by Glenn Porzig
"They had been drugged?"
"See, that's the odd part. I found no traces of any kind of drugs in the first victim. I'm still waiting on her toxicology report," she said indicating the girl on the table, "but I expect we'll get the same results."
"What do we know about her?" he asked.
"ID just came back as Jill Tate. She's been on the missing persons list for the last four days. They found her this morning; naked in an alley, ex sanguine, heart missing... any of this sound familiar?"
"I can assure you it wasn't Lee Miller—I sent him to the grave," Drake said grimly.
Angela gently rolled over the girl so her back was exposed. "You'll find this interesting."
Carved deep into her back was a large "V" shape. The grooves of the cut were deep and looked unreal on the bloodless corpse.
"Was she alive when this happened?"
"I don't think so. The lines are too straight and smooth. She'd had to have been strapped down really tight to not struggle while this was happening to her. I believe both hers and Beth's were postmortem."
"Beth's?"
"We kept it out of the papers. Underwood's orders. He decided it was gruesome enough already." She pulled a large glossy photo from a manilla envelope and handed it to him. "This is the symbol we found on the first victim. We thought it might be a signature. The serial killer leaving his initials like an artist signing his work?"
Drake examined the photo closely. It was the same "V" shape, but it had another line parallel to it. It seemed to spell "VI".
"What do you make of it now?" he asked.
"I was thinking maybe the killer was interrupted before he could finish his signature? But that doesn't fit, the lines are too perfect."
"Maybe he's trying to send a message. Spell something. A name perhaps? "V-I—V" Vivian? Viva?"
"I imagine we're dealing with another of your strange cases."
"You may be right. Last night was a new moon wasn't it?"
"I believe it was."
"And the first murder? The Dixon girl? It was about two weeks ago, during the full moon, right?"
"I'd have to check on the time of death... but you may be on to something," Angela said.
"We could be looking at a new murder every two weeks. I hope I'm wrong. There is always a chance it's someone just getting started—but I think we're dealing with someone experienced—and into some seriously dark shit."
***
"I'm Caroline Phipps, and thank you for joining us this noon hour," the young, auburn haired, reporter turned to face a different camera for her close up.
"We have an update on the Breaking News that we brought you earlier this morning. Police have released the identity of the female victim that was found deceased and naked in an alley. The family has been notified, so we are now able to confirm that the body is that of missing college student Jill Tate."
"Tate had been reported missing four days ago. She was last seen at a party, where she was believed to have been drinking. Police are considering this a homicide, and are asking for anyone with any information to come forward. Remember, you can call the anonymous tip line. The family is offering a ten thousand dollar reward for any information that helps to bring the killer, or killers, to justice."
The screen dissolved to a graphic with the phone number for the tip line and large letters saying REWARD.
"Police aren't saying if this recent murder is linked to the Dixon murder earlier this month. We'll be watching this case and bring you much more as it develops."
The full screen graphic went away and a closeup shot of the reporter now filled the screen. Over her shoulder was a graphic that read YOUTH VIOLENCE with a simple illustration of a chalk outline of a body.
"Now, on to our top story—Recent outbreaks of youth violence have prompted the mayor and the chief of police to hold a press conference where they announced the formation of a youth crimes council. Previously, Chief Underwood had suggested hiring more police officers, while the mayor had suggested a tax hike for more youth programs and to build more playgrounds. The mayor still insists there is no gang problem in the city, but he has appointed former councilman, Jackson Baron, to head up an exploratory committee."
"Baron was a councilman for three terms and had been tapped as the front runner to be lieutenant governor until he bowed out of the last election due to the wreck that took the life of his wife and has kept him wheelchair bound ever since. This is his first foray back into public life since retiring from office."
"Conservative critics of the mayor blame the increase in youth violence on the recent growth in the population of youth refugees in the Metro area who are migrating away from the border states. They claim these are illegal immigrants and, with the nation in a recession, there are no jobs available for them which is leading to these youths joining gangs and committing crimes."
"We'll be be following this story and much more later in the newscast—but first a look at your weather."
***
Chief O'Bannon turned off the TV in disgust. Watching the news wasn't good for his blood pressure. He was long since retired, but he wasn't happy with the way the current chief towed the line with whatever the mayor wanted. Why didn't anyone have the balls to stand up to those in power anymore?
"It's the pussification of America," he complained to the now blank television screen. "Every kid gets a ribbon for participation. Parents these days are raising a whole generation of self entitled whiners..." he shook his head in disapproval.
He coughed and reached down to light up a cigarette before grabbing his phone. He dialed and waited for an answer. He didn't have to wait long.
"Hey, Chief," said Detective Drake.
"Alexander."
"To what do I owe the honor?"
"I heard about the case, the dead girls. Tell me that Underwood had enough sense to take you off suspension and put you on it."
"I was called in this morning. Kind of feels good to have the badge back—I didn't think I'd miss it so much."
