by David Scott
Dan paused, worried that he might be going into too much detail and boring him. Happily, Luke appeared to hanging on his every word, so Dan continued, “While nothing came up on our records, soon afterwards, we received a call from a bar owner, who had heard a man talking loudly about the folly of religion and, when he looked across at him, saw an angry red scar under the neon lighting. He figured it was unlikely to be the Rapture, as it was too much to think such a criminal might be in his bar, but he called it in anyway. We were fortunate that the publicity surrounding the recent attack happened to coincide with the Rapture’s preaching being overheard in a bar by someone who had seen our witness appeal.”
“So, luck had her part to play?” Luke, asked, as he leant back in his chair, allowing it to teeter on two legs. Dan noticed Luke’s muscular legs flex, as he held the chair in place.
“You could call it that. Or maybe there was some sort of divine intervention,” Dan smiled, to indicate he did not really believe this.
“I just find it so interesting to read these reports,” Luke said, with sincerity, “I have got so much to learn.”
“I am sure you will pick it up quickly, Agent Harrison, but remember that our reports do not tell the whole story, and cannot convey the emotions or feelings surrounding such crimes. For example, in this case, the violence of the acts, and the hatred of all those involved cannot really be put in words, and some parts were left out.”
“What do you mean, Chief?”
“Well, for one, the report does not mention how the priest held old-fashioned views, and had been actively damning of all homosexuals. It does not state how, in his interview, the priest had declared the Rapture must be ‘one of them’ and that he welcomed their eternal damnation. No, the FBI could not allow anything like that to be put in the report, it would be unseemly for a priest to be so judgmental and was unimportant, so it was conveniently left out, and the priest declared a hero. Most of the facts are in there, but just remember there are usually several versions of the truth, and, sometimes, omissions can be convenient.”
Dan finished speaking, and closed the file. While he would never condone the actions of the Rapture, Dan felt no sympathy for this ‘victim’, who clearly thought all sexual deviants, as he put it, should face the fires of hell. But Dan was not there to judge, and had done his job.
Dan watched Luke’s face to try to gauge his reaction. As he hoped, anger flashed across Luke’s face. Well, even if he is not gay, at least he is not homophobic, Dan thought. Unless, of course, Luke held the same views as the priest, and was displaying his shared disgust. Dan doubted this. He was well versed in reading people’s faces and expressions, and Luke was not displaying hatred.
Dan suddenly realised that he was staring at Luke, but no longer listening; wrapped up in his own thoughts and losing his concentration, Dan hadn’t heard a word of Luke’s last sentence.
“Well, Agent Harrison, I am sure you did not come in to work early to listen to me talk about the past. And I have some urgent work to attend to. Have a good day.” Dan said, as he gave a little wave, turned, and went to the safety of his office. He closed the door behind him, rested his back against it, and shut his eyes.
The encounter was unexpected. If he thought he would be greeted by Luke then he would have rehearsed some interesting conversation piece or amusing anecdote. Well, at least he would have tried his best to be prepared. The truth was that Dan was not particularly witty or humorous. He would have worn his sexy scent, rather than his daily bland eau de toilette, and he would have put a bit more product in his hair to make it looked styled rather than unkempt. Dan reprimanded himself and hit his head gently against the door in annoyance, both at his lack of effort, and his ridiculous, adolescent-like crush.
His mobile phone rang. Dan shouted out in surprise. Why was he so jumpy lately? He looked at the number, it was his boss, Director Stewart Downton.
“Hello, Director Downton. We haven’t spoken in a while, sir. This must be serious. How can I help you?” Dan said, genuinely intrigued. Director Downton rarely spoke to Dan, except in an emergency, or during his annual performance review.
“Dan, we need you to get someone over to Milwaukee straight away.” Director Downton replied, “Some maniac has ripped up a whole bunch of families. It’s a goddam slaughter. I’ll send you over all of the information we have, and the briefing note I received. Brace yourself Dan, I haven’t seen anything like this before.”
“Yes, Director Downton. I will get straight on it. I am in the office now, so I can access the file immediately.” Dan said reassuringly.
“Thanks Dan. I will sign over control of this one to you now. Let me know how you get on, and shout if you need me.”
Dan turned on his computer and, after an annoying wait as it booted up, opened his email and the attached digital photographs. Bodies and blood everywhere. It looked like some slasher had lost his mind and decided to rip apart a community, without reason. Except the message left behind suggested something else. This was not a drug-induced rampage. It had been thought through, planned. Pulcinella? Who the hell was Pulcinella?
Dan decided it was time to come out from behind the desk, and to get back into the real world. A crime as serious as this one easily warranted his direct involvement. But he would need some help, and he had to leave now.
“Luke, grab your jacket, we need to go now.” Dan said, as he marched purposefully towards the exit.
Luke didn’t hesitate, smiled broadly, and sprang out of his chair.
Their journey together had started. The pieces were selected, and on the board. Fate was about to play her game.
Dan had tried to look strong as they attended the crime scene, but even he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, betraying just how disturbed he was.
