by R. L. King
Jason called back later the next day as Stone was preparing to leave for home. “Okay, this is weird.”
Stone shut his office door with a flick of his mind. “Do tell.”
“I passed the info you gave me on to Stan, and he did a little checking. You might be on to something. He found two other cases that might be related, but they’re not very close to you.”
“Why does he think they’d be related? More dismembered victims with odd ritual sigils around them?”
“Not dismembered. But both of ’em were skinned, bled out, and missing body parts.”
Stone sat up straighter in his chair. “Livers?”
“No—each one’s different. One’s missing the tongue, and the other one the eyes.”
“I…see.” Once again, maddening thoughts poked at the back of Stone’s head, but still didn’t come together sufficiently to trigger anything. “Where were they?”
“One was in Fresno, a couple weeks ago. The other one was in a little town up north of San Francisco, a few days after that.”
“Has anyone made connections between them yet?”
“Not that I know of, but add in yours and it won’t be long before they do. Stan will have to mention it, of course. The really freaky thing is, it doesn’t sound like it’s the same guy doin’ ’em. Different size footprints, partial smudged fingerprints—it’s like a bunch of guys suddenly got the memo to start killing and skinning people.”
“Did the others have the anything written in blood near them? Any chance you or Stan can get me copies of the crime-scene photos?”
“I asked him, but he said he couldn’t do it without better reason. He says your best bet is to ask your guy up there. If he doesn’t know about the other two, telling him might light a fire under him.” Jason paused. “He says be careful, though, Al. This isn’t like Ojai. They aren’t gonna just let you show up at crime scenes and play mystical Sherlock Holmes. Not without tellin’ ’em a whole lot more than I think you want to.”
“I’ll…figure something out. Thank you, Jason. Please thank Stan for me. Tell him I owe him a drink next time I’m down your way.”
“I will. And I’m not kidding—Stan’s right. You could get yourself in a lot of trouble if you start poking around crime scenes without authorization. Just keep your inner cat on a leash, okay?”
“Cats hate leashes.”
“Al—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll do my best not to get myself in any trouble I can’t get out of.”
Chapter Four
Cheng called Stone back two days later. “So, did you come up with anything?”
“Maybe. Can we meet somewhere?” Stone didn’t want to reveal anything over the phone—especially not that he’d been doing any investigations of his own.
“I can’t just come to your office again?”
“Best if you don’t. One of my colleagues is a bit overly curious about why you were here the last time.”
Cheng named a coffee shop in Mountain View. The place was nearly deserted during the lazy post-lunch-rush lull. Stone tossed the folder full of photos on the table and sat down with a cup of coffee.
“What’d you come up with?” Cheng asked. He riffled through them to verify they were all there, then put them back in his briefcase. “I hope you got something, because my higher-ups are hassling me about even pursuing this angle.”
“You’ve heard about the two similar crimes, I trust.” Stone watched him closely to get his initial reaction.
Clearly, the detective had heard. His eyes narrowed. “How did you find out about them?”
Stone shrugged. “I have contacts too. By the way, on the subject of contacts—you mentioned that someone had recommended me to you. Who was that?”
“Is it important?”
“I just want to know. I haven’t consulted on too many police investigations, but enough that I can’t narrow it down.”
“Guy named Casner, down in Ojai. He said you helped him out with the situation down there last year.”
Ah, yes. Given that he knew it hadn’t been Stan, the answer shouldn’t have surprised him. Lieutenant Peter Casner was as mundane as they came, every shred of his being rebelling with stubborn fervor against being compelled to accept the existence of supernatural forces in the world. Sure, he’d had no choice for a while following the massacre in his small town, unable to construct an adequate mundane cover story for the events that had occurred the night the murderous spirit called He of Many Faces had been defeated. But Stone had made a bet with himself that a month wouldn’t pass before the man came up with some excuse for why the events had all been a huge misunderstanding, something in the water, or a byproduct of the summer heat.
Still, if Casner had recommended him, then he hadn’t completely shut down the possibility. It was more than Stone would have given him credit for. Maybe he should tone down his tendency to underestimate mundanes and their capacity for dealing with things they didn’t understand.
“So,” Cheng was saying, “You got anything, or not?”
“Not much,” Stone admitted. “I still think you’re dealing with someone with a strong knowledge of the occult, a flair for the dramatic, and who fancies himself connected with demons or similar so-called ‘evil’ supernatural beings.”
“You know anybody like that?”
“Well—me, except for the demon bit.”
Cheng gave him a look. “Somehow, I don’t buy you as the skin-people-and- chop-them-up-into-pieces type.”
“Could be I’m more depraved than I look. But true—you can be reasonably sure it’s not me. You can also be certain it’s not any of the other Occult Studies faculty at Stanford. Old Hubbard couldn’t be arsed to drag himself away from his horror novels once he leaves work, and Mortenson might be a bit unsettling, but she’s hardly a serial killer.”
“Anybody else you know—other colleagues, maybe people you’ve met?”
