He began to que the surveillance footage he previously gathered from the club to confirm that Jared was present each time someone disappeared. Kasparov came in and grabbed a cup of coffee before taking the seat next to Lofgren and pulled out his notebook. The two men studied the tapes carefully and marked the dates and times of the victims visits, and the visits from the suspect.
Once all the videos ended it was clear that this man was a frequent visitor to the club. He had been present for most of the disappearances, perhaps all of them. The bar didn’t have cameras outside and he may have come in to contact with the victims before even entering in to the establishment. It was also impossible to know if all of the missing people were victims of this particular event or if they had simply gone off for a prolonged bender in the warehouse district.
“I think we have enough of this guy to bring him in. I am going to go get Bambi. Can you start the paperwork to send her home? We have held her long enough.” Kasparov asked Lofgren. He seemed relieved to be able to confirm her testimony. She wasn’t out of hot water yet but she could at least go home. Lofgren turned to the computer and started to type up the documents he needed her to sign before she left. They would need to remind her she was still a suspect and he was certain she would not take it well. As he printed the paperwork he hoped he would not have to lock her up again after this.
Lofgren heard a shout coming from where the holding cells were contained and jumped up to investigate. Anytime he had made progress in the past, it had come with a price. He had watched far too many people die already and waited with bated breath to see what had alarmed his partner.
Moments later Kasparov came out through the doors his hands and arms covered in blood. He looked as if he had just butchered someone the way his shirt was stained. In his arms he carried something that was hard to identify at first. It was likely his fears were about to become reality once more. He watched as Kasparov walked in to the room and crumbled to his knees under the weight of his grief. Lofgren watched as his new partner wept.
Lofgren made his way toward the detective and was able to identify the body. Ms. Hodge lay cold and lifeless in Kasparov’s arms. Her skin seemed to be too big for the rest of her and she was exceptionally pale. It was likely she had little to no blood left in her body. It was almost hard to believe that it was the same woman he had spoken to that morning, so full of life and arrogance. As Lofgren watched Kasparov, he wondered if they would be able to get through the rest of the investigation now that the man had lost someone so close to him.
Greif had always perplexed Lofgren. He had never been close enough with anyone to have such a strong emotional attachment that would elicit such a response to death and he wondered what it must feel like. As he watched Kasparov struggle with the death of his friend he noticed how terrible it must be. The man’s face was red and his cheeks were slick with tears. It had contorted in to an ugly mask of lament and the sound he produced was unnerving.
Lofgren had never intended to harm the girl and now he would have to figure out a way to handle this situation quickly and carefully so no one noticed when certain things were conveniently overlooked. He hadn’t realized how suddenly things were happening, but he was certain the attack on Ms. Hodge had everything to do with their progress on the investigation.
Lofgren looked around to see everyone on the floor waiting to be given orders. They seemed so shocked by the woman’s body that they dared not move. Everyone wanted to know what had happened and didn’t know who to report to. He had to act quickly, and as if this was unexpected.
“Pull the surveillance footage. Who was watching the monitors?” Lofgren took command of the situation quickly and started to call orders. “Get her to the medical examiner for an autopsy. I will follow up personally. Someone call cleanup. Is anyone else in the holding area? No? Good. For now take anyone being questioned to the next town over or keep them in interrogation. I need the number to the security company that monitors the access cards and entry logs. The only way in or out is through those doors. I need to know who went in there. And someone call Marian’s Gentlemen’s Club. I need the footage from tonight sent over immediately.”
Lofgren went to the supply cabinet and pulled out a blanket before getting two cigarettes and a lighter from Kasparov’s desk. He went over to the detective and watched him struggle to let go of his friend. Once she had been removed he draped the blanket around him and lit the cigarettes. He gave one to Kasparov and kept the other. He had already smoked one today, what’s one more he thought.
The men watched as Ms. Hodge was covered by a black sheet and carried downstairs. Blonde hair slipped out from beneath the shroud and swayed in the air. Her form showed through the fabric and Lofgren understood part of the reason Kasparov was having so much trouble dealing with the situation. She was a beautiful woman who had been friendly with him. From what Lofgren had seen of his partner, he knew the man had been harboring deep feelings for the woman even if he hadn’t said so himself. For a moment Lofgren wished he had warned Kasparov. Anytime he made progress in the past someone would end up dead and there was a good chance it was always going to be Ms. Hodge.
He led Kasparov to his desk and sat him down before taking the seat next to him. “I know she was your friend and this is difficult for you. We do still have an investigation to complete. I don’t mean to sound cold. I hope you understand that. This case is my top priority regardless of those involved. If you want to be taken off the investigation I can find someone else.” Lofgren reasoned with Kasparov.
“Someone killed Bambi. I can’t let that go. She was crass, shallow and vain. But fuck man, she was Bambi. She always had a smile for me on a bad day. She’s danced at Marian’s for five years. Shit Marian was still running the place. I remember how timid she was her first day. I saw her become the confident person she was this morning yelling at you in her kitchen.” Kasparov had stopped crying and stared at the smoke from his cigarette. It almost looked like it was dancing.
