Depraved: St. Cecilia Slayings Book Three

by Blanco, N. Isabelle

Or maybe I’m too hooked to really care.

  Either way, I’m too far gone to analyze it or to heed the ringing of that warning inside me.

  One of many I should’ve listened to, I’ll eventually come to realize.

  But we’re all willfully blind when falling headfirst into love, aren’t we?

  * * *

  By mid-week, Captain Porter calls me into his office and hands me several USB discs. He doesn’t say a word, just holds them out for me to take.

  “What’s this?” My brow quirks curiously as I step forward and retrieve the proffered items.

  Porter reclines in his seat and regards me with that infamous, unamused expression. “Patient files. Almost all of them. I’m sure you can guess whose.”

  Stunned, I dart a quick glance over the USBs in my possession, then raise my shocked eyes back to his form.

  He nods in understanding. “Had to pull some strings, but there you have it. Go through them with a fine-toothed comb. I’m sure there’s something in there we can use to get us ahead.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you for this.” I really am thankful. When I asked him about potentially getting my hands on this, his response didn’t seem promising. In fact, I was sure he’d tell me he couldn’t do it.

  But here we are.

  He actually came through for me. Well, for all of us, really, because this doesn’t just benefit me.

  Closing my fist around the four USBs, I retreat to the door, and just as I’m about to turn the knob, his voice halts me in place.

  “I have faith in you, Quinn. Let’s put this psychotic bitch where she belongs once and for all.”

  I tip my head respectfully and stride back to my desk, all eyes on me once again as though an “I have all the answers” sign is hanging over my head.

  I ignore them, though. Refuse to make eye contact. The less attention I give them and their silent—but obvious—inquisitions, the more they’ll eventually fuck off.

  Ruby isn’t at her desk when I slip into my chair giving me a distraction-free moment to start going through these records. Dropping three of them in my drawer where they won’t be seen, I insert the first one into my desktop.

  It’s a Pro-Elite USB, all of them are, and this one alone has 512gb of space, all of it filled.

  Thankfully, the folders are labeled my patient last name in alphabetical format.

  My heart races as I trickle through the list. I don’t know why, don’t know why my stomach churns the closer I get to that certain letter of the alphabet, either.

  “Whatcha got there?” Ruby’s voice booms suddenly.

  I nearly slam my hand against the mouse to close to explorer window, but catch myself in time. Clicking at a slow, hopefully unsuspecting pace, I minimize it and drag my gaze up to her amber stare. “He got the records.”

  “Wait, who? And what records?” She scoots closer.

  “Digby’s patient records,” I clarify for her oblivious ass. “Cap pulled some strings after I asked him about it.”

  My partner gasps slightly, hand over her mouth and all. “Holy shit! Find anything?”

  “Not yet. I just started sifting through it.”

  “Need some help? I can take a few of the—”

  “No,” I snap—completely unintentionally, I should add. “I’ve got it. You should give the M.E. another call and follow up about the fourth victim.”

  “Oookay.” She eyes me as speculatively as always, pushing back to her desk. “I’ll get on it, but if you need any help—”

  “I’ll let you know, yes.”

  No, I won’t.

  She may be my partner, but if the over-anxious feeling I had while beginning the review tells me anything at all, it’s that I’m about to find something I don’t want to see.

  And if I don’t wanna see it, Ruby will pick up on the fact that something is wrong.

  I’m going to have to be extra careful while doing this in her presence.

  She slides back to her desk, going for her phone immediately. I give it another second before opening the file once more and continuing my perusal. Keeping part of my focus on her in case she moves close again, I maximize the explorer again.

  Eventually, the impatience, that tickle in my gut, becomes too much, and without another thought I catch myself typing a specific last name into the search bar.

  Nothing.

  This USB only goes up to his patients with last names starting with the letter C.

  And, fuck. The other three aren’t labeled alphabetically. I just happened to pick the correct one with letter A through C by accident.

  Tracking Ruby’s attention from my peripheral, I slowly slide my drawer back open just enough to reach inside for another disc.

  God must be on my side again on this unholy quest, because she angles away from me a bit while on hold waiting for the M.E.

  I slide out the first USB and slip in the next . . .

  Letters K through P.

  Fuck my life.

  It takes me another two tries, until I get to the last one, to find the one with letters D through J. There’s too many last names that start with D to simply scroll through it, especially as the impatience mounts to insane levels, so back to the search bar I go.

  I make it through typing the letters DuB when it all pops up.

  All of it.

  The medical records of every DuBois child with their own folders and listed in alphabetical order based on their first names.

  Which means Elon’s is first.

  The file with Kiera’s name shrieks at me. My cop instincts, however, remain in enough control to remind me that this level of emotion isn’t good for the case. It’s bad enough I jumped ahead just to find this. Need to keep somewhat of a cool head and be thorough in my data collection.

  I’m sweating though, Ruby’s voice an annoying backdrop as she chats with the M.E’s assistant while waiting for Doctor Conley himself. Fingers nearly shaking, I click open Elon’s file.

  Years of information. From his birth until his teens. Every cold, infection, check-up . . . scratch.

