by R. L. Akers
Table of Contents
Rating
Also by R.L. Akers
Dedication
Gray Area: The Case of the Hellhound Homicide
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Preview of Old Gray: The Case of the Cold-Blooded Cremation
Acknowledgments
Also by R.L. Akers: Atlantis
Also by R.L. Akers: The Gryphens Saga
About the Author
Copyright
Also by R.L. Akers
LEGACY of ATLANTIS
Atlantis: Twilight of Mankind
Demigods of Atlantis*
(short story collection)
The GRYPHENS SAGA
Prometheus Rebound
Prometheus Revealed
Prometheus Rising
(short story collection)
From the Files of
GRAY GAYNES
Gray Area
Gray Area
Old Gray*
*forthcoming
In honor of that greatest sleuth of all time,
and the English gentleman who penned him
Sunday, August 9th
New York City
The row of designer suit coats hung neatly on the rack at one of New York's finer menswear establishments, a thousand stylish options in shades of black, brown, blue, and beige. And all of them were gray.
Grayson Gaynes, NYPD detective third grade, pulled one jacket from the rack and rehung it sideways, stepping back to inspect it with a critical eye. It was angora, two-button, single-breasted but double-vented, with traditional flap pockets and the additional ticket pocket Gray had always preferred. Peak lapels. Leaning close, he could tell it was a check pattern. But what was the color?
A figure appeared at Gray's elbow. "Bold choice," the man said, his tone neutral.
Gray eyed him. "Good bold or bad bold?" Of late, he'd heard the word 'bold' applied to his clothing choices more than he cared to; that's why he was here.
The man smiled without giving anything away. "That depends on the message you're trying to send." Yes, this guy was clearly a salesman.
The detective sighed internally, turning back to inspect the suit coat. It was a European cut, trendy to be sure, but bold? Yes, the peak lapels might be considered bold. Or, for all Gray knew, the jacket was bright red with the check pattern stitched in forest green and plum. That would be the kind of boldness he was trying to avoid.
Gray had always taken pride in his wardrobe, and though he was one of the younger homicide detectives at the precinct, he used to think he set a good example when it came to appropriate professional attire. That had changed four months ago. Since losing the ability to distinguish color, he was sure some of his ensembles truly had been bold, and while that didn't embarrass him like it once would have — he found he little cared about mundane matters like clothing these days — it did represent a very real danger.
His colorblindness was a result of the injury he'd sustained the day his wife, Rose, was murdered. Gray himself had taken a terrific blow to the head, which had robbed him not only of his ability to perceive color, but also his ability to recognize faces, and even his ability to see clearly in daylight. And it was imperative that no one else at the NYPD learn of these infirmities, for as soon as the department found out, he would be forced into early retirement.
Gray needed to find his wife's killer first.
"Perhaps something a little more traditional would be... safer," the clerk said, interrupting Gray's thoughts. The detective realized that, while he himself had been inspecting the jacket, the man had been inspecting him just as closely. Was Gray mismatched at this very moment? He really should have worn jeans and a t-shirt; that, at least, was hard to mess up.
Returning the 'bold' jacket to the rack, Gray turned to the salesman and steeled himself. "Can you help me out? I, um... I admit I don't really know anything about dressing up."
The clerk continued eyeing him for a long moment, no doubt wondering why Gray didn't just go to a department store. He'd actually been tempted to do exactly that, but it's hard to buy off the rack once you've grown accustomed to tailored suits. Finally, the other man said, "Is this for business or a formal event? Do you have any preference on color?"
"For my job," Gray said. "We actually have a bit of a dress code. Two-button, solid-colored suits only. Needs to be in shades of gray, with white shirts." That was all bogus, of course, but he'd been thinking about this; if he removed all pattern and color from his suits and shirts, then Gray would be safe to wear whatever necktie he chose, regardless of its pattern or color. That much of his wardrobe, if nothing else, could be salvaged.
"I see," the clerk responded. Did Gray detect a slight curling of the man's lip, or was he imaging that? "Well, let's start with a black, then. If you're only going to have one suit in your closet, black is the most versatile."
"Oh, I was planning to buy at least three," Gray assured him. "A black and a charcoal, plus a midrange gray. Maybe another black in a different cut."
The other man's attitude seemed to improve at the prospect of a bigger sale — even if the inconsistency in Gray's responses confused him — and he started pulling options from various racks.
Gray was standing on the tailor's box getting fitted for the first of his new suits when his phone rang. It was the precinct.
"You're up to bat, Gray," said Hannah Goretti, the sergeant on duty. It was an unfortunate turn of phrase—"up to bat"—given the way Gray's wife had been murdered, but it was unintentional, and the sting of such reminders was finally starting to fade. "Uniforms have called in a probable homicide on West 47th," Hannah continued. "Office building."