“I am sorry for your loss, Scott.” Lofgren replied. “I should have told you that people had died during these investigations before. I had never kept them in the station in the past. I thought she would be safer here than the others had been in their homes. This is my fault.”
“No, it isn’t.” Kasparov retorted as he snuffed his cigarette and lit another one. “You didn’t hurt Bambi. If this is what happens, odds are Jared or someone connected did this. I’m not going to step down. I took this assignment and I am going to see it through. I can’t just go home and pretend none of this happened. It’s Bambi for fucks sake.”
“According to the tapes, Jared leaves shortly after Claudia’s performances. We will go tomorrow to apprehend him.” Lofgren felt that he was missing something. Jared was a perfect suspect. He was present for most of the visits that preceded the disappearances. He showed up just before the incidents began. Jared wasn’t even a real name. Even though he knew the organization was much larger than one man, he must be one of the more active members of the group. Still something nagged at Lofgren. Somehow, he had missed something and he knew he would regret it. “I’m going to go see that the examiner has started to inspect the body.”
Kasparov nodded blankly. It would take more than a cigarette to get him back on track. Lofgren looked at his partner and hoped that he would be up to the investigation after tonight. Things always get rough after a witness dies, and Ms. Hodge was his friend. If he lost Kasparov, he lost his connection to this town, and with it, any chance of finding out who was behind the disappearances.
Lofgren followed the stairs down in to the morgue. It was impeccably clean and provided a welcome change from the floor above where everything seemed to be covered in tar and ash. The stainless steel surfaces had all been thoroughly sanitized. Even Ms. Hodge’s body seemed cleaner in this place. It wasn’t that he enjoyed morgues, he was simply happier in a clean environment.
A woman was looking over the body when Lofgren greeted her. “My name is Agent Lofgre
n and this woman is a part of my investigation. I have my own guesses as to what killed her, but what do you think?” He asked her.
“It appears the cause of death was a knife wound here.” She replied pointing at Ms. Hodge’s throat. “The interesting thing about this is that despite the brutality of the wound, there are more careful incisions deeper in the throat. It looks like something was forced in to the veins here. As you can see, her body has been drained of almost all blood. The attacker likely used tubing fed through multiple points to get as much as they could out of her in a short time. I think there is still some left collected in her organs but not much if any.”
“Thank you. I will need a full report as soon as possible. Could you have it sent up to detective Scott Kasparov?” Lofgren asked.
“Of course. I have a lot to look over still so it may be a few hours and I’ve only just sent out a tox-screen.”
“Thank you. That should be sufficient. I could use a few hours to put together some information anyhow.” Lofgren left the examiner to her work and made his way back up the stairs and to Kasparov’s desk. He was asleep on a pile of papers that Lofgren had just printed for Ms. Hodge’s release.
He remembered Kasparov had mentioned that he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. After all of this Lofgren would have been surprised if the detective hadn’t had some reaction. He was starting to think Kasparov was a machine operating on cigarette smoke and alcohol. It was good that he had responded so intensely to the death of a close friend. Perhaps there was more to the man than a bad attitude.
Lofgren turned the monitor of the computer and moved the keyboard from in front of the sleeping detective. He needed to e-mail his superiors about the progressions in the case. It was odd that he hadn’t heard back from them since his first message and he wasn’t getting anyone on the telephone either. He had started to think they had just been humoring him when he asked for this case. Lofgren had been following the trail of this organization since the beginning and his superiors had disagreed about the nature of the incidences. He wondered now if they had abandoned him once again.
When the events began he worked on a team of people. They stayed with him until the third occurrence when Lofgren proclaimed it was not copycat killers. They all laughed at him. The most recent case he had only two assistants. They heard more than they wanted to hear and left him as well. It was safe for him to assume they wanted this wrapped up and would hear no more grand theories of collaboration or supernatural interests.
Lofgren was tired, but didn’t want to leave Kasparov here alone after what had happened so he decided he would stay with him until morning. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a book entitled: Impressionism 1872 to 1882; The First Decade. He read for a bit until the cleaning crew arrived. Lofgren hadn’t given much thought to what the room must look like since he knew already what the cleaners would be faced with and didn’t need to make any guesses. He went with them to the holding cell that Ms. Hodge was in to take pictures and give instructions.
On the wall of her cell Lofgren found familiar words scrawled in blood. “Consume. Sanguinem. Mortem.” It wasn’t the first time he had seen the image but he appeared more interested so as not to incite any questions. He photographed the message and collected a few samples of blood before turning the cell over to clean up.
Back at his desk Lofgren loaded the images on to the computer. He attached them to an email and sent them out to his superiors. He hoped the message would show them that the killer was the connection between all five cases. They had told him there were differences in the writing, but Lofgren had a feeling they had changed the writing intentionally. By comparing samples from each site, he would narrow it to a single person. If not, he wasn’t sure anything would. Maybe it really was different people. He hated to think he may be wasting his time.
It was getting late but the examiner would be done with the autopsy soon. Lofgren decided to get a cup of coffee and read some more. He enjoyed his books. They were a welcome escape from the issues he faced and he could always learn something new.
