“Man’s mistake is assuming he has complete control over his life,” Castiel said absently as his gaze wandered across the yard. “Free will exists, but some choices are forced upon him. And sometimes he has no choice.”
“That’s a debate for the philosophers, diba?” she said with a fatalistic air. “Right now, I have a traumatized granddaughter to comfort.”
After she returned to the house, Sam, Dean and Castiel approached the utility shed, centered on the far side of the yard. Dean turned the handle and the three of them crowded into the twelve-by-ten structure. Dean and Castiel made a casual inspection of the assorted rakes, shovels, hoes and power tools while Sam took readings with an EMF meter.
“No hex bags,” Dean said.
Castiel scanned the walls and ceiling. “No mystical symbols or sigils.”
“Whole lot of cobwebs,” Dean added, brushing his hands off.
In short order they concluded their search, finding no evidence of a struggle, no bloodstains, and no unusual paranormal readings.
Next they made their way through the overgrown bushes to examine the crime scene. Sam noticed that although some branches had been snapped, others had been snipped clean off. “Bagged for evidence,” Sam said as he held one truncated branch up for visual inspection. The crime scene unit had removed any branches or leaves with blood evidence. In addition, it appeared as if they had cut away enough of the overgrown brush to allow for single file passage between the side of the shed and the bushes. Per the official report, the blood recovered from the bushes belonged to Dave Holcomb and his wife, both of whom had suffered scrapes and cuts pushing their way through the overgrowth. And, despite the medical examiner’s working theory, no animal fur or blood had been recovered from the area.
The cramped space between the rear of the utility shed and the fence showed signs of a hasty departure. Sam noticed two torn bits of yellow crime scene tape in the dirt, with a third torn piece attached to the back wall of the shed. Dark stains from blood splatter remained on the fence panel opposite the rear of the shed. Where Holcomb’s body had been found—face down per the police report—the ground dipped, as if the tragedy had left a scar on the land. The more likely explanation was crime scene excavation of topsoil to collect blood and loose viscera.
Again, Sam took readings with the EMF meter, walking the perimeter of the crime scene and finally bringing the meter down close to where Dave Holcomb had taken his last breath. And once again, no telltale spikes. As he returned the meter to his jacket pocket, he glanced over the rotting stockade fence, beyond a thin screening of trees and an open, weed-covered lot to a dilapidated rancher.
“What?” Dean asked.
“Abandoned house,” Sam said. “Far side of the lot.”
“Worth a look.”
“Definitely,” Sam said.
* * *
After Dean picked the padlock bolted to the front door, the rundown rancher yielded no unusual EMF readings or definitive clues. Any furniture had been removed long ago and the walls were bare. A lumpy, stained mattress had been tossed on the floor of a bedroom in the rear of the house, along with a scattering of crushed beer cans, an empty bottle of peach schnapps, and several candy wrappers.
At some point, someone had made an effort to clean the place, based upon the presence of two filled plastic trash bags placed against the front wall. Since then, a side window had been jimmied to bypass the padlocked front door. From what Sam could gather, somebody watched over the place, but not as vigilantly as necessary considering the determination of area teens eager for a private place to light up or down a few.
Breaking the eerie silence of the abandoned house, Dean’s cell phone rang.
He grabbed it and checked the caller ID. “BHPD.” He cleared his throat and answered before the third ring. “Special Agent Banks.” A pause. “Hi, Chief. What—?”
A longer pause. Dean nodded, eyebrows raised.
“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be right there.”
“What is it?” Sam asked.
“Another victim.”
“Same M.O.?”
“Exactly,” Dean said. “Disemboweled. Plucked peepers.”
TEN
Dean parked the Impala outside the entrance to the alley that serviced the Kirkwood Plaza strip mall at the intersection of Hawthorne Street and Second Avenue. Castiel’s gold Lincoln pulled in behind him and, based on Dean’s frown directed at the rearview mirror, a bit too close to Baby’s rear bumper.
