“You do keep logs, right?” I ask, my gaze switching over from the coroner to the lifeless body on the table.
All this nervous energy, man. I swear. I can’t even look at him without him starting to sweat.
“Yes. We do. Do you need anything?”
“A name, for starters. That’ll help,” I answer confidently. “You ever work with the FBI before, Patrick?” I add nonchalantly. The way his face turns pale leads me to believe that I struck the fear of God in him when I said what I said. I hate to have the guy scrambling for his life. This is how he makes his living and everything, but living up to his expectations as an agent will buy me the benefit of the doubt. It’s another measure to keep him playing his part and me away from being cross-examined. “And the files, too. That’ll be nice.”
“Yes, sir. Right away. And her name is Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn Jones.”
“Thanks. Files, Patrick,” I say with a smile and the tiniest hint of aggravation, again selling my role.
Patrick nods hastily and scurries over to his PC. From there, he does a few clicks and the printer in the far corner of the room revs up and begins to compile everything I’ve requested from him. “It’ll be ready in a moment.”
“Great,” I respond, my attention now fully concentrated on the body in front of me. “Tell me what we’ve got on Miss Jones, here, while the printer’s doing its thing.”
“Um…I…well, what do you want to know? You never really specified what you were looking for. You just asked about the body and wanted to meet.”
“That’s just the way it is.”
“Is this a “the less I know, the better, kind of deal?” Patrick asks.
I turn my gaze from Kaitlyn and stare blankly at Patrick, a coy smile lining his lips. “It’s above your paygrade, yes, but we prefer to just say it’s confidential, if that makes you feel any better.” I take a step back before outright committing to the trek to the printer, my eyes still fixated on him until I turn.
I gather up the papers from the tray and Patrick hands me an empty manila folder, right on cue. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“So, Kaitlyn…” I begin to say after I lean against the countertop and begin to flip through my newly acquired documents.
“Right. Kaitlyn Jones. Twenty-four. White. Female. Blonde hair, blue eyes.”
“Yeah, I see that. I’m looking at the body… What can you tell me about the way she died?” I ask.
“Well, I mean…” Patrick gestures at the hole in her skull, the bullet wound that was allegedly by her own doing. “She killed herself. Everything lines up.”
“Think so?”
“I know so, sir.”
“What about the bruises and everything else?” I say, skimming through the arrangement of the intel I had just gathered.
“She was disturbed… Into some really weird stuff. My guess is that she watched one too many of those movies. You know the ones with the whips and the super—”
I lift a hand to his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I get the picture. Not interested in her sex life or her taste in film. Yours either. Was she depressed or anything?”
“I have some notes from the investigation when it happened. You’ll see that most of your concerns were addressed. Last page.”
“Found it,” I confirm.
“Yeah, there were no signs of sexual trauma or struggle. Nothing like that. What we did find were a considerable amount of track marks.”
“Drugs?”
“Drugs. She liked to party. A lot. From the test we ran, we can tell that she was a frequent user of party drugs. We found quite the cocktail.”
“Yeah…I’m seeing that in the report. Kaitlyn definitely liked to have fun. So, what’s the prevailing theory?”
“It’s the same one that you walked in with. Suicide.”
“Right. Suicide.” I glance up from the files and eye Kaitlyn’s body. “It said her red blood cell counts were low. Was that a recent thing or something you could trace back to her previous medical history?”
“Recent, but there are variables to consider.”
“Of course. Just trying to paint a picture.”
“Of what, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s confidential,” I say with a smirk. “But what I can tell you is that we’re doing research on drugs and their effects on the youth. There are other factors involved, but that’s all I can say without breaking protocol,” I lie.
“Wow. That’s interesting, and quite the task.”
“Well, I’m not alone. It’s a nationwide effort. I just happened to get assigned to this case. Unfortunately, people die every day.”
“Unfortunately.”
