what’s on those exam tables? This isn’t one of their crimes, Chen. It’s one of ours. And what’s missing is too much for souvenirs or rituals.”

  “I agree. However, it is enough to live. And many of the recovered remains were not vital to survival.” He stopped and studied me a moment. “But you know this already.”

  “I do. I also know it’s not practical to keep them alive. Storing chunks of meat is one thing. Maintaining a living food source is a whole other la
yer of fucked-up. And our suspect had their own private crematorium. It’s more realistic to assume what’s not here was already disposed of.”

  “Then why the meticulous cuts? Why dump those parts at the river and burn the rest?”

  I un-clenched my teeth and let my admission out. “I don’t know.”

  “If they are alive, and you save them, you’ll save me from having to put my hands on any more mutilated corpses this week—and file twelve thousand different reports on what I find. Logistically, though,” his squint was pensive, “it makes more sense to keep them onsite. Meaning, if anyone was alive, they’re dead now. You buried them under the building you took it upon yourself to blow up.”

  “Thanks. This was super helpful,” I said, backing away. Aside from confirming his lack of redeeming qualities, Chen had imbedded something in my head I’d been trying to keep out. What if our killers were keeping prisoners in the steel factory, and I missed them?

  It was more than plausible. Except, only the bad guys were clothed in the yeren skin. If there were any victims inside the facility, I would have detected them. Unless they were being held at another location, dismembered and alive…

  Shit. Like the clock wasn’t ticking loud enough already.

  I sent a message to Evans as I walked the station, looking for Ronnie. It was my second pass at her desk, though I hadn’t expected her to be there. The woman never seemed to sit still. Neither had I expected him to reply. Evans had come on duty an hour ago. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was chasing down information for Creed.

  My excuse for the text was to check on his injury. Though, I was far less concerned with his arm than I was his mental state. We hadn’t spoken much after my confession. Yet, I left the gym feeling lighter than I had in a long time. Evans left troubled. It was clear he blamed himself for Nyakree’s escape and, as always, Marnie was never far from his mind. After his own confession atop the wall on Drimera, I was even more intent to get her back.

  Spotting Ronnie in the hall, I hurried to catch up. “There you are.” I glanced at the stack of manila folders in her arms. “Have a minute?”

  “Not really. Creed called us in for a meeting. I’m already late.” Her dark eyes caught mine. “Which means you are, too. Unless…” her gaze narrowed. “You aren’t going.”

  I shrugged. “We already know what he’s going to say: ‘Bodies in the morgue. Killer on the loose. Find me some evidence to close this damn case’.”

  “‘Captain Barnes is on my ass,’” she threw in.

  “Exactly. There won’t even be donuts.”

  “There better be. I skipped breakfast to finish these reports.”

  “Sorry. Creed never brings donuts on the first day of a big case. He hasn’t lost enough sleep yet to need the sugar rush. And, he hasn’t lost his temper enough to play nice. Give it another day or two. By Wednesday, he’ll be screaming, and we’ll have donuts.”

  “You’re terrible,” she laughed. “Did you say you were looking for me?”

  “I wanted to see if you had anything yet on who own the steel factory. And please tell me it’s not Aidric Cole, or you’ll send Creed straight down a rabbit hole I’ve pulled him out of ten times already.”

  “He does seem to be fixated on the man. But to be fair, Cole’s connection to Ella Chandler hasn’t been resolved. And he did own one of the nightclubs suspected of dealing Chrysalis.”

  “Both cases are closed. And there was never any proof the drug was distributed at his club. Besides, from what I understand, Cole has been out of the country since before Ella died.” It wasn’t exactly true. I’d chatted with the human alias for Drimera’s king not two months past. But keeping Creed away from the dragon who fathered Ella was high on my to-do list.

  “Well, you can stop worrying. It’s not him.” She paused at the stairs. “If you come to the meeting, you can hear all about it with everyone else.”

  “Or you could tell me now.” I smiled wide.

  Ronnie’s lips pursed. “Fix your rat problem last night?”

  Damn. So much had happened. I’d forgotten about her call. “That’s why I can’t make Creed’s briefing. I’m off to meet the exterminator. He’s coming this morning.”

  “Oh. In that case…” Ronnie shifted the folders to one arm. Pulling one from the pile, she placed it on top. “As you might have guessed from the logo, a man named Arno Gant was the original owner of the steel factory. He entered the industry boom as a young man at the turn of the century. Apparently, he was the beneficiary of a sizeable inheritance from some long-lost aunt.” She opened the folder and presented a faded black and white photo. The subject was a stern-faced, portly, young man in a tailored suit, standing in the middle of a construction site. “When he died of a heart attack, his son, Oliver, took over.” She tucked the pictures away and presented another. This man had similar features hidden beneath a full beard. “When the toxic waste scandal broke, Oliver didn’t bother fighting it out in court. He shut the place down and let it rot.”