"I still miss mine, thanks for rubbing it in," chuckled O'Bannon.
"You just kick back and enjoy your golden years—you've earned it."
"Yeah, laugh it up. As much as I enjoy sitting around watching reruns of The Rifleman, I could stand to get out and do something. Something a little more exciting than the occasional fishing trip would be nice."
"You know I can't discuss an active investigation with you. This isn't like the old days. I'm fresh off suspension and Underwood will be keeping close tabs on me—I really need to watch my step."
"Yeah, Underwood. Doesn't he have anything better to do... like maybe run a police department? Look—just remember I'm here—a valuable resource. Don't let these years of experience go to waste."
"Right. I'll remember that." said Drake.
"Seriously. The Japanese revere their elders, I think we could learn something from them..."
"I'll keep you posted, old man. Sayonara!"
***
His plane finally landed. He didn't really like to travel by plane anymore, not since the TSA started groping people and making them throw away their water bottles. Solomon Price stepped out of his first class cabin and into the bustling Pittsburgh International Airport. The nearly five hour flight from Las Vegas to Pennsylvania left him even more put off than usual.
In the old days people in first class actually had class. This flight, not only wasn't he able to get the window seat he'd requested, the woman in the seat next to his kept staring at him. At least she hadn't tried to strike up a conversation. His scowl might have been a factor in saving him from what he was sure would have been an odious exchange, probably about her dead cats.
Normally he was annoyed by everyone asking for his autograph—or for a free "reading". Now he couldn't help but think that everyone that recognized him, and didn't ask for his autograph, thought that he was a fraud because of that damn video.
He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. After a
few rings his manager answered.
"Hey, I see you made it."
"Cut the small talk Bernie, what do you have lined up for me?"
"Relax, it's all under control. You just go check into your hotel room and I'll text you a time and the address."
"Well? What is it?"
"You'll be going to WYKN, one of the big TV stations out there, I've got you scheduled for an exclusive interview."
"TV? Are you serious? I can't be interviewed on TV! They'll rip me apart over that fraud video!" he spat into the phone.
"Would I let that happen to you? I've got your back—I always have. I worked out a deal with this young reporter chick. She's hungry for an exclusive so she agreed to not bring up the fraud incident if we agree to come to her first with any new information you get about the case."
"Smart. That's what I like about you Bernie—always ready to work an angle. You better hope this works because twenty percent of nothing is nothing."
Solomon missed old fashioned phones, real phones, phones back when he could slam the handset down into the cradle. It felt powerful and surprisingly satisfying. Now the best he could do was jam his index finger down on the screen of his smartphone and throw it back into his pocket. It would have to do.
He looked around to see some people had been staring at him after his outburst on the phone. He held his head up high and walked briskly to the luggage return. Soon he would be back on top.
***
Detective Drake was following a lead. The initial report stated that a girl at the party may have seen Jill Tate leave with someone. He tracked the girl down at her dorm room, the one she had shared with the victim, to question her personally.
He knocked on the door and when it opened he flashed his badge at the young woman that answered. He glanced around the dorm room as he stepped in. The walls had motivational posters and pictures of boy bands. There were empty boxes and piles of clothes on one of the beds.
"Becky, isn't it? I'm Detective Drake, we spoke earlier. Thanks for taking the time to meet with me."
Drake pulled a small note pad from his jacket pocket. He folded the cover back, glanced down at his watch, and began to take notes.
"I'm glad to help, but I already told the officers everything I knew when they questioned me the morning after Jill went missing."
"It would be a big help if you could go over it again... if you don't mind. Maybe you'll remember something that didn't seem important at the time."
"Okay. Well, we were at the party, we'd both had a few drinks. She said she had met a cute guy, I didn't get a good look at him. I saw her get in his car and drive off... I can't believe that I'll never see her again. It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from."
"Were the two of you close?"
"She was my roommate, only since the beginning of the semester... but we got along. She was okay. She didn't deserve to die like that."
"I know this can't be easy, but can you tell me anything about the man? Was he a particularly large man?"
Becky scrunched up her face and shook her head. "Nope, he looked about average to me, not particularly big. Athletic maybe, but not tall like a ball player... or large like a linebacker."
"You hadn't seen him before?"
"I can't be sure. She didn't introduce him to me, she just ran off with him... that didn't seem like her. It was rare for her to even go out at all. I don't know what she was thinking."
"Hmm, okay. Anything else you can remember? About him or the car?"
"Like I said, I didn't get a good look at him—and I don't know much about cars. It was dark outside and I'd had a few drinks—but the car did look expensive. I know that much. Some kind of fancy sports car."
"His hair, think back, what color was his hair?"
"It was night, and the streetlights make things look funky... but I'd say it was probably dirty blond, or maybe a light brown... I can't really be sure."
"That helps. Is there anything else you can remember?"