“But life goes on,” I say, once again eyeing Kaitlyn’s corpse before turning to face Patrick, the coroner. “Everything related to Kaitlyn’s case should be in here, right?”
“Yup.”
“Good.” I walk past him and make my way to the door. “Keep an eye out on your communications in case I need to reach you.”
“Wait. Mr. Rivers?” Patrick’s voice halts my steps and I glance over my shoulder, intentionally refusing to give him a full turn.
“Yeah?”
“By any chance, are you guys hiring or anything like that? I’d like to get involved. I feel like I was made for something bigger than this, know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I get it. You want to be a part of something bigger than yourself. Keep the ones you care for, safe. Make a difference, right?” I say, my body now fully turned towards him.
“That. Exactly, that. I want to make a difference.”
“Well, keep doing what you’re doing. You’re helping out more than you know.”
“Yeah, bu—”
“I can’t say that we’re hiring, but I’m not saying that we’re not. Just answer when I call, and I’ll put in a good word for you. I’m sure we can use someone with your background… You open to relocate?”
“Yeah. I hate it here.”
“Same… I’ll call you if our division needs anything else related to this case or any in the area. Have a good one, Patrick.”
“You, too.”
With my back to him, I walk out of his office. I feel his gaze lingering on my back, the weight of it, oppressing. Patrick wants a change of pace but dealing with the supernatural is hardly what he has in mind…although, working with coroners can be useful. I know hunters have built relationships with people of various trades in the past; the ones connected with the inner workings of major cities. It can make your life easier, but it’s hard to find people to trust these days. That’s why it’s often best to play your cards close to your chest. Hunters can work with normal civilians, there’s no rule prohibiting it, but that same string of logic applies to everyone else. The free agents in the game can do whatever they please. Witches, vampires, werewolves, and even demons have plants carefully weaved into the fabric of society. That’s why you have to be careful with who you can trust. If Patrick would have made one wrong move, I would have killed him without a second thought. That’s just the way life goes. It’s either them or you, and whether you’re aware of it or not, you’re always a potential target. Doesn’t matter if you stepped onto their stomping grounds on purpose or not. If you press them, you will get tested, and you’ll most likely die or be compromised.
I exit from out of Patrick’s worksite, careful to avoid any more attention than I already may have caused. People always talk when the FBI is involved, and I prefer to blend in with society as much as I can.
Darius knows my face, but unless I do something foolish, he won’t see me coming. He does know I’m out there though, so I have to be careful. When I meet him again, I want it to be on my own terms. Not his.
After locating my car, I double check to make sure I wasn’t being followed before hopping in. I stop by a public restroom and change from my suit into my normal attire, jeans with a jacket and tee, before heading over to the motel I eyed out after I chose to make the commute for the ca
se.
I check in with no problem and set up shop just like always. There’s a crappy TV, a poorly cleaned bed, all on top of a burgundy carpet that has the faint smell of sweat, lead, and wet dog, probably because the room’s been sitting with no circulation. The air’s off. I walk over to the unit and give the notch a turn. It boots up with a rumble and I virtually taste the cloud of dust that kicks up into my face…just all-around crappy luck. Whatever.
As long as I don’t get an STD from the mattress, I’m good. I’m here for work, but honestly, I should start bringing my own sleeping bag or something. That or maybe book at better places. Geez.
I move over to the desk and open up my laptop before sitting down, my focus set purely on finding out everything I can about Kaitlyn Jones.
Chapter 6: Trace
Social media feeds and background checks. Group pictures and online rants. I scrounge up anything I can find to help me get a read on Kaitlyn Jones, the woman who died at the hands of vampires.
In the hours I’ve spent on research, I was able to construct a basic profile of who she was and what kinds of things she was into.