Stone shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Detective. Besides, my sources tell me that the crimes weren’t even committed by the same person.”
“Your sources are pretty well informed,” Cheng said, frowning.
“Don’t worry—I’m not getting anything I shouldn’t be. I have a friend in law enforcement down in southern California. He was connected with the unpleasantness in Ojai too. He didn’t see any harm in sharing some of the details with me, especially after he found out you were consulting with me. I can give you his name if you like.”
Cheng sighed. “No, it’s okay. I knew this was a mistake. No offense, Dr. Stone—you did what I asked you to, and I appreciate it. But I’m no farther along than I was before, and now I’m getting the reputation of being a crackpot on top of everything else.”
Stone let the silence stretch out until Cheng reached down to pick up his briefcase, then said carefully, “There is one other thing I could do that might help you, you know.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’d need to see the crime scene.”
Cheng’s gaze came up, and he let loose of the briefcase. “I told you that’s out of the question.” A pause, and then, “Just hypothetically, if I could get you access—and I’m not saying I can—what are you gonna do there?”
“I’m not sure whether Casner told you this bit, but I’ve got certain—abilities—that sometimes prove useful in cases like this.” He sipped his coffee and kept his gaze leveled on Cheng. Let’s see if he’s even more hopelessly mundane than Casner was.
“Abilities.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of abilities?”
Stone shrugged. “Sometimes when I’m in the presence of a scene where something violent or emotionally charged occurred, I can pick up certain… emanations that give me insights into what happened.”
“You’re saying you’re psychic?” Cheng looked like he wasn’t sure
whether to roll his eyes or get up and leave.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘psychic’ per se. But it’s worked in the past. Ask Casner if you don’t believe me. Ask him about what happened at the Ayala house.”
Cheng’s dark eyes focused on him for a beat too long, then he sighed again and picked up his case. “I’ll get back to you, Dr. Stone. Don’t hold your breath, though—I have no idea how I’m gonna spin this to the higher-ups, or even if I want to bother trying. Thanks for your help.”
Chapter Five
Stone was on his way home from Stanford later that evening, waiting in line for take-out at the Dragon Garden, when his pocket buzzed.
For a moment he didn’t know what it was, and then he remembered the infernal thing one of his buddies from the Friday-night pub-crawling group had finally convinced him to buy a couple weeks ago. He was already regretting it—why would anyone want to be constantly reachable by whoever could get hold of their number, anyway? It wasn’t as if he had the sort of job that required being on call.
He pulled it out, fumbled with it, and hit the button. “Yes?”
“Dr. Stone?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it was hard to hear over the buzz of conversations in the restaurant.
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s Johnny Cheng, Dr. Stone. From SJPD. You got a minute?”
“Er—sure.” The place was busy, and there were still three other customers ahead of him in line. “If it won’t take long.”
“There’s been another murder.”
He tensed. Damn. “Should I ask why you’re telling me this? I thought you didn’t—”
“It’s just like the last one—dismembered body, skinned, bled out, weird symbols around it.”
Stone stepped out of line and found a quiet place in the hallway leading toward the restrooms. “Was this one missing a different body part?”
There was a pause. “Yeah. The stomach this time.”
Stone let his breath out. “I still don’t see why you’re telling me—”
“Because I can get you access to the new crime scene, if you want. It’s not in my jurisdiction, but since we had one here, the department in charge is willing to let me see the scene. I can bring you along as a consultant if you think it’ll help. But it has to be tonight. I’m about to head out there.”
“Where?”
“Down in Gilroy.”
Stone glanced at his watch—almost six p.m. Gilroy was almost fifty miles away, down highway 101 south of San Jose. “Give me the address. I’ll leave now.”
It took him over an hour to get there, fighting through the heavy Silicon Valley commute traffic until he got out of San Jose proper. By the time he pulled up in front of the rundown, single-story house on a dusty side street, only a couple of police cars, a large white van, and a dark-colored sedan remained parked in front of the place. Several curious neighbors, including a few children, watched from the sidewalk, held back by a bored-looking uniformed cop. Stone parked a few houses down and approached on foot.
“Stay back, sir,” the cop said, holding up a hand.
“I’m looking for Detective Cheng. He asked me to come. Tell him Stone’s here.”
The cop looked dubious but got on his radio, speaking under his breath into the mic clipped to his shoulder.
A couple minutes later, Johnny Cheng came out. He looked a bit wilted, with the sleeves of his dress shirt turned up and his tie loosened. “He’s okay, Franklin,” the detective said, waving Stone forward. “He’s with me.”
As they headed up the walk toward the house, Cheng muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I guess it isn’t like we’ve never used psychics on cases before. Just—try to keep quiet about it, okay? You don’t dance around and chant or anything, do you?”
Stone raised an eyebrow. “Detective, do I look like the sort who dances around and chants?”