  Make that scratches.

  Brow furrowing, I slowly read through each incident. There’s barely any physical injuries related to the typical childhood bullshit—bike falls, rough-housing, possible encounters with bats while playing with friends. My medical lingo is a little rusty, especially after I left DV all those years ago, yet I remember enough to know something’s off here.

  Then again, it’s Elon-fucking-DuBois’ childhood medical file and there’s something off about the man, period.

  Or are my personal feelings for him coloring my perspective?

  Hating the thought, I squint at my screen and continue reading, analyzing harder. No. Those are definitely incidents of scratches. Not just that but . . . bite marks? There isn’t a single note stating they’re from a sibling or another child at school, either. Actually, the more I scroll, the less I see about the bites, period. It’s like the information just magically disappears.

  “He looks drunk, doesn’t he?” Ruby asks suddenly.

  The question catches me off-guard. I was so deep in Elon’s history, I hadn’t even noticed she was off the phone.

  Freezing mid-scroll, I pivot my head toward her, my face as contorted as it was when Porter handed me the USB’s. “Who?”

  She jerks her chin somewhere across the room. “Nathaniel. Look at him.”

  Here we go again.

  I have to repress a sigh as I follow her narrowed stare and observe the man in question. To my surprise, she’s right. He does look rather inebriated. Hung over, really; mussed up hair, dampened, paled skin, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes.

  Now that I think about it, I’m almost positive he’s still wearing what he wore yesterday.

  Interesting.

  Not my business, though, especially when I’m no one to talk, much less judge. The amount of times I’ve come into the office drunk and hungover lately is more than I can count on two hands.

  “Looks mo
re hungover to me,” I say in an attempt to shut her up. “Better for us if you think about it. Less gloating.”

  Ruby hums, but she’s not impressed. If anything, her already analytical self is boring into the man with a more keen eye than I’ve ever seen. I can all but hear the millions of questions trickling through her mind at once.

  I take the silent opportunity to return my attention to the task at hand, but the second I scroll the tiniest bit more, she starts yapping about Blackstone again. I’m only half-listening to her hissed rant, nodding and humming at all the appropriate times. If she notices both my automated responses and disinterest in the topic, she doesn’t say so.

  Just keeps rattling on.

  “I know you told me to stay out of it, but I can’t shake the feeling something is seriously off about him. I think I’m going to follow him tonight, just to ease my—”

  “Don’t you dare,” I grit, slamming the mouse on my desk. That part I heard loud and clear. “Don’t you fucking dare, Saunders. He catches you and it’s both our asses on the line, even if I’m not present. Keep. Your head. In the goddamn game.”

  Ruby growls, amber eyes flashing with frustration. “Why the hell won’t you listen to me about this? Aren’t your cop instincts blaring?”

  “No,” I lie. “My cop instincts are fully invested in finally catching the killer who’s terrorizing our city. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again—I need your focus here”—my finger hits the screen—“not in Nathaniel’s free time.”

  Another, small growl resonates from her throat, and she rolls her eyes. “Fine, whatever. Are you gonna let me help with that or not?”

  The edge in her tone irks me, but in the name of shutting her up yet again, I fish out one of the UBSs from my drawer and toss it on her desk. “Here, go through this one. And the next time I hear you speak, it better have something to do with a patient. If I even so much as hear you utter Nathaniel’s name, I’m requesting a partner change.”

  That should shut her up.

  Not that I can go deeper in this search. Maybe Elon’s file and the other brother, but Kiera? Yeah . . . that one’s going to have to wait.

  Every one of those aforementioned instincts at hollering, telling me I’m nowhere ready to see what’s in there.

  That I might never be.

  “But thou, O God, shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction: bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days; but I will trust in thee.” - Psalm 55:23

  7:15am.

  There’s another bottle of Jameson next to me on my desk.

  On my home computer? The open explorer showing the files. The ones that start with D through J. I’ve read Elon’s file enough throughout the night to know that his odd accidents involving scratches and bite marks occurred during the span of six months, starting when he was fifteen.

  Then, as I realized previously, all records of them stopped. They simply stopped happening.

  Or so the doctor’s files would lead one to believe. And he would have to reason to lie about it, right?

  Wrong. My gut is screaming that’s not true.

  I tap my pen against my desk, eyeing the bottle out of the corner of my eye. I’ve been so engrossed in Elon’s files that I only got through a quarter of it.

  Haven’t slept all night, and usually when I have that much time on my hands, I end up downing much more than that.

  I want to. Need to. Yet that fucking file has me trapped. The battle not to open Kiera’s is another mindfuck. I should. Oh, I know I should.

  But can’t.

  Simply thinking about it makes me sick in a way that not even too much alcohol can.

  Just read it. Deal with it. It can’t be that bad. Remember when I mentioned my gut? It’s sending out another contradictory signal. A single, shrieked word. WRONG.

  I’m saved from the dilemma when my work cell rings. Since I’m not due to start my tour until 7:45am, I instantly know it’s an emergency.

  Fuck. Another body?

  I’m surprised to see the M.E’s number flashing across the screen and hurry to answer. “Doctor Conley?”

