Oracle: A Story from The Reels

by Brian Ewing

  “I had my run-ins with Frank Vinnova back in the day,” Bell admitted.

  The man had been on the force almost as many years as Sisto had been on the planet, but the thought never crossed his mind that in twenty-five or thirty years, Vinnova may have acquired other enemies on the force.

  “We could never prove anything, but there were always rumors.” There was a hint of shame in Bell’s voice, “I remember hearing over the radio that night about your family and how they were finally able to stick some grime on that motherfucker. I didn’t know that was you though.”

  A new inflection of respect actually exited the veteran cop’s mouth, and Sisto had to keep some level of normalcy in his life, so he finally replied, “It’s okay. I appreciate the gesture, but I am still the same freak show prick I was last night and the night before.”

  A wave of relief waved over both the men and the moment of kindness was now behind them.

  “I don’t believe in your mumbo-jumbo, but my partner does, and like all good partners, I back her up.” The doubtful, cocky tone returned to Bell. “So, what do you need to do? Rub a crystal ball or something?”

  “Fuck me,” Sisto blurted. “Have you seen a movie since they released them in color?”

  Not expecting an actual response to that, Sisto stood up and finally started to inspect his surroundings, waiting for Bell to share what he and Caden had learned before he arrived. Bell looked down at his notes, squinting as if he couldn’t read his own writing.

  After cracking the code to his own poor notations, he said, “Got the call just before seven this morning. Two of the workers from the plant up the road pulled behind the carnicería to blow each other and release some tension before their shift.”

  “Really?” Sisto asked.

  With not an ounce of insincerity on his face, Bell nodded.

  “Good for them,” Sisto stated. “Working on a Saturday sucks.”

  Bell rolled his eyes and continued, “Anyways, the plant workers posted up behind the complex here, knowing the butcher shop doesn’t open until nine on the weekend, and figured they could count on some privacy. Sure as anything, the driver, a John Franklin, noticed during mid-blow some red liquid resembling blood was running down the back door of the shop.”

  Mid-blow, Sisto thought. Bell is a true poet of ignorance.

  “Franklin zipped up and told his passenger, a—” Bell paused, referring to his notes, “a Terry Jones, to follow him and check out the markings.”

  “That’s when they walked up and saw the severed leg,” Sisto pieced together, looking back to see Bell signaling his agreement.

  The description of the drawing was what got it kicked to Bell and Caden, who luckily were already in the office at six-thirty. Caden was briefing Bell on the previous night’s findings in the breakroom over cups of coffee. Dispatch called them in as soon as responding patrol arrived and saw the gore plastered on the door. The tale of the slaughtering at Barstow Farms had gone through the department in the last twenty-four hours like a brush fire, which ended up benefiting the detective team since the patrol officers knew exactly who to reach out to once they met up with Franklin and Jones. The leg and blood art were indeed horrible but also a stretch to assume it was the same person from the night before, based on that alone. Sisto knew there was something Bell had not told him, something to leave no doubt it had been Carson Vinnova that had made a trip down at Chemistry Cove.

  “I know you think what I do is a parlor trick, but can you at least throw me a small bone and let me know why you got me down here?”

  “You know that walk-in freezer you passed on your way in?”

  “Ugh.” Sisto already started getting a chill start up his spine. “Same as last night?”

  “Not exactly, but too similar to ignore. Plus, the calling card on the back door.” Bell added, “Also, there was the note.”

  “Note?”

  “I had Walters from SCF tag it but leave it until you got a chance to rub your balls on it, or however you do your magic.”

  “Charming,” retorted Sisto. “How did you ever stay single all these years, with poetry like that?”

  “Ha, I didn’t.”

  “You’re married?!” Sisto gasped.

  “Five times,” Bell stated with an undertone of accomplishment.

  “What the fuck? One per decade since the seventies?”

  “Not quite. First marriage lasted three weeks right after high school and right before leaving for the Marines.” Bell looked up, visibly trying to do the math on his tragic love life. “Second marriage was to the same woman as the third marriage, over the span of twelve years.”

  “Good God, man.” Sisto was assessing how in the world Bell lay down enough super-charm to convince these women to share their lives with him.

  “Wife four was eight months of hell and number five was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  “What could number five have done that the first four didn’t to cause the camel’s back to break?”

  “She secretly went to sex parties . . . without me. Didn’t even tell me that was something she was into, not that I would have condoned it. I got home early from a stakeout, this was around a decade back.” He was trying to detail the downfall. “And I walk into my bedroom with my goddamn wife with a strange woman’s snatch riding her face while some young fella was pounding my wife in the ass. Unreal.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Sorry that he’d even asked, Sisto tried to get Bell to stop trying to be his buddy and spilling his life story. It made him uncomfortable where their relationship had gone within the last half hour. Bell, recognizing the awkwardness, broke free from memory lane and stood up from the wooden chair. Ushering Sisto back the way they came, they pushed through the revolving door and passed the manager’s office off to the left, which Sisto somehow missed when arriving, along with the prep table with the mounted spice rack, which he did recognize. Turning the corner, the familiar walk-in, now on their right side, had the pull handle with the safety press button on the other side. Pulling on the cold metal handle, the plastic flaps that hung from the top of the door creating a flimsy barrier to retain the cold, was swiped to the side by Bell to reveal the vulgar display left in the center. Entering the freezer, The Reels decided to show up at that moment, hitting Sisto like a ton of bricks when paired with the icy breeze hitting his face from the duct directed right at him.

