Sanguine
Yearling Investigation Archives: Entry I
Written By: Brittany Swigert
Copyright © 2017 by Brittany Swigert
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Dedicated to my Son and my Husband. Without the two of you, I would lose all hope and light.
Special Mentions:
My Editor, Tyler Morris, for reading every word before anyone else cared. He also provided feedback and advice every step of the way. Without him this book would never have been completed.
Stephen Elmore for the initial character concept for Erik Lofgren. I’m sorry he didn’t turn out how you hoped.
Better Than Ezra for One More Murder. It was the song that started the conversation about these two characters.
I.
Smoke hung thickly in the stagnant air of the rundown bar. Most of the paint had peeled from the walls and lay crumbled on the floor giving the place an unclean look. Dim lights shone against the green felt of the billiards tables that lined the area that may have once been a dance floor. The ceilings were adorned with florescent light fixtures that had gone without upkeep for some time. A majority of the bulbs had burned out and the few that remained flickered as if in a panic. The door had been propped open allowing pure sunlight to filter in. Rather than giving the bar a comfortable glow, the natural light only highlighted the damage that time had done. They kept the door open even in the dead of winter to save on electricity. It wouldn’t be long before they were forced to close.
A tall stout man was behind the bar getting everything ready for the day. He counted stock to ensure they would have enough for the day, noting when they didn’t, even though they wouldn’t. There just wasn’t enough money to get everything anymore. It had been a long time since they had a good night. He reached in to the cooler and pulled out a random bottle of beer and opened it against the counter top. The top came off and fell to the ground sending the sound of metal on concreate clattering through the stale air. He drank silently as he leaned against the bar.
It was nearly noon and the bar had only collected a few patrons. An older man in a red flannel sat and drank a light beer. It was his fourth one since his arrival just over an hour before. He had been joined by a friend who looked to have just come off a long shift. The man’s face was black with soot and grease that he failed to clear away with a dirty handkerchief as he ordered a drink. They then sat and bickered amongst themselves about politics. It seemed they didn’t agree with the actions of the current administration. Perhaps they had every right to be upset. No one looked out for the little guys anymore.
The far end of the bar was occupied by a man who sat quietly and drank whisky alone. He blended with his surroundings to the point that it was hard to notice him. His dirty blonde hair was unruly and his face had a pallor to it that made him appear to be a wax figure. The creases in his face were too deep and he looked like he hadn’t slept in an unreasonable amount of time. A cigarette hung limply from his chapped lips as he stared blankly forward. The man idly flipped a lighter between his fingers. His movements were rhythmic and his vacant expression would have made people uneasy in a different place. It wasn’t long before the lighter missed a finger and fell, striking the bar before ricocheting off and on to the floor. He sighed as he looked at the lighter on the floor. It was a moment before he decided against retrieving it and giving away his lack of dexterity.
He placed his cigarette in one of the grooves of the ashtray in front of him and ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasier than usual but he didn’t care. He had just finished working a case and was ready to catch up on the sleep he had lost during the investigation.it had been three days since he had a chance to shower and it was becoming apparent that he needed one. His eyes were even more sunken than usual and were accompanied by dark circles lining the tops and bottoms of each lid. It looked almost as if he had been fighting. His outward appearance mirrored how he felt. A good meal would likely help with his morale. Failing that, a trip to Marian’s, the local gentleman’s club, was always a good idea. He resolved to do both as soon as soon as he finished one more whisky.
The man fumbled through his pockets looking for his wallet. Pretty soon the space in front of him was covered in old receipts, a small notebook, a cigarette pack, a police badge, an old flip phone, and finally a tattered brown leather wallet. He carefully returned the items to his pockets ensuring everything found a place in a different jacket pocket should he need them. Not wanting to retrieve the lighter he pulled another cigarette from the pack on the bar and used the one from the ash tray to ignite the tip as he hailed the bartender. He gestured to his glass before snuffing the cigarette he used as a lighter out in the ashtray.
Leaning back on the old barstool he finished his glass of whiskey and placed it on the surface in front of him. The cigarette hung loosely in his mouth as he let exhaustion take him. The soft leather back of the barstool was comfortable and it ushered him to sleep. It had been a long few days and he had a feeling his window for rest was coming to a close. After this drink he would go home. His trip to Marian’s would have to wait.
The bartender brought him another drink and the man took it to his mouth, forgetting his cigarette. Ashes fell in to the liquid and settled on the top. With a dirty finger he managed to fish out most of the offending ash and moved his cigarette from his mouth before trying the drink again. After a short sip he took a long drag and leaned back once more reclaiming his former positon. The bar was familiar to him. For at least ten years Kasparov would come after a case to unwind with a drink and to wander from his troubles. It may have been unwise for a police detective to lose connection to his surroundings, but here nothing could harm him.
