by Tim McGregor
Hammering the keyboard, he ran an image search for satanic symbols or hex signs, looking for anything that matched the cryptic runes found at the scene. None of the images matched and after a while his eyes blurred at the scrolling tabs of pictures.
“Do you have to hang that ugly shit up?”
Mockler spun around to find Odinbeck leaning against the cubicle wall, sneering at his newly pinned photographs. “You don’t like my decor?”
Odinbeck harrumphed. “How about some plain old pin-up girls? Anything but that gruesome shit.”
“Gruesome but necessary,” Mockler said, scrolling through another page of arcane symbols.
“What are you doing?”
“Wasting my time looking for anything that matches the stuff we found.”
“Right. Good old Murder House.” Odinbeck leaned forward to squint at one of the prints. “That one there looks familiar.”
The senior detective pointed at one symbol that resembled four arrows hatched across a crescent moon. Mockler pulled it from the wall. “Where do you recognize it from?”
“Don’t remember.” Odinbeck scratched his head. “I don’t think it was a case. Hell, all this voodoo shit, it coulda been from a Black Sabbath record.”
“Think, Odin. Scratch that puddle in your skull.”
The older detective shrugged. “Alice Cooper?”
“Who?”
“Jesus, kid. You’re killing me,” Odinbeck rolled his eyes. “Forget the graffiti. It’s just kids doing stupid shit.”
“It’s more than that,” Mockler countered. “You remember the dead body that Hoffman got the call on? These weird markings were there too.”
Odinbeck shrugged. “It was an abandoned property and the D.B. was a squatter. Again, kids tagging crazy shit on the walls. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“But there were other incidents too. The dead body under the foot bridge three months ago. More pentagrams and runes. Same with the murder-suicide Edwards pulled on Kenilworth. Weirdo devil-worship stuff all over the walls.”
“So what are you getting at?” Odinbeck scoffed. “We got some Satanic cult running around killing people?”
“I don’t know.” Mockler nodded at the photos on the wall. “But that’s why I’m looking.”
Odinbeck straightened up. “Drop that stuff. The coroner called. We can go see Skinny.”
Skinny was the nickname Odinbeck had christened the unidentified remains found in the pit. Mockler pulled his jacket from the back of his chair. “Have they found anything?”
“Yeah, we totally lucked out. Turns out our D.B. is Jimmy Hoffa.”
Mockler smiled like the joke was funny, trying to remember who Jimmy Hoffa was.
~
Traversing the corridor to the examination room, Detective Mockler checked his gut at the door. He hated this aspect of the job. Odinbeck huffed alongside him, bantering away and cracking lame jokes as they went. The senior detective’s distaste for the coroner visit was masked under easy banter where Mockler’s ran the opposite way, drifting into stony silence.
Pushing through a set of double doors, they entered an anteroom where a woman leaned against the front desk, cleaning her glasses. She looked up as the men entered. “Hello detectives,” she said.
“Marla, how you been?” Odinbeck nodded as he approached.
“Busy, as always.” The woman smiled, revealing a gap between her eye teeth. She looked at Mockler. “How are you, Ray?”
“Good.” Mockler looked around the space. “Is Greg joining us?”
“He’s away at a conference,” Marla said. “I’ll take you through.”
Odinbeck huffed. “Where’s Greg this time? Vegas?”
“Montreal.” Marla tucked a clipboard under one arm and gestured for the detectives to follow. “This way.”
They followed the Deputy Coroner into a brightly lit examining room. The tables and cabinets were stainless steel and the terrazzo floor was graded slightly to a drain in the centre of the room. A steel door at the back led to the cold room.
Mockler tried not to swallow whenever he was inside this place. The smell of it, a nauseating mix of death and disinfectant, made him dizzy. He girded himself for the viewing and tried not to look at the exit.
Marla rolled a table to the centre of the room and positioned it under the heavy bank of lights overhead. A thin plastic sheet was draped over a mound on the table. Taking hold of one corner of the sheet, she looked at the men. “Ready?”