He often wondered what his life would have been like had he decided to be a teacher. He could be certain he wouldn’t be at a police station, far from home, looking after a grieving cop and e-mailing photographs of dead bodies.
About an hour later the examiner sent up the results of the autopsy. It was as Lofgren had expected. Ms. Hodge’s throat had been slashed open and tubing was used to extract blood from the area. She died almost instantly. He was glad to know she hadn’t suffered. She was on heroin at some point recently as well as a cocktail of prescription pills. Ms. Hodge was definitely abusing illegal substances and he wondered how much of it Kasparov was aware of.
Lofgren copied the report and stowed the original in his files, ensuring he left the copy for Kasparov to file with his office as well. He looked at the clock. It was incredibly late and he knew his window for sleep was no longer large enough to manage. He resolved to find a convenience store to get a quick bite and an espresso.
The night air was cold and the wind whipped about franticly spraying everything with frigid rain. The layer of rain on the pavement was deeper now. A car out for a late night drive hit a deep patch and a wave of rainwater splashed against the sign to the police station. It felt like dread had taken over the place. Maybe it had.
Lofgren stepped back inside just enough to grab an umbrella from the bin. He stood under the overhang for a few minutes and took in the surroundings. Cars passed in front of the houses lining the road. Only a few still remained lit and even they seemed to be turning in as twilight set in. His breath hung in the cold air. He studied it and felt more grounded. Lofgren opened the large black umbrella and strode out in to the parking lot. He decided to walk to a nearby shop. It was on the corner and even in the rain it wasn’t far. A truck came by and kicked up water on to the path just before him. He narrowly avoided getting soaked.
His walk was easy after that aside from the moisture that had soaked through his shoes and the hem of his pants. The shop was one of those all night places that sold canned drinks, processed food, cheap coffee, and marijuana pipes. Lofgren grabbed an energy drink and a pack of mini donuts. It would keep him until morning when he intended to have a proper breakfast.
Lofgren walked back to the station and sat out front under the overhang and ate his donuts. He knew that Kasparov would want to act fast tomorrow and that made him nervous. He understood that grief can cause someone to behave irrationally and needed to make sure Kasparov didn’t lose his head when the time came to bring in Jared. Lofgren knew he was missing an important piece. Back upstairs Kasparov was waking up just as Lofgren sat down at the desk. He was unsteady in his movements, likely from the lack of restful sleep. The detective grabbed a cigarette and a lighter before standing up. “I’m going outside to smoke. I’ll be back in ten.” He called to Lofgren as he slipped out the door heading toward the entrance.
Lofgren wondered if Kasparov was going out for air or if he was respecting the fact that quitting smoking was difficult, especially around someone who smokes as much as he did. He also wondered if the detective was harboring resentment toward him for not issuing any warning that Ms. Hodge could be in danger. He really had wanted to protect her. So many had already died and one more person just added to that number to Lofgren, but he knew to Kasparov this number had a name. It was Bambi, and her blood was on his hands. He couldn’t save her.
V.
Outside everything was still and silent. The rain had stopped, allowing the water that had filled the parking lot to become smooth like glass. It reflected the area around it in remarkable clarity. The temperature had dropped and Kasparov’s breath hung in the air as he exhaled. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes and a lighter before sitting on the stone steps of the station. They were as cold as ice but Kasparov barely noticed. He wasn’t sure he would feel anything again.
The sound of the flint sparking echoed in the still air and made Kasparov feel e
ven more alone than he already did. It was all too much to take. He lit his cigarette and leaned forward holding his head in his hands. For a moment he wept. The tears rolled down his face leaving the cold air to sting his wet cheeks.
Kasparov took a drag from his cigarette and focused on the smoke filling his lungs, feeling the fumes as they made their way through him. He cherished the earthy taste in his mouth, the burn of the smoke in his throat and the rush of nicotine clawing its way through him. Most of all he loved that it was bad for him. He didn’t want to die by any means, but he didn’t want to extend the miserable span of time he had on this earth. It felt like playing blackjack with the devil. He was on a roll, but in the end, the house always wins.
Kasparov thought about Bambi as he sat on the steps. She was a beautiful woman. If not for her habits she could have been a model instead of a stripper who dabbled in prostitution. Somehow he felt he was to blame. He had brought her here. He had left her in that cell. He let her die. More than that, he knew he was to blame for her being at Marian’s so long. Every part of his mind screamed that it was all his fault, that his decisions ended her before she even had a chance to be something.
It was five years ago that Kasparov first saw Bambi walk through the front door at Marian’s. She was radiant, innocent, and looked out of place in the club. Kasparov was immediately captivated by her blonde hair, her soft blue eyes, her tantalizing lips, and her incredible figure. He watched her in the club as he tried to understand why she had come in to the place. Marian was at the bar making drinks with his sister when Bambi approached him. Kasparov couldn’t hear much despite the fact that the place was almost empty. It was early in the day and the lunch rush had just finished.
Yearling Investigation Archives (Book 1): Sanguine Page 5