The Golem of Solomon's Way

by Jon Messenger

  “No such luck, once again?” Simon inquired.

  Luthor’s frown remained unmoved. “You could help me, sir, rather than just mock me upon my return. Posing the questions from a Royal Inquisitor would carry far more weight than having them come from, what was I just called, oh yes, a drunk git.”

  “How rude of them,” Simon replied, though a faint smile hung on his lips. “You clearly weren’t drunk.”

  “You’re far too kind,” Luthor flatly said.

  Simon pushed away from the lamppost and strolled further down the road. Luthor hurried to catch up, not requiring much effort to match Simon’s lackadaisical stride. The nighttime breeze was warm, but Simon still shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “The hour grows late and I’d much rather be asleep already, rather than roaming the Way,” the Inquisitor complained. “When even the drunkards are asleep comfortably in their beds, then clearly we’ve been out too long.”

  Luthor glanced toward the sky but it was still oppressively dark, with equally dark clouds blotting out the moonlight. He knew the sun would be rising soon, but there wasn’t even a hint of sunrise on the horizon. Despite the gloom, Luthor, too, felt the fatigue of walking Solomon’s Way all night.

  “What of the killer?” the apothecary asked. “Isn’t giving up our search a death sentence for some young woman in the Way?”

  Simon shook his head as they walked. “Aside from locations of the crimes, I also took the liberty of annotating the dates of the murders while we were perusing Detective Sugden’s files. The first two crimes occurred nearly two months apart. The following crime was nearly five weeks later. Each subsequent crime has occurred at a slightly elevated rate, growing exponentially closer to a single day apart. However, based off the time between the last crimes—which was six days—I estimate it’ll be at least tomorrow night if not the night after before he strikes again.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s difficult to argue with science and mathematics.”

  “You’re quite right,” the apothecary conceded. He glanced down at his juvenile sketch before crumpling the paper in his hand. “I don’t think people are even taking our line of inquiry seriously, anyway. We’d be far better suited sleeping until lunch and trying again tomorrow night.”

  “It’s frustrating, I understand,” Simon remarked as they walked further down one of the main arteries through Solomon’s Way. “If there’s a killer on the loose, we should be expending every resource available. However, this is far from an official Inquisitor investigation. The Grand Inquisitor may have graced me with permission to pursue this on my own, but the constabulary owns this case.”

  “The same constabulary that you’ve accused multiple times of being grossly incompetent?”

  “One and the same.”

  Luthor sighed. “That doesn’t instill confidence.”

  “Nor should it,” the Inquisitor replied, glancing over at his counterpart. “We have several distinct advantages over our killer, however, that will assist in his capture tomorrow evening. First, we know of his presence but, unless I’m wrong, the killer knows nothing of our dogged pursuit, nor of us. Secondly, we know the date and the location in which he’ll strike. Finally, we know that he won’t strike until the wee hours of the morning, which means we’ll have the majority of the night to find him before he can kill again.”

  Luthor continued walking but seemed thoroughly unconvinced. “Those are all valid points, sir, unless we spend tomorrow night in much the same manner in which we spent this evening, wandering aimlessly through the Way without finding anything of intrinsic value.”

  “Something will turn up, I’m sure of it.”

  “Would that be an Inquisitor’s sixth sense of which I’ve heard so much?” Luthor joked.

  Simon smirked as he glanced toward his friend. “Miss Hawke isn’t the only one with a keen sense of smell. She can smell blood in the air a mile away, which is impressive, but I can smell trouble and danger at every turn.”

  Luthor started to laugh as they passed a conjoining street. A crowd had gathered halfway down the dark road. None of the overhead lamps seemed to be lit, but dancing lantern lights and torches held aloft over the burgeoning crowd illuminated the area. Simon stopped in mid-stride and stared at the gathered throng. Though there were still people returning toward their homes at the late hour, it was unusual to see such a group gathered.