"Thanks." He thought for a moment. "I can be there in an hour or so."
"Want to work with Mack on this one?"
"Sure, if you think it'll require that much legwork." Patrick McMurphy was an older detective that Gray often partnered with. They worked well together, even though each had certain tendencies that annoyed the other.
"Yeah, this is shaping up to be a strange one," she confirmed. "Right up your alley." Gray knew she was referring to the Barton Chan case he and Mack had worked several months back. Ever since then, they'd had an undeserved reputation for liking "the strange ones."
"How so?"
"Well... Responding officer says it looks like an elephant bled out, but it's hard to tell exactly what happened." She paused. "There's no body."
Gray sighed and shook his head. "Great. Mack will be thrilled."
"I'll text you the exact address."
They said their goodbyes, and Gray returned his attention to the wiry old woman who was making chalk notations on the new suit he wore. "I hope you have what you need, because I've got something of a work emergency."
Blood. Everywhere Gray looked, there was blood.
He stood frozen at the doorway to a spacious corner office on the nineteenth floor of the building where Hannah directed him. Even drained of color, the interior of the office was a scene out of hell. Great gouts of fresh blood had been flung over the rich hardwood-and-leather office furniture, and it appeared to run in broken streams down the embossed wallpaper. Whatever crime had been perpet
rated here, it had happened recently, for the blood still dripped from walls and furniture alike, soaking deep into the thick white carpet. It seemed that more of the carpet was holding blood than remained clean, and Gray glanced at the uniformed officer beside him. "You were right. It does look like an elephant bled out here."
The cop just nodded, his lips pursed.
The largest pools of blood met at the center of the room between two leather couches, forming an unbroken sea that stretched all the way to the entrance. Just inches from Gray's feet, the stain ended abruptly in an unnaturally straight line, showing that the inward-swinging double doors had been closed when the blood was shed; Gray could only imagine that the inside face of those doors were drenched as well.
The similarity to the Barton Chan case was unmistakable. But where that horror had been confined to a single small elevator car, this one had been given plenty of space to run amok.
And outside the doorway to this office, not one drop of blood marred the clean carpet of the hallway.
"What's that smell?" Gray asked, referring to the pungent odor that hung on the air.
"Smells like sulfur," the medical examiner said absently. "Not sure yet what's causing it." He and a member of his team stood in the midst of the horror, the ME swabbing and bagging samples of the blood while the assistant stood nearby, carefully recording the process with a digital video camera; considering the state of this particular crime scene, Gray suspected the team had already photographed the room from every conceivable angle before stepping into the midst of the bloodbath.
"Sulfur?" Gray said in surprise, but the ME was no longer listening; the man had crouched down to point something out for the camera, and he was quietly dictating notes for future reference.
Gray glanced at the uniform, who shrugged. "Cleaning lady said she smelled it the moment she opened the door, but not before."
"Cleaning lady?"
The cop motioned down the hall a short ways, where a middle-aged woman was huddled in a chair, face in her hands. A younger woman sat nearby, apparently playing a game on her smartphone. "She's the one that made the 911 call, the older lady." He paused. "Well, right after losing her lunch." He pointed out a small pool of vomit near where he and Gray stood.
"You already take their statement?"
"Yeah. Not much to it. The two of them arrive here every Sunday around 5 p.m. to clean the office suite." He flipped open his notebook. "Entire floor belongs to a company called... Advanced Technology Consultants."
"Original."
The cop's lip barely twitched as he flipped the notebook shut again. "Company uses an electronic keycard security system, even for the internal office doors. The keycard issued to the cleaning crew apparently works only between the hours of 5 and midnight."
Gray noted the keycard reader mounted on the wall next to the office door. "The women know who the victim is?"
"They have no way of knowing. They've been cleaning this suite for more than six months, but they were hired through a service; they say they've never met any company employees or even seen anybody here while cleaning."
"Have you managed to contact any company reps?"
"Not yet. I have building security going through their contact list, but far as I know, they haven't reached anyone."
"Detective?" the medical examiner called. "You can come in now, if you'd like. Just stay to the side." He waved in the general direction of the one wall that seemed least affected by the blood spatter.
Gray dug through a box just outside the door and came away with a pair of paper booties, which he pulled on over his shoes. Then, with a deep breath of the oppressive air, he entered hell.
Stepping carefully, he managed to avoid the bloodstains as he slowly rounded the room. The embossed argyle wallpaper, trimmed by a chair rail, only ran to waist height on this side of the office; above the rail was a sequence of molded shelves built right into the wall, the grain of the wood matching the hardwood furniture. With few exceptions, these shelves stood empty, though there was just enough dust for Gray to see variously-shaped imprints, suggesting that most of the shelves had not been empty for long.
He waved to get the attention of the uniform, who remained just outside the entrance. "Do you know what was on these shelves?"