Kaitlyn Jones. White. Twenty-four. Female. Social media influencer in her circle, ironically taking up a persona online not to care on a string of platforms that specialize on having all eyes on you. The majority of her pictures were either her posing or solo in interesting spots or a night out with some familiar faces. Sadly, most of her recent photos have been riddled with friends and acquaintances saying their goodbyes and reminiscing on old times. Close friends recounted directly on her feed. Some even posted on their own pages about the importance of mental help and reaching out…that suicide isn’t the only option despite how you may feel. That drugs and other ways to escape aren’t the answer, even if they used them in the past.
A common thing that everyone seems to say is that they didn’t see it coming. It’s universal really. When you lose someone close to you, that void is hardly something you can prepare for. Especially when it’s someone that you’ve known for so long. Every person I’ve lost, I can feel the void they left in my heart. Some peoples’ are bigger than others, but it’s still there and doesn’t take much to remind me. That’s how it is when you lose someone. I think it’s that way so you can never truly forget who they are and what they meant to you. You remember the impact they had on your life, for better or for worse.
I grab my phone and dial up Roc, hoping to get a response. The phone rings, but he doesn’t pick up. Once his voicemail hits, I hang up and plop my phone back onto the table. “Shit.”
I bridge my fingers over my nose and rub the indents on the side of my nostrils and move my fingertips over my eyebrows as I rest my eyes.
I take a deep breath and call him again, putting my phone on speaker. His voicemail comes up and I wait for the prompt. “Hey, Roc. It’s Blaze. Just calling to check up. Hope you’re safe out there, man. Just hitting you up to see if you made any progress on those files I sent you. No rush. Just curious. Same with that witch, Cornelius Krowe. I meant to call you up earlier, but I got distracted with another case… Had to travel all the way to Tennessee for this one.” I chuckle. “It’s vamps, so…yeah. Just letting you know. Be easy, and good luck with your hunt.” I pause. “And send me a text or whatever when you can just so that I’ll know that you’re okay. I’ll try to do the same. Bye.” I hang up and stare up at the screen of my laptop, eyeing the assortment of data I’d compiled while sleuthing around the web.
Kaitlyn loved to hang out at a dance club called Writhe…a place that catered more to the edgier folks of modern society, complete with folks with oddly colored hair, a broody atmosphere, and lots of the aesthetics you’d often see coupled with the punk-rock scene.
Damn. I really want to help, but I’d rather not pursue a lead in a densely populated setting. Too many things can go wrong and there’s a lot of grey areas that need coloring in. I never heard of Writhe until tonight. It could be a place vampires frequent for all I know. I could be walking into something vampire-owned for all I know…a club where they traffic humans or something behind the scenes in a secret area. Unfortunately, that type of thing exists. Mainly on the borders of society, but still, it’s a crazy situation to find yourself in. They knock you out and stick an IV in you. If they can’t keep their hands off of you, you join the party and become one of them if they choose to let you live. It’s bad for their ecosystem to turn others in a situation like that but I imagine drinking straight from the source is a highly satisfying experience. Well, imagine is putting it lightly. They absolutely enjoy it despite how disturbing the practice actually is. Yeah, if I find out where the vamps around here are, I don’t want to get innocent people involved. Too many extremities flailing around and all it takes is one bite to change a life. Mine included. A club setting could have sleepers—vamps waiting in the background in case things pop off. I wouldn’t see it coming with so many things I’d already have to account for.
I need more information. Faces. Names. Anything that could help me pinpoint the vamps responsible for this and remove them in the most discreet way possible. Of course, that’s after I pick their brains to see what they know about Darius. Kaitlyn’s friends may be tough to get a hold of, but I should be able to make contact with at least one of them if I do things right. It’s all about target selection. Thankfully, I have profiles on all of her close friends and the night is still young. Thank you, social media.
****
Staying in as opposed to going out last night was without a doubt, the best choice given the scenario. Instead, I’d opted to do my recon from behind a computer screen from the safety of my room and brushed up on important landmarks and places of interest in the area that pertained to this case. The woods that Kaitlyn’s body was found in definitely made the list of places I needed to visit. Among others.