  As a man holding a lantern turned, his flame illuminated the side of a horse-drawn truck parked on the side of the road. Simon recognized it instantly as a paddy wagon. As he narrowed his eyes, he could see the deep blue uniform of the constable holding the light.

  “Something’s happened,” the Inquisitor said.

  “How can you tell?” Luthor asked, squinting through his glasses but seeing none of the detail.

  “Come, Luthor. Let’s not dawdle, not when the police are out in such force.”

  The two men made their way down the cobblestone street until they reached the back of the crowd. The mob was an amalgamation of people, some evidently from Solomon’s Way while so many others appeared to be from the Upper Reaches or the Bay. The pressing crowd was kept at bay by wooden sawhorses and a row of constables, threatening with billy clubs those who tried to pass the barricade. Through the shifting crowd, it was nearly impossible to see what could only be a crime scene.

  Simon pushed his way past a few men who grumbled noncommittally at his rudeness. They reached the sawhorses but still could see nothing of the alleyway beyond where the majority of commotion seemed to be occurring. The Inquisitor leaned forward for a better view but a constable appeared before him, pushing the tip of the club into Simon’s chest.

  “Back, you,” he said before raising his voice. “All of you need to stay back. I won’t tell you again. Next man who leans across the barriers will get a cracked skull.”

  “Excuse me?” Simon said, pushing the club away from him. “Do you know who I am?”

  The constable leaned forward until Simon could smell the foul odor emanating from his mouth. “I don’t care if you’re King Uriah himself. I’m the law here, which makes you gobshite, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Simon gritted his teeth. “My name is Royal Inquisitor—”

  “Inquisitor Whitlock,” Detective Sugden said as he approached the barricade. “I’m genuinely surprised that you’re still in the Way. I would have thought you’d have gone home by now.”

  “As would I,” Luthor remarked.

  “Mister Strong, wasn’t it?” Sugden asked.

  The apothecary nodded and touched the brim of his hat in recognition. The detective turned toward the constable. “Let these two through.”

  The constable blushed as he stepped aside, letting Simon and Luthor through a gap between the sawhorses. Simon took a step forward, following Sugden as the detective walked back toward the alley, but paused beside the constable.

  “I bet you’re feeling pretty small right about now. I wonder, though, what is lower than gobshite?”

  The constable offered no response as Simon walked away.

  “What happened here, if I may inquire?” Simon asked as he rejoined the others.

  Sugden sighed. “There’s been another murder.”

  Simon and Luthor both stopped in surprise. There should have been at least one more day before the next murder. Simon frowned. Something had happened; something had obviously changed the killer’s well-laid plans.

  “I guess science and mathematics are fallible after all,” Luthor whispered.

  “Be quiet.” Simon raised his voice as he addressed the detective. “I’m surprised the killer struck so quickly after the last murder. It seems a bit out of character.”

  Sugden turned, clearly exhausted from a long night’s work. “Everything about this attack is unusual, even when compared to the rest of the murders in this case. For starters, there was a witness, a young woman who was also attacked but not killed.”

  Simon pursed his lips in disapp
roval. Murderers and, by extension, those who contemplate murder, normally fell into one of two categories. They either killed only a certain type and rarely ever deviated from their chosen victim pool or attempted a randomization in their killings. Even the latter group, over time, created a definitive pattern in their randomness. Deviation was not as common in serial killers as stories would have people believe.

  Yet, standing at the edge of the alley, Simon was perplexed. Leaving someone alive, especially a potential witness, made no sense. It violated everything Simon had gleaned about the killer. It was deviation. It was an introduction of uncertainty and chaos, whereas Simon greatly preferred order and routine.

  “I’d very much like to speak to this witness,” Simon said.

  Sugden patted the hood of the truck beside which they had stopped. For the first time, the two partners realized it was an ambulance. “As would we all, gentlemen, but she’s suffered severe injuries, including a broken jaw. She’s in no condition to speak.”