“If angels were meant to drive,” Dean grumbled, “they wouldn’t have wings.”
“In fairness,” Sam said, “his wings have been clipped.”
Police cruisers with light bars flashing blocked either entrance to the alley. Further in, more police cars, a medical examiner’s SUV and a Crime Scene Unit van blocked their view of the victim. Several employees stood by the rear entrances of their respective places of employment, ostensibly on smoking breaks but more likely to gawk and gossip about the gruesome discovery. When a few strayed too far from the open doorways, a stone-faced cop shooed them back with perfunctory warnings about obstruction of justice and interfering with a crime scene.
On the far side of the alley, the driver of a local TV news van angled for a position close to the scene but clear of any overhanging tree branches that might block his ability to raise the satellite mast for a live remote broadcast.
With Sam and Castiel flanking him, Dean flashed his FBI ID to two uniforms standing together near the driver’s side door of the patrol car blocking the near entrance. One of them decided to check Dean’s credentials up close, and strode around the cruiser to intercept him.
“He’s cleared, O’Malley!” Assistant Chief Cordero called from within the makeshift corral of crime scene tape, waving them through. “Over here.”
Cordero stood next to an elderly man with a shock of white hair wearing a rumpled gray suit and a laminate ID dangling from his neck that identified him as Dr. Hugh Trumble, Chief Medical Examiner. The old doctor looked as if he’d been yanked out of bed and pressed back into service a decade after retirement. Nearby, crime scene photographers maneuvered around the confines of the yellow police tape and snapped photos of items on the ground, tagged with evidence markers, including a wrist rocket, a bag of steel balls and a cell phone. But the body of the second victim had already been zipped into a body bag beside a lowered gurney.
Dean and Sam ducked under the tape while Castiel drifted toward the rear of the stores, looking up at shattered light bulbs in wire cages over the doors. After a quick round of introductions, Cordero informed them that the body of Aidan Dufford—eighteen-year-old white male—had been found in the dumpster behind the dollar store.
“Killer making a statement about the value of human life?” Dean wondered.
Trumble gave a small snort of amusement—or derision. “Based upon the claw marks and depredation of the remains, this was an animal attack, plain and simple.”
“Depredation?” Sam inquired.
“Clear evidence of consumption of the human remains,” Doc Trumble said. “Although preliminary evidence would indicate that the victim was very much alive when said consumption began.”
“Eaten alive?” Castiel said as he joined them, his revulsion evident.
“Initially,” Doc Trumble said. “Blood loss and organ failure would have taken their toll rather quickly. There’s also the matter of collateral brain damage from the forcible excision of the eyeballs. Let me rephrase: The ocular trauma, as evidenced by significant quantities of expelled vitreous humor, is more in line with destruction rather than removal.”
“Meaning the eyes were gouged,” Dean said. “Not plucked out.”
“Precisely,” Trumble said. “No planning, no forethought, no trophy collecting. Simply a matter of brute force and hunger. Nothing to indicate a human perpetrator.”
“But other than the attack itself,” Cordero said, “nothing to indicate an animal’s involvement.”
“
Other than the attack?” Trumble asked incredulously.
“Maybe a paw print in the blood or a tuft of fur.”
A nearby patrol officer stepped forward. “A rodent was nibbling on the corpse in the dumpster when we arrived, sir.”
“A rodent, Coogan?”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said. “A rat.”
Dean looked at the medical examiner. “You’re pinning these murders on a rat?”
“Of course not,” Trumble said. “A larger animal, species undetermined.”
Sam pointed to the body bag. “May I?”
Cordero glanced down the far end of the alley, checking on the news van. The satellite mast was up, but the reporter, a sharply dressed blond woman holding a mic, had her back to the crime scene, involved in an animated discussion with her cameraman. “Make it quick.”