The cop shook his head but promised to find out, disappearing down the hall to speak with the cleaning crew.
Gray continued his examination, finally arriving at the floor-to-ceiling windows that formed two whole walls and provided a spectacular view out onto the city. He quickly confirmed that none of the windows could be opened. Whoever had been in this office, he or she must have left the same way Gray entered. Quite a feat, leaving this room without tracking out any blood... especially if the perpetrator had been carrying a body.
Gray caught the ME's eye and asked, "What can you tell me?"
The older man paused in his work. "Well, what I can't tell you is if it's human blood. I'll have to get these samples back to the lab first."
Gray nodded.
"But assuming it is human, our victim had AB-negative blood."
"Just one person?" Gray said in surprise, turning pointedly to take in the copious amount of blood in the room.
"Again, I don't know anything for certain," the ME cautioned once more. "Not yet. But assuming this isn't some animal sacrifice scenario or else an elaborate prank — if any of this came out of a human body — odds are it all came out of the same body."
"But there's so much."
The other man shrugged. "I estimate five to seven liters. Eight at the outside."
Gray considered this. "So whoever's blood it is, they're definitely dead."
The ME gave him the ghost of a smile. "Oh yes, completely drained of blood. Assuming—"
"Assuming it's even human. I understand." Gray paused. "You mentioned this might be a prank?"
"I'll know more after analysis of the blood," the guy clarified yet again. "But the spread of blood, the overlapping spatter from multiple directions... It could be consistent with someone deliberately splashing animal blood out of a bottle or bucket in order to make a mess... Or it could be the result of someone dismembering a body, dragging it back and forth across the room as he did so."
Gray stared at the other man. "You think the body was dismembered?"
The ME gave him a flat look, his patience eroding. "I don't think anything right now. The amount of blood in this room makes it hard to arrive at any conclusions. But..." He sighed, then crouched down and pointed at the floor. "There do appear to be rips in the carpet, gouges that go all the way down into the subfloor."
Now that he knew what to look for, Gray could see several parallel lines torn into the carpet where the other man was pointing, each about three-to-four inches in length. "Consistent with any weapon you know of?"
"The way the carpet is torn, I'd say a knife or other bladed weapon was dragged across in a sawing motion."
"So not a hatchet or a meat cleaver?"
The ME shrugged. "Doesn't appear to be."
"Well, a body in pieces would have been easier to move without tracking blood into the hall — a little easier, at least. But... it would have taken forever to dismember someone that way," Gray objected.
The ME didn't disagree. "The carpet is torn in several other places." He pointed them out, spread around the room. "Pretty sure each place, there are exactly four parallel gouges."
"You think the number is significant?" Gray asked.
"Maybe, maybe not." The examiner rose to his feet once more and carefully stepped out of the worst of the blood, coming to stand beside Gray. "Listen, Detective. The best thing you can do for me is identify some possible victims, then get me some hair or blood samples I can use for comparison. Assuming this is human blood, I can do a DNA identification."
Gray nodded slowly. "Understood. Looks like this place will be my first stop tomorrow morning. Hopefully it'll be as easy as determining whose office this is. If that guy never shows up for work..." H
e trailed off at the sight of Mack in the doorway.
The other detective's face was pale as he surveyed the scene, his eyes landing on Gray. "Another one of these?" he said miserably.
Gray picked his way carefully through the scene, finally stepping out into the hall beside Mack. He gave him a quick summary of the details discovered so far.
"So let me get this straight," Mack said. "Some poor jerk was murdered here, his body dismembered and drained of blood, and now the body is missing?"
Gray smiled. "Well, not necessarily, but it's possible that—"
"And there are claw marks in the floor?"
Gray blinked. He hadn't thought to consider that each set of four parallel gouges might be caused by animal claws. "That seems unlikely, Mack. Don't you think—"
"And the air smells of brimstone?" Mack continued insistently.
"Brimstone? You mean the sulfur smell?"
Mack shook his head and smiled humorlessly. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Isn't what obvious?" Gray asked in exasperation. Even the ME's team was paying attention to Mack now.
"It was the Hellhound," Mack said gravely. "The Hellhound came here to drag some poor soul to hell."
Monday, August 10th
New York City
Hellhound. A creature out of legend — a legend with a surprising number of variations, many of which had been incorporated into popular entertainment in the last century or so. Arthur Conan Doyle's Hound of the Baskervilles was the only treatment Gray was familiar with, but there had been dozens of others.
Gray had done some Internet research after returning home from the crime scene. The biggest single factor that tied this case to the traditional hellhound myth was that lingering smell of sulfur, which hellhounds were said to bring with them from hell itself. That and the fact that, as a supernatural creature, the hellhound might well be capable of stealing a body out of a closed office without tracking blood into the hallway.