The detective had all but fallen to sleep when a noise erupted from his jacket. It had been so sudden that the man jumped a bit, dislodging the cigarette from his lips. It fell against his shirt and began to burn a small hole as he franticly tried to reorient himself and correct the many possible dangers of the situation. The confusion caused him to lean just enough that the chair crashed to the ground taking him with it. The cigarette landed in a small patch of water on the floor and the shrill ringing continued. He pulled the phone from his pocket and answered it. It could be important after all.
“Detective Kasparov speaking, how can I help you?” He groaned in to the phone. As he did so he grabbed the lighter he had dropped and pulled himself and the chair to a standing position. The sound of an angry woman erupted through the speaker loud enough for anyone nearby to clearly hear. It was a girl he had known for some time, a dancer at Marian’s. She was in trouble and had once again turned to him for help. “Could you bring it down a notch? Yeah, I didn’t check the ID. What for? Kid, you know I can’t save you every time you’re in trouble. Why? Because I’m a cop, I’m not about to risk my job getting you out of one of your messes, that’s why. Fine, I’ll come see what I can do, but if it’s drugs, I’m leaving. Ok. Fine, I’m just leaving I
ron Grinders now.” Kasparov shut the phone and put it back in his pocket. That woman always seemed to need saving from something, even when she didn’t know it. Maybe this time would be different. He hoped she wasn’t involved in drug trafficking again.
When he looked up he noticed the bartender had been eyeing him to make sure he was alright after the fall. He had come down pretty hard but despite feeling a bit sore, all was well. The older gentleman took no notice of him. Kasparov laid his money on the bar to pay for the drinks and made his way out, leaving his drink barely touched.
The light outside of the bar was harsh and hurt Kasparov’s eyes. He stood for a moment to allow his vision to adjust as he lit a cigarette. This part of the city always stank of burning plastic and petrol from the nearby plants and gas stations that littered the area. The parking lot of the bar held several vehicles, far too many to belong to the occupants of the establishment. More than one had begun to collect dust as they sat and rusted on the blacktop. Kasparov’s own car blended with the dilapidated automobiles. It was a 1993 Dodge Dynasty that had been spray painted marron. The paint beneath the added color had begun to chip away and rust had overtaken most of the bumper. Despite the rough appearance, the car ran and that was enough for him. He never cared much about what he looked like; his car received the same apathy.
Kasparov opened the door and let himself in to the car. The windshield was dirty and the smoke from his cigarette seemed to cling to the grime as it snaked its way across the glass toward the open door. The window squealed in complaint as he rolled it down. It became wedged halfway down and refused to move one way or the other. With more force than was necessary, he slammed the door and shoved the key in the ignition. For a moment it refused to start. With a bit of coaxing and multiple attempts it turned over and he pulled out on to the road.
The drive to the woman’s house was easy. She lived just on the other side of town and traffic was light. The brakes were sometimes unresponsive, but Kasparov had learned to calculate their inability to perform properly and had no trouble making the ten minute trip from the bar. When he pulled up to the house he parked in the driveway behind the custom painted motorcycle that belonged to his friend. Kasparov looked around before heading up to the porch. A dark green Saab sat in front of the house. It had Virginia plates and appeared to have been recently washed. He recorded the tag number in his notebook and walked up to the house.
As he approached, the front door swung violently open and a beautiful woman erupted from it. She lit a cigarette and yelled in to the house before slamming the door closed. She had an intensity to her that was undeniable. Long blonde hair curled delicately toward her waist and deep blue eyes pierced anything that met her gaze. If Kasparov believed in magic, she would be it. Despite all her beauty, she was a deeply flawed individual who tended to get in to trouble.
“Scott! Thank god you’re here.” She started. “That asshole in there is trying to accuse me of murder. Do I look like a murderer?”
“Bambi, this sounds pretty serious. I have to ask you to be honest with me, as a friend. Did you do it? Was it drug related?” Kasparov asked cautiously.
“Jesus-Christ, Scott, really?” Bambi yelled at him. She was like a wild fire and her anger was spreading fast. “No. I didn’t kill anyone. I met this chick at the club. She had been hanging around all night and had gotten pretty drunk. I gave her a lift home on the back of the bike. That’s all. Damnit Scott.”
“Listen Bambi, calm down. I don’t know what the situation is, but I will look in to it. Understand that no matter what I have to be on the side of the law.” Kasparov explained. He watched as her expression turned from anger to disappointment. “I know I said I would try to help, but there is only so much I can do. I know you. I know that you have gotten in to some trouble in the past and things can go sour really quick in the drug trade. I also know you aren’t by nature a murderer. Why don’t you sit out here and I will go inside and see what the guy is talking about.”
Kasparov walked through the door in to her house and found his way in to the kitchen. A tall man was standing upright humming a strange song and looking over some files. His eyes were a blue so clear he could have had ice circling his pupils. His appearance was striking, and perhaps even unsettling. Kasparov lit a cigarette and began to pull out his badge when the agent spoke up.