“No,” Mockler said. “But go ahead.”
The sheet crinkled as it was peeled back to reveal the remains underneath. It was little more than a skeleton, the flesh dried to dark leather that draped from the bones. Strands of hair clung to the boiled-looking skull and some of the teeth were missing. At first glance, it looked fake to Mockler, like a Halloween prop.
“So.” Odinbeck leaned forward but didn’t move any closer to the thing on the table. “What’s the skinny on Skinny?”
Marla consulted her clipboard. “Male. Caucasian. Approximate age, thirty to fifty.”
“That’s it?” Odinbeck said.
“So far. As you can see, there’s not a lot left to go on.”
Mockler ventured in a step. “Cause of death?”
“Not yet,” Marla said. “There are no visible signs of trauma. And with most of the soft tissue gone or dessicated, it’s going to take a while to even hazard a guess. I’m not even sure if the victim was dead when he was placed in that hole.”
Mockler’s eyes widened. “You think he was buried alive?”
“Some of the fingernails have been torn off. That may have been caused by trying to claw his way out.”
“Gruesome,” Odinbeck sneered. “You find anything on the body? Clothes or jewelry?”
“No jewelry. A few shreds of clothing.” The deputy coroner retrieved a shallow plastic tub from a shelf and laid it on the table. Inside were frayed patches of stained cloth. Marla carefully lifted out a limp swath of checkered material. “This is what’s left of the shirt. There’s a label here.”
Mockler leaned in close to read the faded print. “Sears?”
“Yup,” Marla confirmed.
“Jeez, that narrows it down,” the older detective griped. “So how long was Skinny in the hole?”
“I’m still working on that. A while, I’d say. Ten years, maybe longer.”
“What about DNA?” Mockler asked.
“We could try but it would be a shot in the dark to find a match somewhere.” Marla laid the tattered fabric back down. “Once it makes its way through the backlog at the lab, that is.”
Mockler sighed. “How bad is it now?”
“Oh, they’d get around to this in about eighteen months.”
Odinbeck shook his head and stepped away. “So we got nothing? Great. Another cold case to hang around our necks.”
“There is one thing.” Marla retreated to the desk and came back with another tray but this one was much smaller. “But I’m not promising anything.”
Mockler took the tray and both detectives puzzled over its contents. A dark brown mass, like a patch of dried leather. “What is it?”
“It was a billfold,” Marla said. “I think. I’m humidifying it to make it supple before picking it apart. There might, and I stress the word ‘might’, be some identification in there.”
“Awesome,” Mockler beamed. He felt his colleague sneer at his terminology and wondered briefly about requesting a new partner.
“Don’t get too excited,” the coroner cautioned. “Even if I can separate it without it crumbling to pieces, the printed matter may not be legible.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Mockler said. He was relieved at the potential break but eager to get out of this antiseptic room. The body on the table remained a John Doe and that meant that, for today at least, he would be spared the awful task of tracking down a family member and giving them the bad news. It was the toughest part of the job, the one task that made him questio
n his ability to endure the duty any longer. There were plenty of other doubts, other frustrations that left him bitter and willing to quit but informing a family of a death was harrowing. His personal record of such tasks was twenty-seven. And he was the youngest member of the homicide unit. How the hell was he going to manage another ten or twenty years of this?
“Thanks, Marla,” Odinbeck said. “Let us know how it goes with the billfold.”
Mockler raised an eyebrow at how quickly Odinbeck made for the door. He seemed even more eager to skedaddle.
“One last thing,” Marla said, tugging a page from her clipboard. “I believe you asked for this, Ray.”
“What is it?” Mockler asked, taking the document from her.
“A test on the substance used to paint the walls with.”
Odinbeck grimaced. “What, the pentagrams and shit?”
“Yeah.” Mockler skimmed the information but it was dense and technical. “What is it?”
“Blood.”