So many people dead. Families ripped apart by sharp steel. Friends decapitated and electrocuted in some kind of hellish rampage. Lovers’ hearts fatally pierced by barbaric bullets. Crimson walls. Bloodied gardens. Lifeless bodies, staring helplessly ahead with doll-like eyes, mouths wide open, gasping for life, like fish out of water.
Luke had never expected to see anything like this in his lifetime, let alone on his first case. He wondered what sort of person could commit such brutal acts. To leave young and old lying soaked in their own blood. The images of the slaughtered families in Milwaukee would appear as spectres to haunt him for the rest of his life.
The killer had left behind no finger prints, no rogue hairs, no blood, other than the victims’, and no DNA. No connections, other than they lived on the same street. There was literally nothing to go on, except the message. The signature of the artist.
Pulcinella’s declaration was immediately classified. Not only might it help to catch the killer, but the last thing anyone wanted to do was to create widespread panic about some maniac promising further killings.
Of course, the press circled the town like vultures trying to find out anything they could, but this secret was kept.
The statistics alone were enough to feed their frenzy and to keep the story on the front pages for over two weeks, as family and friends came forward to speak of their loss and disbelief at what had happened.
And then a rumbling volcano in Hawaii took over. And people around the World looked to new terrors to captivate and entertain, bored with the Milwaukee slaughterhouse.
Dan and Luke had spent nearly every waking moment with each other since they were notified of this crime, and had researched everything there was on this Pulcinella.
They discovered that Pulcinella was a theatrical character that has originally appeared in the Italian Commedia dell’Arte productions; a commonplace Neapolitan puppet, identifiable by its black or dark brown leather mask, with prominent, beak-like nose.
Pulcinella was described as a scheming creature, at times a menace, who would torture to make observers appreciate that they were not the one tormented, believing itself ultimately to be everyone’s saviour; to teach society the important lessons
of life for their own good, often through seemingly cruel means, and answerable only to the people.
This seemed to fit with the message left behind at the crime scene. A righteous, indulgent note preaching the importance of life. Dan and Luke thought long and hard about those words but they couldn’t read anything else into them other than their obvious meaning to live life and not waste it. And Pulcinella, being loyal to the people, was the designated messenger, sent to save humanity from itself.
The FBI worked hard to trace any U.S. connections to Pulcinella but came up wanting. There were some costume designers who sold Pulcinella masks, and the odd touring theatrical troupe would seemingly randomly introduce the character into their productions, but nothing that looked sinister or threatening. There also seemed to be a number of Italian restaurants who had taken the name but again there was nothing suspicious about these establishments.
Nevertheless, all associations or mentions of Pulcinella would have to be investigated. The internet and social media would be trawled by the department. Something would turn up, it always did nowadays with the advent of technology. Some electronic trace would lead them to the killer. There was no longer any need for luck or chance in the modern, digital era. Until then, all Dan and Luke could do was wait.
FIVE
The automated ferry across Lake Michigan was preparing to take its final passage of the evening.
A tall figure, wearing a long, dark raincoat, walked up the gangway, inserted its ticket and boarded. Pulcinella had calculated that an outfit was necessary for this occasion. The late summer sun meant that there was some light left, so the camouflage of shadows at nightfall would not suffice to hide it. It found some clothing in a dumpster behind an over-stocked charity shop, and covered its skin-coloured plastic tones with it to complete the disguise of normality. It had not yet donned the mask and so, to all intent and purposes, it looked like just another worker or party-goer returning home.
Pulcinella had taken this journey numerous times. It learnt the schedule and route well. It knew the automated programme, and had already infiltrated the security systems remotely. Tonight, the ferry would make an unscheduled stop in the middle of the lake.
Parker had not wanted to go the fair in the first place. He hated the over-expensive rides and sideshows. The rapid whirling machines, whooshing screaming riders up to the highest heights, only to turn them upside down and leave them dangling like some fleshy fruits, with coins sprinkling down from their pockets on to the ground below. The incessant calls to you from the over-enthusiastic teenagers manning the stalls, standing in front of oversized cuddly toys, to come over and try for an impossible prize. The sickly, sticky, rainbow-coloured sweets, and pink clouds of cotton candy. And, it always rained, so the ground would be like a bog, meaning that his sneakers and pants would be caked in mud. He loathed it all.
The problem for Parker was that everyone in his family wanted to go, except him. It was a tradition which had started before he had even been born. It was something which he simply was not allowed to, and could not, miss. It was held in nearly as high esteem as Thanksgiving; another event that Parker did not particularly like, although he was partial to the abundance of fancy food, and the enshrined sacrificial turkey.
One year, Parker had tried to avoid going to the fair by professing sickness. Unfortunately, the pain was soon discovered by his mum to be bogus, when she caught him out of bed, merrily playing his games console, and only served to delay their outing by a day. Even today, Parker would be teased for that effort and, from then on, genuine illnesses were always declared as fakes. He now understood only too well the story of ‘the boy who cried wolf’.