  “Are you sure this is the same killer?” Simon asked, voicing his confusion.

  “There is still a deceased woman, dismembered as were all the rest of the victims,” Sugden replied. “I’m fairly certain it’s the work of our serial killer.”

  A commotion drew their attention. Four constables emerged from the alleyway, a stretcher suspended between them. There was a woman upon it, a sheet draped over the majority of her body, allowing only her battered face and brilliant red hair to remain visible.

  “We covered her with the sheet,” the detective explained sheepishly. “She was found in the nude. She’ll be examined at the hospital for an assault of the sexual nature as well.”

  A part of Simon’s mind screamed out a silent warning, one that was mostly ignored.

  Simon felt a hot flush rise to his cheeks. “You won’t find evidence of penetration during your examination. She wouldn’t have allowed it. Luthor, if you would be so kind, accompany the detective to the slain woman.”

  He walked toward the men carrying out the battered woman as Luthor and the detective disappeared into the alleyway. The shock of red hair caught Simon’s attention as it bounced with each measured step of the litter bearers. Holding out his hand, he begged the constables to stop. Stepping between them, he drew back the sheet slightly, exposing the rest of the redhead’s battered chin and neck. A deep bruise had spread across the left side of her face and the swelling left her looking monstrous, but there was no denying the woman’s identity.

  “Matilda?” Simon asked.

  Mattie’s eyes fluttered open, one fully and the other only to a sliver, as much as the swelling would allow. For a moment, her expression was clouded in confusion, as though she didn’t recognize Simon. Eventually, her eyes widened further and she moaned softly.

  “Hush, now,” the Inquisitor said, resting a hand on her shoulder. An unheard voice screamed loudly in his mind that something was amiss. “You’ve been through significant trauma and need time to heal.”

  She shook her head, despite the obvious pain it caused. Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to speak, but her fractured jaw sent lances of pain throughout her face. She moaned louder and began to thrash on the litter.

  “Calm yourself,” Simon demanded, his voice sterner than it had been. He knew he was overlooking something, as though part of his mind had intentionally silenced itself as he spoke to Matilda. “You need to relax before you do further damage.”

  “I’m… sorry,” she mumbled, moving her jaw as little as possible.

  Simon knew she would heal quickly from her wounds, a blessing that accompanied the curse of her lycanthropy. Her insistence on moving and attempting to speak would only prolong her pain and healing process.

  “Forgive us, sir,” said one of the constables holding her aloft, “but we must get her to the hospital. Did you say her name was Matilda?”

  “Matilda Hawke,” Simon said, nodding.

  “Very good, sir. She’ll be at the hospital shortly. You’ll be able to visit her there.”

  The men started to walk away. From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Luthor walking hesitantly toward him, his face deathly pale in the warm glow of the lanterns. Simon turned away from him and hurried toward Mattie once more.

  “Stop. Stop,” he demanded of the constables. With a begrudging sigh, they stopped once more.

  “Matilda,” Simon whispered. “Where’s Veronica? Where’s my fiancée?”

  “I’m… so… sorry,” she muttered again, tears streaming from her eyes.

  “Sir,” the constable said curtly, “we need to leave.”

  Simon stepped out of their way and turned toward the alley. Luthor stood at the mouth of the alleyway, fidgeting uncertainly with his hands and staring morosely at his mentor. Simon stepped forward, his gaze past the apothecary, fixed solely on the dark sheet draped over the corpse. His steps were halted at first, but grew brusquer as he grew closer.

  “Sir, I don’t think you should go back there,” Luthor said.

  Simon chose not to hear him. That same voice in the back of his mind whispered what he had chosen to forget all along, that Mattie hadn’t been alone, that she had been sent with the sole purpose of guarding Veronica.

  Luthor held up his hands as he stepped into the Inquisitor’s path. “Sir, don’t do this. You don’t have to see this.”