“Hey, you never know.” He nodded toward the house. “I warn you—the…uh…body parts are gone, but the aroma’s pretty overpowering in there. Apparently nobody found the body for a couple of days, and with how hot it’s been—”
They donned gloves and protective booties just outside the door. Stone noticed all the windows were open—they were probably trying to air the place out. Nonetheless, as soon as he followed Cheng inside, the stench hit him like a wall. He’d smelled decomp before, but even the ripe body he’d found in the old barn down in Ojai hadn’t been this bad. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. He deliberately didn’t switch to magical senses yet—he wanted to get the full effect once he reached the actual scene of the murder.
The house was small and unkempt, with ratty discount-store furniture and stained carpeting that was probably older than Stone. They entered through a tiny living room with a couch, chair, and old-style tube TV, and headed for an even tinier dining room containing a table that looked like it had been liberated from someone’s patio. Other cops and techs in coveralls moved around the area, making notes on clipboards and snapping photos. All of them ignored Stone and Cheng.
“You sure you want to do this?” Cheng asked. “Last chance to back out.”
“Absolutely. You’ve brought me all the way down here—let’s see if I can help you.”
“In here, then.” He indicated an archway on the other side of the dining area that clearly led into the kitchen.
Stone’s first impression when he paused in the doorway was that there wasn’t nearly enough blood. The cracked floor, which had at one point been white (but looked more yellowish-gray these days) sported a few dried, rust-colored streaks, each one marked with its own small yellow number tag, and one somewhat larger series of swirly stains in the middle of the floor. If Cheng hadn’t shown him the photos from the previous crime scene, he’d never have believed that a dismemberment of this level could have been performed with such minimal blood loss. The only other indication of blood was more odd, crude symbols, similar but not identical to the ones from the photos, drawn around the area with the swirled pattern. Once again, other objects—sticks, what looked like dried leaves, and small piles of something brown, also circled the area.
He paused to look around, taking in the mundane details of the anonymous victim’s life: crusted dishes stacked in the sink, empty beer cans, a pair of McDonald’s plastic tumblers drying on the counter, a calendar featuring a nude and very acrobatic young woman that hadn’t been updated for three months. A bachelor, almost certainly—someone who didn’t give much of a damn about cleanliness and who didn’t have anyone to care about it for him.
“Hank, this is the guy I was telling you about.” Cheng was speaking to a fiftyish, graying man in a rumpled shirt that strained valiantly to contain his impressive belly. “Dr. Stone, this is Lieutenant Herrera. He’s in charge of the investigation here. Hank, this is Dr. Alastair Stone. He’s…consulting with me on the murder up in San Jose.”
Lieutenant Hank Herrera eyed Stone up and down as if he were another bit of evidence that needed a yellow number tag. “Consultin’ on what, exactly, Dr. Stone? Detective Cheng was a little…vague on the concept.”
Before Stone could answer, Cheng spoke up. “I’m working the occult angle—I already told you that. My working theory is that it’s loonies—devil worshippers or something like that. Dr. Stone’s a professor of Occult Studies up at Stanford. He wanted to get a first-hand look at the symbols, since they’ve been present at all four of the murders now.”
Herrera’s eyes narrowed. “Occult? They actually teach that shit at Stanford?”
Stone shrugged. “Well, I hope so, or I’ve been under quite a convincing delusion for the past several years.”
Herrera’s eyes narrowed even more, and his bushy brows beetled. “You didn’t tell me your Stanford fella was a smartass, Johnny.”
“He wanted to get a look at the scene,” Cheng said quickly, shooting a glare at Stone. “Is
it okay if he just takes a look for a few minutes?”
“You mean, like, alone?”
“I’ll be here with him.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Stone said. “You’re quite right—I can be a bit of a smartass, and I apologize. I just want to get a look at these sigils for a few moments, without distractions. Would that be all right?”
“Sigils?”
“The drawings on the floor here.”
Herrera looked like he might object, but instead pulled out a large red-checkered handkerchief and swiped it across his sweating forehead. “Fine, whatever. Knock yourself out. We’re just about done here for the night anyway.” He glared at Stone. “Don’t touch anything, and watch where you step.”
“Of course,” Stone said. “I know how this works, and I promise I’ll be careful. I shouldn’t have to move around at all, actually.”
“Yeah, okay.” He raised his voice. “C’mon, boys. Let’s take five. Johnny’s ghostbuster here wants the place to himself so he can read tea leaves or somethin’.”
When the other cops had left, Cheng regarded Stone in disapproval. “Maybe you could try not to piss off the local guys, Stone? Hank doesn’t really want me here either.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Stone was already crouching down, examining the sigils and other items, careful to keep his feet as far as possible away from the bloodstains.
“Those are the same as the other guy, aren’t they?”
“Not quite. Same idea, different message.”
“Message? You can read that gibberish?”
“Not yet. I’m working on it.” He shifted position a little, crouching lower and focusing on the sticks, leaves, and small piles.
“What is that shit?” Cheng asked.
“Exactly,” Stone agreed.