The older detective groaned. More bad news. Mockler ignored the man and looked at the medical examiner. “Do you know what kind of blood? I mean, human or animal or whatever?”
“An ungulate. Of the suidae family.”
“Right,” Mockler nodded. “And in English, that’s….?”
“Pig’s blood.”
“Gotcha. Thanks.” Mockler smiled and made for the exit. Pushing through the doors, he clocked the sour look on Odinbeck’s face. “What?”
“You just had to ask that, didn’t you?” Odinbeck huffed for the nearest exit sign. “Pig’s blood? Like this shit isn’t bad enough?”
8
“KAITLIN’S NOT HOME,” Kyle said, propping open the apartment door.
“Where is she?” Billie asked, annoyed at how long Kaitlin’s boyfriend had taken to answer her knock.
“I dunno.” Kyle’s face looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept. “She was gone when I got up.”
Tammy rose up on her toes, trying to see past Kyle into the apartment. “She didn’t leave a note or anything?”
“Nothing.”
A cold draft blew out from the open apartment door. It washed over Billie. “Is she all right?”
“She’s been acting kinda weird.” Kyle looked at his watch. “Listen, I’m just heading out. I’ll tell Kaitlin you stopped by.”
“Something isn’t right,” Billie said.
Tammy clicked her teeth. She wasn’t a fan of Kaitlin’s boyfriend. None of them were. “Have you texted her?”
“Duh?” Kyle shrugged. “She’s not answering.”
Billie shivered. The clammy feeling of dread continued to seep out of the apartment. “This is all wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Tammy asked.
“Excuse me.” Billie pushed past Kyle and barged into the apartment.
“Hey!”
Tammy startled at her friend’s rudeness, then scurried in after her.
“Hey,” Kyle groaned. “I gotta go to work.”
Billie marched into the kitchen and planted herself in the centre of the room. Whatever she had felt at the doorway was even stronger here. Tammy came up behind her, looking the room over. “Billie, what is it?”
Kyle lumbered after them and Billie turned on him. “Kyle, what’s been going on here?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
Tammy took her friend’s elbow. “What is it?”
“Something has been here.” Billie looked at Kyle again. “What has Kaitlin been up to?”
“Damned if I know,” he said. “She’s barely spoken to me. She was up all night.”
“Kyle, have you seen anything weird? Or sensed anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary.”
“No,” he said, glancing at his watch again.
Billie wasn’t surprised. Unless they were keenly sensitive, men were often blind to forces outside of the norm. Whatever it was that had set off alarm bells in her gut was white noise to Kaitlin’s boyfriend. “Why was she up all night?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said. “Look, I gotta run. If you guys want to wait for Kaitlin, that’s fine with me.”
Tammy dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Have you called her parents? Maybe she went there.”
“Oh no,” Billie said, marching out of the room.
“What now?” Kyle rolled his eyes and followed her.
The living room was a mess. Two blankets were hanging off the couch and the coffee table was cluttered with dirty dishes and cups, as if someone had camped out here. Billie stood in the middle of the room, slowly scanning over the space. Moving aside an empty bag of chips, Billie plucked two books from the mess. Her mouth grimaced and then she tossed the books onto a chair.
“What is it?” Tammy retrieved one of the books and looked at the cover. Secrets of the Paranormal. The garish font of the title hovered over the image of a ghostly-looking woman.
Billie began rummaging through the table, knocking the mess to the floor. “Where is it?”
“What the hell?” Kyle spat.
Tammy moved closer. “What are you looking for?”
Billie froze, then dropped abruptly to her knees and reached under the couch.
“You guys need to leave,” Kyle stated. “Like, now.”
The woman on her knees grunted like a fisherman getting a bite on the line. She dragged something out from under the couch. A flat board with numbers and letters in a stylized script. Billie took a deep breath. “Kaitlin, you idiot.”
Tammy hovered over her friend. “Is that a Ouija board?”
Billie turned on the boyfriend. “Kyle, what the hell has Kaitlin been doing?”