When Sam unzipped the body bag, all the way down to the victim’s groin, Dean squatted beside the corpse for a closer look. The medical examiner dropped awkwardly to one knee, caught his balance by placing his palm on the blacktop, then pointed with his other index finger at the flesh surrounding the eye sockets and then lower, along the perimeter of the shredded abdomen. “There—at the edges of all these wounds—those cuts were not made by a knife or any type of edged weapon. Definitely claw marks.” He tugged on a pair of latex gloves and reached into the abdominal cavity. “If you look closely at the remains of the liver, those smaller, ragged incisions are the result of teeth tearing into the organ.”
Cordero stood over them, helping to obstruct the view of the corpse as he spoke. “From what we can determine, Aidan came back here for a little after-hours vandalism with that wrist rocket. Shot out the lights over the rear doors. The darkness made it easier for whoever—or whatever—attacked him.”
“Any witnesses?” Sam asked. “Store employees?”
“None of the shops were open that time of night.”
“According to the good doctor,” Dean said, “what we have here is a considerate animal.”
“Considerate?” Trumble asked. “In what way, may I ask?”
Dean indicated the dumpster. “After attacking and feeding on Aidan, this animal takes time to clean up after itself and throws its leftovers in the trash.”
“Well, I’m sure stranger things have happened,” Trumble said, a bit flustered. “I never claimed to be a detective.” He turned to Cordero. “You’ll have EMS take the body to the morgue for a more complete examination?” Cordero nodded and Trumble said, “Then I’m done here. Good day.”
After Trumble stalked off, climbed into his SUV and slammed the door, Dean looked up at Cordero. “He always so cheerful?”
“Man’s got an ulcer, and insomnia,” Cordero said. “He really wants to chalk this up to an animal attack and be done with it. But I’m not convinced. We’ve still had no wild animal sightings and whatever attacked Holcomb and young Dufford here would have been noticed by someone.”
“Were you hoping he’d convince you this time?” Dean asked. “Since you managed to get out of your office?”
“Had to see this for myself,” Cordero said grimly. “Got a bad feeling.”
“Bad feeling,” Dean commented. “But good instincts.”
Castiel pointed to the broken exterior lights. “Aidan shot out some of these bulbs before he was killed, but somebody else blew out or extinguished the rest. Some bulbs are broken. Others have burnt-out filaments. The killer didn’t want to be seen.”
“How can you tell the unbroken lights have burnt-out filaments?” Cordero said.
“I looked at them,” Castiel said.
“You looked—?”
“Any security camera footage available?” Dean interrupted. He’d been scanning the exterior of the shops while Castiel brought up the broken lights. Sam saw no cameras in evidence.
“No such luck,” Cordero said. “Some of the shops have interior cameras, some face the front entrance, but nothing back here.”
Sam noticed Aidan’s cell phone nearby, pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked it up. “Several unanswered calls from the same number,” he said. “Chloe Sikes.”
“She’s one of my daughter’s classmates,” Cordero said. “Chloe obviously knows the victim. They both attend Braden Heights High School. Seniors. Possibly dating.”
“Let’s find out,” Sam said, and pressed the button to dial Chloe’s number. He switched the phone to speaker mode. She picked up on the third ring.
“Aidan, what the hell—?” a young woman’s voice yelled over the crackling connection. “I can’t believe—do you have any idea how long I’ve been calling you? What I’ve been going through?”
“Chlo—?” Sam managed a single syllable before she cut him off.
“No more excuses! You said I could count on you! Or was that another lie? Well, good thing this was a false alarm or I’d really be pissed at—Aidan? You there?”
“Chloe Sikes?”
“Yes—wait, who is this? Why do you have Aidan’s phone? Is this some kind of joke? Jay, is that you? Did Aidan put you up to this? I swear, I’ll—!”
“Chloe, this is Special Agent Rutherford, with the FBI,” Sam said. “Where are you? We need to talk about Aidan.”
“What? FBI? Oh, God! What the hell has Aidan gotten himself into this time?”