Parker acknowledged to himself that, in the scheme of things, it was clearly not a major deal but he was determined never to go again. He recalled in his head how the evening had started, so that he could try to learn lessons for next year.
“Hurry up Parker!” His father shouted, trying to chivvy him along, “We are all waiting for you.”
He tried to persuade himself just to relax, to enjoy the experience. There was no need to go on any of the rides, and he could just walk alongside his family admiring the pretty lights and upbeat music coming from the machinery around him. Parker realised this was not going to work, as he found himself scratching his legs due to his growing anxiety.
Parker went to his bedroom mirror and admired his on-trend look. He straightened his red polo shirt, pulled up his ice blue jeans, and swept aside his floppy black hair, which was covering his eyes. He forced a smile, to try to persuade himself to be happy. All he noticed was the large gap between his front two teeth, which would soon be corrected by a retainer. He scratched his small, pert nose before ruffling up his hair again. Another five minutes wasted, maybe they would go on without him.
“Parker, if you are not down here in 10 seconds, I will honestly come up there and drag you down!” His father was clearly annoyed, and started his countdown, “Ten, nine, …”
Parker nonchalantly walked down the stairs, holding on to the balustrade as he went to try to anchor himself to his home a little longer, and delaying the inevitable excursion.
“Alright, stop shouting, I’m here.” Parker announced as he got to the bottom, “I don’t know why you don’t just leave me. I am old enough now to stay in the house on my own, you know?”
His two little cousins, Jinny and Jane, started circling him, nearly tripping over their matching dungarees as they skipped. They sang and talked incessantly, clearly over-excited for the evening ahead.
“And then we’ll have popcorn, and then we’ll have corn dogs,” Jinny and Jane sang out, using their most annoying monotone voice, “And then we’ll go on the Ghost Train, and then we’ll go on the Big Wheel, and then …”
“Ok, girls,” Parker interrupted, having taken about as much as he could bare, “Enough already. I get the idea.”
Parker loved them both dearly but they knew all too well how to wind him up, and revelled in pushing him to the edge of his limits.
“Yes, come on you two,” Parker’s Aunt Anne joined in, “Leave Parker alone. Why don’t you check how much money you have to spend at the fair to see if you have enough to go on all of the rides you are talking about?”
The girls dashed off to the bench, and spilled out their 50 cent pieces, which they had been saving all year for the fair.
“Thanks, Aunt Anne,” Parker said, relieved to be left alone.
“Yes sir,” Parker’s Uncle John said, “You should be grateful to her. I reckon those girls would have drove you mad in another couple of minutes. I mean literally insane. At least that’s the excuse I use for being so crazy.”
Uncle John started pulling funny faces, and dancing around maniacally. He then stopped, perfectly normal again, and went over to Aunt Anne. He stood behind her, gently rubbing her shoulders and nuzzling his beardy face into her neck. His whiskers tickled at her, and she chuckled, as she pushed him back. They looked at each other for a moment, still in love even after being together for over 20 years.
Parker’s dad finished the rest of his mouthful of orange, which he hoped would fill him up and help him to avoid any sugary sins at the fair, so that he could stick to his weight loss plan. He wiped his sticky lips with his sleeve.
“Well then, let’s get going.” Parker’s dad announced, as he started to herd everyone out of the door. “Come on, come on, move it! We’ll miss the ferry.”
And off they went. The happy procession. Well, all except one, who hung towards the back as they marched onwards.
Last year Parker’s mum had led the charge but this year she could not make it. It was another evening at work in the local hospital. It seemed less doctors were prepared to work through the night but his mum always stepped up to the plate. Maybe that was the way to escape this torture. Parker would become a nightshift worker.
As soon as they arrived at the fairground, the girls sprinted forward towards the entrance gates.
The illumination
s from the fair glowed magically; the many lights furiously chased each other around, upside down, inside out. The differing colours all winking, enticing, inviting, alluring. Like moths to a flame, the girls ran on.
Parker watched as Jinny fell over, her long-trouser foe eventually tripping her up, sending her flying onto the muddy ground. The softness of the earth saved her from any damage, except she was covered in dirt, and her pride was clearly bruised. Parker felt so sorry for her. He rushed forward, and knelt down beside her, getting his trousers muddy too, to match Jinny’s.
“Oh no! Look! We’ve both got dirty knees now. Haven’t we?” Parker said with an exaggerated merriment intended to cheer her, “Here, give me your hands and I will wipe them clean.”
Jinny’s lips stopped trembling, with thoughts of any tears disappearing, and she put out her hands. Parker pretended to spit on them, and then gave them a good rub with the bottom of his shirt. Jinny giggled in delight.
“There now. All better?” Parker asked, tenderly wiping away a rogue tear from her soft, reddened skin.
Jinny nodded, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then turned to catch up with Jane.
“That was kind of you, Parker.” Aunt Anne said to him admiringly.
The sounds of petrified delight grew louder as they approached, mixing with the amplified voices of those keen to get you to part with your money for a few minutes of fun.
“Dare you ride?” Someone questioned.
“Hold on tight!” Another warned.