"Look, I'm sorry for what happened to Jill—and I hope you catch the bastard—but I've got to get to my next class," she said as she picked up her book-bag.
"No problem, you've been very helpful. If you think of anything else..." Drake handed her his card. "I'll catch him, you have my word on it. Thanks for your time."
***
"I'm Caroline Phipps and I am joined today on our continuing coverage of the Heartbreaker case by renowned television personality and gifted spiritualist, Solomon Price."
Price made a wan smile toward her then took on a dour expression as he turned towards the camera. He sat with perfect posture and his head tilted back ever so slightly so he could look down his nose at everyone.
"Mr. Price, I'm so glad you could join us here in the studio today."
"Please, call me Solomon."
"Solomon, what brings you here?"
"It was a calling, really. I felt something draw me here. It's just such a tragedy when young lives are cut short. I think of those poor girls that have died—that need guidance to crossover—and their poor families that need the comfort of knowing that their daughters are safe now in the afterlife."
"What are you planning to do while you are in town? Do you have any shows scheduled?"
"No, no, I don't have any shows scheduled. That's not why I'm here. I just have to say that I'm in the business of helping people—both the living and the dead. Once we have crossed over to the afterlife we can still grow and we can still help others."
"And your specific plans?"
"I'll be offering my services to the police to help catch the killer. I'll also be offering counseling, free of charge, to help the families find closure in this tragic time."
"Do you really think that you'll be able to catch the killer?"
Price absentmindedly twisted the gaudy gold ring on his finger. The center of the ring was adorned with a large ankh, the key of life, and other esoteric Egyptian symbols surrounded it. It was his first extravagant purchase when he had decided that he'd finally made it to the big leagues. To him it symbolized not only eternal life, but leaving behind a life of living from paycheck to paycheck. He subconsciously drew power from it when he had doubt or felt threatened.
"I believe all things are possible and I'll do my best to use my gifts to bring this killer to justice. You have the word of Solomon Price."
"So, there you have it. Will the talents of this Internationally known spiritualist help the police bring in the notorious Heartbreaker? Only time will tell. Be sure to stay tuned for continuing coverage of the search for this vicious serial killer."
***
I'm falling.
It seems like an eternity.
Falling. Cold. Alone.
Pain. In my chest. It goes right through me.
It radiates out, filling me with agony.
It goes on and on. It has to stop.
Below me, the Abyss. Endless.
Anguished screams echo around me.
An infinite number of voices crying out in despair.
So cold. So alone.
No. Not alone.
Some... one... some... thing is with me.
Holding me. Wrapped around me. Tight.
I struggle but can't break free.
Falling. Falling.
Alexander Drake suddenly woke as he almost fell out of bed. He was in a cold sweat. Both his thin white T-shirt and the sheets clung to him. His shock white hair was wet and going in every direction. He slowly brought his panicked breathing under control.
He sat up and reflexively scanned the room for any signs of trouble. Everything was the way he left it. A simple cross hung on the wall behind his bed, illuminated by the moonlight that streamed in his window. Piles of esoteric books were scattered around the room, many with multiple makeshift bookmarks sticking out at odd angles.
His hand ran to his chest, fingers dragging across the place where a scar should be. But there was no scar. Just a phantom pain where the sword had slipped past his ri
bs and straight through his heart. Killing him.
He had died that night, and he had returned from the dead. He wondered if he'd ever be the same again—ever live a normal life.
He stood up, his bare feet against the cool polished surface was reassuring. He began to pace around his bed, his hand now rubbing the back of his neck as he tilted his head from side to side in an attempt to relieve some of the tension. He stopped in his tracks when he noticed his foot had landed on one of the lines etched in the floor. He had carved the pentagram months ago in an effort to feel safe when he slept. In an effort to stop the dream.
It didn't stop.
It was the dream again tonight. The same dream he'd been having night after night for the last six months. Only every night it seemed to last a little longer.
Tonight he almost saw it. He almost saw the face of the thing that was holding him.
This is why he was always tired. This is why he had taken up drinking himself to sleep for the last six months.
He couldn't tell anyone. They wouldn't believe him. They'd say he was unfit to return to active duty.
It didn't matter. Nothing they could say or do would help.
Nobody had experienced the horror that he had. Nobody alive. He was in this alone.
***
Nancy Witt wasn't unattractive. She tried to convince herself of that. It's just that she wasn't as obsessed with her looks as most of the other girls seemed to be these days. She was a natural blond, but never really bothered keeping up with the latest hairstyles or trends in makeup. She didn't spend hours taking selfies and posting them on social media fishing for compliments.
So when the hot, obviously well-to-do, young man approached her she was an easy target. She wasn't used to that kind of attention, especially from someone like that.
It was actually rare for her to be out of her dorm room at all. Usually she was studying. But tonight she was all caught up on her studies. Tonight she decided she needed a change of scenery, no more staring at the same four walls or her computer screen. Tonight she was going to blow off some steam.