“I don’t know!” He nodded at the board at Billie’s knees. “I’ve never even seen that before.”
Tammy knelt down to whisper. “It’s just a stupid game, Billie. Goofy kid’s stuff.”
“Grab that bag for me.” Billie ducked low, stretching her arm back under the couch. She strained for a moment before coming up with the planchette piece for the board.
Tammy retrieved a plastic shopping bag from the mess on the table and Billie dumped the board and the pointer into it. She ransacked the table and the couch for more books, picking out the titles pertaining to the paranormal or the occult. These she dropped into the bag and got to her feet. “Kyle, you need to call me the minute Kaitlin comes home.”
He looked at the bag. “What are you doing with her stuff?”
“Getting rid of it.” Billie motioned for Tammy to follow and marched for the door.
“You can’t just take her things.”
“Call me when she shows up.” Billie didn’t even look back. Tammy gave Kyle a sympathetic shrug before scooting out the door.
~
“That was a bit much,” Tammy said once they hit the street. She hurried to match Billie’s pace. “Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do with that thing?”
“Get rid of it.”
“Billie, slow down.” Tammy tugged her friend’s arm. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a dumb game.”
“It’s not.” Billie took a breath. “It’s dangerous, especially for someone like Kaitlin.”
“Oh come on. How could it be dangerous?”
“Kaitlin’s always been obsessed with this stuff. I think she might even have some kind of ability. I don’t know.”
Tammy stepped back. “Ability? Like you?”
“Not like me. But she has something. She’s open to stuff. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“So what was she doing with the board? Talking to a ghost?”
“Trying to.” Billie looked up at the sky. “I think something followed Kaitlin home last night.”
Tammy stiffened. “Like what?”
“You know what,” Billie said. “I could feel it back there. It was all over her apartment.”
A shudder rattled through Tammy
. “There’s a ghost in there?”
“It’s gone now. I think it’s attached itself to Kaitlin.”
“Oh God.” Tammy rubbed her eyes. “Billie, this is a little crazy.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
A wind kicked up out of nowhere, blowing dust up the street. Tammy squinted at the gust, then looked at her friend. “So what do we do?”
Billie stepped over to where a dumpster sat at the curb, waiting to be collected. She lifted the heavy lid and tossed the bag inside. “Try and find Kaitlin. Before she does something stupid.”
Tammy’s brow creased with worry. “Aren’t you supposed to bury Ouija boards? Or leave them on a church step or something?”
“I have no idea.” Billie brushed her hands and continued on. “Come on.”
9
KAITLIN HAD SIMPLY vanished.
Billie flopped on the ratty couch and propped her feet up on the table. She and Tammy had spent the rest of the day checking Kaitlin’s work and visiting all the friends they could think of. No one had seen her. Ditto her parents. Returning home spent and frustrated to her small apartment over the abandoned department store, Billie opened the last beer left in the fridge and tried not to panic about her friend.
Sort-of-friend. To be honest, she and Kaitlin had never been close. She was more Tammy’s friend, from her club days. Kaitlin was a Hamiltonian blue-blood slumming it with the working class for as long as it amused her. And yet, when Billie’s bizarre ability had surfaced after a lifetime of repression, Kaitlin had been the only one to believe her. As it turned out, Kaitlin was a devourer of badly written books about Aleister Crowley and alien abductions and “true” ghost stories, along with an unhealthy diet of conspiracy theories and angel worship.
Billie had been grateful at first to have someone believe her at a time when her life imploded and she questioned her own sanity. Kaitlin was suddenly her new best friend, wanting to hang out all the time where before she had had little time for Billie’s sullen temperament. Then the questions became urgent. What was it like to see the dead? How did she communicate with them? Could Billie teach her how to do it too? When Kaitlin mentioned that a friend of hers was working in film production, she urged Billie to go talk to them about getting her own psychic TV show. That was the tipping point. Billie had begun pulling back, feeling betrayed at her new “bestie’s” ambition for fame by proxy.