“Hello?” I say after knocking on the door of the apartment of one of my leads. “Darren Gates?” I stare into the peep hole and return my hands to my coat as I wait. I sink my head and look down at my polished, black dress shoes and catch a bit of light reflecting back at me. “We had an appointment,” I say to the door, my head still low. I roll my shoulders back to create a bit of breathing room inside of my button down. Dressing up is hardly a hunter’s attire, but I don’t think posing as a super casual FBI agent would work for this one. I have to sell the respect aspect. I can’t make it seem like I’m just an average guy. “Darren?” I say a bit louder.
He stops my light pacing by opening the door. “Yeah?” Just a sliver of him is showing from the now cracked door.
“We had an appointment,” I remind him for a second time. “I’m Agent Rivers… We spoke on the phone earlier today.”
“Right, right. I know who you are.”
“Mind if I come in? We were scheduled to talk for a bit.” Darren grimaces and tilts his head to the side, not hiding that he doesn’t want this to happen at all. When he moves, a brush of air from his apartment hits my nostrils and I can clearly smell a pungent mix of weed and air freshener, each one clashing instead canceling each other out.
“Yeah, about that. I don’t think now is a good time. My apartment is a mess right now. We could meet at a coffee shop or something. I know a good one about five minutes from here. I wanted to call you before, but it slipped my mind.” So that’s what this was about. Cleaning. He wanted to make sure his place didn’t reek of marijuana before I showed up, but he obviously failed. “Just one sec. Let me get my key—"
Before he can fully shut the door, I wrap my fingers around the bend in the doorframe while I gently push against the door with the forearm of my other arm. “Hey. That won’t be necessary.” I ease up on the tension but he still holds onto the handle from his end, not putting his weight on it to completely shut it. “I can smell the weed from here, but that’s not what I’m here for. I don’t care. Unless you have a dead body in here, I’m not going to arrest you. You have my word. I’m not on a manhunt. I just want answers for an investiga
tion…you know, like we discussed.” Darren holds his position on the other side of the door, but I don’t force anything. “Come on, man. I’m trying to do a service for people like your friend. If this was a sting or something, you would have already been caught. I know your name. Where you live. What you do. Who you know… Notice how I didn’t ask you for any of that. I’m here to help.”
With a defeated face, Darren comes out from behind the door and pulls it open before gesturing me to come inside. “It’s medicinal,” he mumbles. I walk past him and don’t directly address his claim even though I’m one thousand percent sure he’s lying.
I extend my hand and Darren shakes it before leading me to the living room area of his apartment. It’s well furnished and clean, but again, impossible to shake the smell of marijuana. He picks up the remote and turns off the TV. I’m guessing he was letting the news run in the background for ambience while he tended to his routine. Or maybe it was for show just like everything else. Very few people have entertained a federal agent in their home, I’m sure. Even if it was a fake one.
I take a seat at the table and he does the same, sitting directly across from me. Darren places his hand on his table and places his fingers over the knuckles of the other, his hands extended away from his body…a form of eliminating himself as a threat via body language. I don’t fear for my life in this situation. Not one bit. If anything, I fear for his, although I can see the logic behind his actions. I don’t particularly blame him given his preferred recreational activities. The media and showings all over the web doesn’t make it any better.
“I won’t be that long, I swear. And relax. Nothing you say will be held against you as long as it’s pertaining to this case.”
“Cool.” Darren’s posture relaxes a bit, but I can tell he’s still guarded.
“So, just like I told you when I called, I’m Agent Rivers and I’ve been assigned to doing research on the passing of Kaitlyn Jones.” I flash my badge and he glances at it with an unquestioning complacency. “I’m sure you’re probably wondering what kind of research we’re doing, so I’ll tell you just that. It’s on the modern-day effects of drugs and those who use them. We’re going to use the information to help mental health facilities better understand the mindset of a certain demographic that uses.”
Blaze Monroe and the Tattered Heart: A Supernatural Thriller (The Hunter Who Lost His Way Book 3) Page 4