  Simon didn’t stop. He lashed out with his hand closed in a fist and his thumb extended. He drove his thumb into a pressure point on Luthor’s hip, and the apothecary’s leg immediately went numb. He collapsed to the ground even as Simon unapologetically stepped over him.

  Detective Sugden saw the Inquisitor approaching but was wise enough to step out of the way. “I had no idea you knew the victims. Had I known, believe me, Simon, I never would have let you past the barricade.”

  Simon said nothing, merely knelt at the side of the bloodstained sheet draped over the body. With a quivering hand, he clenched the sheet tightly and slowly pulled it down. Raven hair was spilled across the stones haphazardly, like Medusa’s snakes writhing away from the head. Her eyes were closed, but he could see the look of anguish painted across her face.

  He should have cried. Simon knew that was the appropriate response, but he couldn’t find it within him. It wasn’t sadness he felt at seeing Veronica’s body. It wasn’t anger at Matilda for failing in her sole mission. It wasn’t even a general apathy that normally accompanied a sense of shock. All those emotions would come later, he knew, when the realization of what had occurred finally settled over him like a blanket. For the moment, he felt none of those things, save one.

  It was emptiness.

  All Simon felt was nothing at all.

  “Simon,” Luthor said softly. “Sir, I think we should leave and let the detective do his work.”

  Simon didn’t reply, merely remained beside Veronica’s corpse, staring at the pale, bloodless remains that had once been his vital and beautiful fiancée. Luthor was right. They should leave. Every moment he remained, staring at what was left of the woman he loved, he felt the fingers of depression creeping into his mind. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go.

  “I won’t leave her,” Simon said, shaking his head.

  The apothecary placed his hand on his mentor’s shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can do here, sir. Let’s get you home.”

  Simon angrily shrugged Luthor’s hand from his shoulder. The diminutive man crouched beside his friend and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Sir, I don’t want this to become a scene.”

  The Inquisitor felt a flare of anger, the first real emotion he’d felt since stumbling upon the murder, but his frustration was immediately squelched by a realization. “It is exactly what this is, Luthor: a crime scene. You may tell me that there’s nothing more we can do, but you’re so very wrong. This is a murder, one of many perpetrated by the same villainous man. A crime such as this deserves the best possible investigator and that isn’t the detective or anyone else in the constabulary, it’s me
. I’m here, the murder is fresh, and I will do everything in my power to solve this crime right here and now.”

  The strength of his resolve left Luthor at a loss for words. The apothecary stood and shrugged apologetically toward Detective Sugden, who had heard the exchange, to include Simon’s underhanded insult. The detective shook his head, as though no apology were required.

  “The severed limb seems to match the description of the previous cases,” Simon muttered mostly to himself. “A match of the striations would provide a more definitive answer.” He turned abruptly toward the detective. “Will Doctor Casan be joining us?”

  Sugden nodded. “A constable has already been dispatched to retrieve the doctor. He should be here shortly.”

  “Excellent,” Simon replied before returning to his investigation. “Ver—” he began before his voice failed him. He cleared his throat loudly before continuing. “Due to the pallor and rigidity of the victim, along with the severe blood loss, it’s a safe assumption that the cause of death was exsanguination.”

  “What does that mean?” Sugden asked.

  “It means she bled to death,” Luthor said helpfully.

  The detective frowned. “I know what the word means. What I meant was how does it affect our—”

  “It means,” Simon interrupted, “that the limb was removed perimortem.” Simon turned his upper body so he could face Sugden. “It means, Detective, that she was still very much alive when the leg was severed.”

  Simon turned back toward Veronica’s body as he swallowed a wellspring of emotion. His voice had been steady as he spoke to the detective, but every word had been like acid in his mouth.

  A headache was forming at his temples. It seemed to muddle his thoughts as he tried to decide what he should do next. Everything seemed equally important, but he knew his own mind. Whatever ill effects he would suffer as a result of Veronica’s death would happen sooner rather than later.