  “Good morning, Detective. I’ve got an identification for you on the body found in the park.”

  I’m out of my seat and rushing to get dressed before he’s even done speaking. “I’ll let the Lieutenant know I’ll be heading to you first.”

  “Very good. I’ll be waiting.”

  Hanging up the phone, I text Ruby to tell her so she meets me at the morgue, then text my boss. It takes me another ten minutes to brush my teeth—good riddance alcohol breath—shave, and practically jump into a pressed suit.

  I’m pounding down the steps to my car seconds after.

  And, no, it isn’t lost on me that I’m running. That I left the USB with the files behind.

  That I’m grasping at any excuse not to open Kiera’s file and see what’s in it.

  I’ll worry about that later. Will have no choice. But for now I have one focus in mind.

  Get the identity of the latest victim and hopefully get us one step closer to catching the killer.

  Hopefully without having to dive deeper into my would-be girlfriend’s past.

  As if you have a choice. Run as fast as you can, as far as you want, it’s still inevitable.

  * * *

  Clive Bennett.

  Mid-fifties.

  Psychotherapist.

  Recently divorced with no blood children.

  That’s our fourth victim, and Ruby was tripping over the fact that we guessed his occupation the morning his body was found. Not gonna lie, it gave me the chills, too, when Dr. Connelly divulged the details, but it was still nothing more than a guess.

  An accurate one nonetheless, but still a guess.

  Once we got back to command, we checked in with Porter—who enforced another mini-pow wow with Blackstone and Lee—then got right to work. While Nathaniel and Jared agreed to take on hunting down Clive’s ex-wife, Ruby and I handle the rest.

  I have her on USB duty, mostly because it keeps her quiet and out of my hair. With her attention completely engrossed in the tedious task, I hop onto Google and type Clive’s name in the search. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly, but Walker and Digby were both connected to the DuBois family. Was Bennett, too?

  The first few hits are all about his profession and how to contact him, nothing out of the ordinary, but once I make it to the second page, I find something that piques my interest.

  A site that hosts old yearbooks.

  Upon the new page loading, I realize it’s not even the home page. It’s directed me straight to a yearbook from the seventies for one of the oldest and most affluent academies in Boston. I don’t know that I’ll actually find anything of use, but it’s worth the try.

  The first several pages are all about the school, it’s history and, of course, the faculty members. There’s even an old high school newspaper clipping featuring the lacrosse team.

  I’m about to click to the next page when one of the names at the bottom of one of the photos catches my eye. It’s a picture of two young men, standing side by side with cocky smiles. Apparently, the stars of the team that year. Two midfielders.

  One of them is Clive Bennett, according to the caption. And the other . . .

  Gerard DuBois.

  Kiera’s father. The current patriarch of the DuBois family.

  They went to school together?

  Not just that, but based on the positioning of their bodies, they seem close. Almost as if they’re friends.

  I didn’t see them in any of the photos of the yearbook before, though. Would they have even been seniors that year?

  Some quick math answers my question. I click through the website until I find the yearbook for the year I’m guessing and start instantly searching through for them both.

  And then I see it . . . Midway down the third page of B’s is a bright-faced, teenaged Clive.

  My heart thunders at the sight of him, faster s
till when I flip to the D’s and search for a possible Gerard.

  Elaine Dougharty.

  Gabriel Douglas.

  John Dowell.

  Rita Drummond.

  Gerard DuBois.

  I nearly choke on a gasp as his name stares back at me, taunting me, reminding me how off-limits his daughter should be and how I’m completely breaking all protocol by sneaking around under the radar.

  It’s nothing. So they went to the school together nearly forty years ago. So what? Most of these rich-types go to the same schools. Doesn’t mean they know each other now.

  Except something tells me they do.

  “What happened?” Ruby’s at my side in seconds, glancing over my shoulder at the screen.

  I can’t even hide it from her. She’s my partner and, should we have to take a trip back to the DuBois estate, she’ll have to understand why.

  My finger touches the screen, ripping an equally shocked gasp from my partner’s mouth.

  “Gerard? Was Clive in there, too?”

  I nod.

  “What about Digby, Walker, and Woodward?” she presses.

  “I didn’t see Dibgy,” I lie, because I wasn’t even looking for him, “but I’ll check the other two now.” A quick search doesn’t pull any of the others up, which I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad one.

  Knowing my luck, this is bad. Fucked-up in epic proportions bad.

  “Looks like we need to look deeper into the DuBois’ family again,” Ruby says, confirming how much more complicated everything is about to get.

  “Yeah. Keep looking through those records just in case. I’ll make a note of it as I continue searching.”

  She slants a glance in my direction, but does return to her desk.

  I wait until she seems engrossed in her task once more before pulling up social media—the one tool almost everyone uses today, old and young, and especially the rich with an image to maintain.

  I visit Clive Bennett’s Facebook first and I’m not surprised to find his profile set to Public despite his profession. Like I said: an image to maintain. My stomach roils when, not even ten seconds into my search, I see it—an image of Clive with Gerard and his wife Jacqueline, all three sporting perfect, schooled smiles.