“Just tell me where you are,” Sam said. “I’ll explain everything.”
“Okay,” Chloe said. Over the phone speaker, they heard her take a deep calming breath. “I’m at Lovering Maternity Center.”
ELEVEN
The entrance to Lovering Maternity Center passed through the ongoing construction around the adjacent and much smaller Stanton Fertility Clinic. Bulldozers and excavators transformed the open space bordering the clinic into an expanded parking lot. They drove past a schizophrenic medley of signs, some apologizing for the inconvenience, while others touted the benefits of the project. Every PARDON OUR DUST and UNDER CONSTRUCTION: PLEASE EXCUSE THE INCONVENIENCE alternated with a WATCH US GROW or WORKING TODAY FOR A BETTER TOMORROW.
With Cordero leaving the crime scene to notify Aidan’s parents about his death in person, the Winchesters, along with Castiel, had the task of breaking the bad news to his apparent—and apparently expecting—girlfriend without a police presence.
An unprepossessing red-brick building with discreet signage nearly obscured by a framework of shrubs, the Stanton Fertility Clinic could have been mistaken for a generic office complex. In stark contrast, Lovering Maternity Center displayed a modern aesthetic, with a central circular tower encased in dark reflective glass flanked by shorter twin rectangular outbuildings of red brick. A circular driveway passed through a porte cochère bearing the large cursive letters LMC, where expectant mothers could be safely dropped off.
Dean bypassed the driveway entrance and parked the Impala in the visitor lot. Castiel parked in the nearest available slot. Sam twisted around to look out the back window.
“At some point we should carpool.”
“If Cass is finished snipe hunting.”
“Cain will turn up, Dean.”
“Not in Braden Heights.”
Sam couldn’t argue with that and saw no sense poking holes in Dean’s arguments with a logic stick. Castiel cared about what happened to them. And the feeling was mutual. They all had history together. Nobody was giving up on Dean. But repeated failures had a way of undermining confidence. Meanwhile, Sam worried about Dean, and Cass worried about Dean, and Dean… well, maybe Dean was beginning to see himself as a lost cause and worried that’s what he would see in their eyes: The moment when they accepted there was nothing more to do. He knew Dean didn’t want his pity and Sam was determined to never show his brother that emotion. Sam would fight Dean’s fate until the last second… and even that wasn’t quite right. That implied giving up at some point in time and he wouldn’t do that. Not while he lived.
Silently, they entered the maternity center. Forming a central island, a horseshoe-shaped reception desk was curre
ntly unoccupied. Marble walls to the left and right of the desk were mirror images of each other; both had glass-enclosed directories above sixty-gallon aquariums, each of which contained about a dozen exotic fish drifting aimlessly in languid silence. Branching off from both walls were identical banks of elevators, with a third set directly behind reception leading to the circular tower’s birthing facilities. Along the far wall, someone had parked two wheelchairs on either side of the aquarium. Indistinct background music, set at an almost subliminally low volume and piped in through hidden speakers, provided a calming white noise.
Chloe had given them the address to the maternity center along with the office number of her OB/GYN, Dr. Vanessa Hartwell. Dean confirmed the office number via the directory—designated as “North”—mounted on the near wall.
“321,” Dean said, referring to Hartwell’s office number. “Like a countdown to delivery.”
“Human childbirth traditionally takes much longer,” Castiel said as they waited for the elevator.
“Wishful thinking,” Dean said.
The elevator door opened and a distracted middle-aged woman in a jade-green smock emerged, almost running into them before stopping, startled. In lieu of a name badge, the letters LMC were stitched across the breast pocket in the same cursive style as those featured on the building’s exterior. “Oh my! Can I help you, gentlemen?”
She glanced quickly to either side of them, as if looking for the expectant mother who warranted a three-man guard detail. Finding none, she seemed perplexed.
“FBI,” Dean said, flashing the ID. “Here to see a patient of Dr. Hartwell.”
Supernatural--Cold Fire Page 8