“Could you not do that in here?” He asked with a fervor that took Kasparov by surprise. His tone had been sharp and reminded Kasparov of the way a man scolds a dog for shitting on a rug. The words that followed were less harsh, but something in the way he spoke came across cold. “I’m trying to quit and being around someone smoking makes that hard to do.”
The sound of the cigarette being extinguished only added to the tension in the room. It was clear that the agent was having a hard time giving up the habit and Kasparov wasn’t thrilled to have to do without. He watched the man in Bambi’s kitchen with great scrutiny. There was something about him that couldn’t be placed and it made Kasparov nervous. He couldn’t decide if it was the way the man stood perfectly motionless, like a statue that sometimes spoke, or if it was his peculiar appearance. The agent was taller than most men, about six and a half feet at best guess, and while he wasn’t without muscle, the lack of extra fat and the pallor of his skin reminded Kasparov of something in an old B horror film.
“I’m Detective Scott Kasparov, with Landsford P.D. The young woman outside called me here to assist her with what she claims is a misunderstanding. I don’t really know a lot about what is going on, or what I could possibly do to help her, but I told her I would do what I could to set the record straight. The only thing I have been informed of is that she has been accused of murdering a woman who had spent an evening at the club Bambi works at. Is that correct?” Kasparov asked as he handed his badge to the agent.
The man took the badge and quickly recorded the number in his files. Every movement he made reminded Kasparov of a skeleton with skin stretched over it. It was the strange way he moved that seemed to bring on the comparison more than his actual appearance, which did nothing but add to the idea. Kasparov shifted nervously against the counter behind him and recognized several reasons to be unsettled. It could have been the way the agent was humming strange melodies in private only to become like stone when Kasparov entered the room. It was also possible it was the way he looked. If not that, the way he moved, or the cold way he spoke. It was harder to find something comforting about the man than something disturbing.
“Thank you Detective. You can call me Agent Lofgren. I have come to Landsford to investigate a string of murders that have been going on for some time. The bureau has reasons to believe our suspects may have found a place in this town and are continuing their activities. We have been tracking them for nearly a year now and they have managed to avoid capture so far. They seem to strike in areas that have an alleviated crime rate and an array of strip clubs and bars. We believe this is to provide ease of operation. If people are already disappearing or dying, it is harder to realize a few more have bit the metaphoric bullet.” Lofgren explained as he handed Kasparov a stack of photographs. They were men and woman of various ages and ethnicities. He wondered how they could have been connected and found himself wondering why he hadn’t been shown the crime scene photos.
“There isn’t much we know about the group at this point, and of that, even less that is more than speculation. They have managed to elude me, us, up until this point. I hope to change that and bring them to justice here in Landsford. There isn’t much time to get things wrapped up and I would like to do it as cleanly as possible. It is important to understand that the group involved can be particularly ruthless. It is best not to underestimate them.
“Ms. Bernadette Hodge is currently a suspect, but she has not yet been charged. She was seen leaving her place of employment, Marian’s Gentleman’s Club, with Eliza Renoir. She was the redhead on top of the stack of photographs and hasn’t been seen since. The other pictures are of people who have
all been seen on camera at Marian’s and have since seemed to disappear. Since Ms. Hodge was the last to see Eliza, I have come to question her about what happened after they left the club together. She has proven to be uncooperative and I will likely have to detain her. It shouldn’t take long to get an arrest warrant.”
Kasparov felt like something had been left out about the nature of the disappearances and the subsequent murders. Where were the bodies? They were missing, but how could he be sure the victims were already dead? It was enough to wonder for now; he had bigger things to worry about.
“Let me talk to Bambi. Maybe I can get her to come around. We have known one another for several years. I know how to handle her.” Kasparov requested. He needed to figure out how she fit in to all of this. Damnit Bambi! He thought to himself. “One more thing Agent Lofgren.”
“Of course.” He replied in the same cold way he had explained he was kicking the habit.
“You said they have eluded you in the past. How did they get away?” Kasparov’s curiosity had gotten the better of him and of all the questions he could have asked, Lofgren’s face showed that this was likely the most frustrating one. He wasn’t sure whether to feel bad or relish in the fact.
“Every time we got close to them a call would come in. Someone would be on the other line calling to confess to the crimes. They would state the name age and gender of each victim and then drop the phone. I remember the sound it made as it struck the ground the first time. We would trace the call back to where the group had been holding up in and just inside the front door would be a chair that had been kicked over and above it dangled our suspect. It is likely the people who called to confess were low level members of the organization, or simply scared victims. The bureau has the divided opinion of copycat killers or a group of mass murderers. Either way, they are not to be taken lightly.” Lofgren explained as he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to Kasparov.
Yearling Investigation Archives (Book 1): Sanguine Page 1