  “Then he still owns the building?”

  “And several other industrial complexes in the city. Technically.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oliver had a son, Arno—after his grandfather. His wife died in childbirth, and he never had a relationship with his son. Arno grew up wanting no part of the family business. He went to college and ended up with several degrees. When he moved back home, he took job as a curator for the Sentinel History Museum downtown. It was rumored their fights were legendary. Less than a year later, the family estate burned down. Father and son were never seen again.”

  “When was this?”

  “About six years ago. Remains were found, but not enough to identify. Missing person files are still open on both men. The fire was labeled as arson, but there were never any suspects. According to the family attorney, their only enemies were each other.”

  It was an interesting story, but there were no blazing red flags or solid connections. The feuding Gants were almost certainly dead, and our killers had simply squatted in whatever abandoned building fit their needs. But we had no leads. Even the flimsy ones had to be ruled out. “Do you have an address for the estate?”

  “I sure do.” Ronnie removed a piece of paper from another folder and showed it to me. “You think Oliver and his son are still alive, quietly dismembering people from the shadows of their burned down mansion?”

  I laughed, like her suggestion was outlandish. But I was starting to think nothing was too far-fetched for this city. “Keep digging. See what you can find out about Gant’s other properties. If there’s any cameras nearby, check the footage on a vehicle that might match our tread from the river.”

  “I’m already on it.” Starting up the stairs, Ronnie offered a parting, “Drinks next week? Not many women can say they were a firefighter and a cop. I really want to hear your story. And you owe me a dart game,” she said, making a throwing motion with her hand.

  “You got it.” But as Ronnie walked away, I knew she didn’t want a story. She wanted answers. Explanations. Truth. Her inquisitive personality made her a damn good investigator. It was also on the verge of making her a serious problem.

  My GPS was useless. The former Gant estate sat across the river, on top of a hill, on a series of private roads so private, they didn’t exist on a map. Winding up, up, up through the woods on steep, narrow, gravel lanes, the deep isolation made the hectic streets of Sentinel City seem far away. In the end, it wasn’t luck, but a sense of direction that led me down the right road.

  I stopped at the head of the overgrown circular drive and got out. A wide swathe of dilapidated remains dominated the scene. Harsh against the vibrant fall leaves, the field of debris stretched close to the forest on both sides and nearly to the cliff edge behind it. The trees had encroached some over time, but the view was still spectacular. Here, perched high above in their secluded mansion, generations of the Gant family had watched the land across the bridge develop and expand into the sprawl
ing city it was today. Until someone burned their haven to the ground.

  Whether or not the residents died in the fire, something traumatic happened here. Old ghosts were floating over the rubble like an eager, dark fog. All I needed was one to confirm the Gant’s were deceased—and check a box off my ever-growing list of disjointed clues.

  I wandered the dilapidated shell, giving my empathy a long leash. There was so much pain layering the burned-out estate in a fine sheen, it took no time to identify the greatest concentration. I stepped into its center, and the forest drained of color. Orange and red faded to an eerie, drab gray as the trees spun, faster and faster as—

  the whistling wind picked up the sad, broken pieces of rotted timber and old stone from the ground. One by one, then ten by ten, the pieces went together in a blur, as time rebuilt the Gant mansion almost too fast for me to see; temporarily resurrecting floors, walls, and furniture, until I was standing in a beautiful oak library. Built-in shelves wrapped the room, stretching near to the ceiling, full of modern books as well as ancient-looking tomes and scrolls. Candles burned on the elaborately carved mantle, accentuating a gray stone fireplace. No expense had been spared with the décor, including fine wood furniture, sculptures and artwork, rich leather chairs and couches. Though, it would have been more impressive if the furnishings were spread throughout the room, instead of stacked on top of each other.

  Arno had to know the barricade he erected in the doorway of the library wouldn’t hold. Its construction was unstable. And though his father was older now than in the photo, Oliver was a big man. Watching through the gaps in the obstruction, as his only son upended a can of gasoline over his head, was more than enough motivation for him to barrel through the haphazard pile, tossing accent tables and lamps out of his way.

  As Oliver cleared a path and stormed into the room, Arno backed up. Scarecrow thin and frail, cuts and bruises stood stark against his fair complexion. One eye was swollen from a recent punch. His blond hair lay flat against his head, darkened like his clothes from the gasoline running down his face and dripping from his shoulders.