  Sisto had been thrown into the moments after the kill. He could still feel the heart of the human suit he was thrust in, pounding like a drum set within the chest cavity he wore. It was the same excitement that had hit Sisto like a tidal wave at the Barstow Farms vision. Looking down a fit arm covered by a black leather jacket, just past the end of the leather was a hand that could tell a story. The prison ink covered 80 percent of the left hand and ran down the digits of the fingers. Carson Vinnova just showed himself to Sisto. A side thought outside The Reels tickled the back of his mind. Sisto watched the motions unfold in front of him as the tattooed hand reached for a bulky item in the shadows, making it difficult to determine what it was at first. Pulling the item into better lighting, Sisto saw what Carson was seeing and, while the reaction was not his own and involuntary, the smile that crept up on his face made Sisto cringe externally. The hunk of meat in Carson’s hand ran about fourteen inches long and had a human foot attached to it. Turning with the memory, Sisto felt his muscles rotate as he started to wedge the foot of the loose appendage under an ownerless torso so the leg was propped vertical, the starting of a human tee-pee.

  “It was him,” Sisto stated, blinking to see he was in the same exact spot as his vision had left him, but hours or days later.

  “That’s why you’re here,” Bell countered. “The note is taped to that container in the corner.”

  Sisto carefully navigated around the completed project The Reels let him peek in on as Carson was getting started. Following the directions where the stubby fingers pointed, Sisto got closer see a big, five-g
allon bucket had the word “Picante” written in marker, half covered by a piece of paper with a typed note attached:

  You may feel cold,

  But you’re getting warmer,

  Stay the course,

  Keep playing with me, Seer.

  Below the typed print was a single bloody fingerprint.

  Seer. Sisto read the note twice more, resting his eyes each time on the final word, and wondered if that article hadn’t come out, whether the farmer and butcher wouldn’t have been subject to Carson’s abstract artwork. Feeling guilty at the thought, Sisto turned back to get a better look at the three-dimensional human pyramid display. Unlike the barn, the carnicería owner had his severed head hiding in the middle of the display, encased around the carefully placed limbs. Sisto noticed another difference in the two settings.

  “Give me your flashlight, will ya?” Sisto requested, hand extended in Bell’s direction.

  “Heard you got a badge now. You don’t come prepared?”

  Looking back at the asshole, Sisto saw that Bell had his flashlight already in hand, accompanied with a grin, indicating how pleased he was at his own statement. Sisto yanked the mag light out of his grip and shone it inside the display. Confirming what his eyesight could not due to the shadowing, the head of the old slayer was resting atop the torso with two holes bored in his face. Both the man’s eyes were removed and, based on the tears of the skin at the base of the orbital sockets, Carson was enraged. The removal had no precision or finesse.

  “Still looking for the poor bastard’s eyes, but I bet the sick fuck ate them or something,” Bell concluded, interrupting Sisto’s thoughts.

  “They are in the picante bucket,” Sisto blurted out, not sure where his certainty came from.

  Grin diminishing, Bell asked, “You see that in a vision?”

  “No,” Sisto replied as the certainty settled in even more, then recapped the note. “Colder and warmer. He is playing a game. He called me seer. Why? Why not psychic or prophet or something? Seer. Eyes.”

  Bell continued to look lost, so Sisto went further, “He wants to play a game. This was hide and seek. The closer I got to the bucket, the warmer I got. The eyes are in the bucket.”

  Bell charged over towards the bucket and gently took it off the rack and set it on the floor. The lid was already loose, causing Bell’s face to wrap into a pudgy frown. Knocking off the lid, there were gallons of homemade tomato salsa, the potency of cilantro and onion hitting Bell’s nasal cavity. Resting on top of the sea of tomato puree were the two dilated eyes, a frozen expression of fear in the black pools of the irises, staring right back at Calvin Bell.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,’ Bell whispered as he put the lid back on. “How did you figure that out?”

  Sisto clicked off the flashlight, setting it on the wire rack, ready to get out of the igloo. “Criminal Minds.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “You two behave without me?” Caden asked, only half joking as she entered Interrogation Room Two at the SCPD 22nd precinct.

  The room looked like it had been subject to a hostile takeover, with pictures and files taped across the walls. Sisto assumed the remodel had occurred when Caden had been explaining her and Sisto’s findings to Bell early that morning, creating a timeline as she walked the old gumshoe through it. Caden approached the table with her handy manila folder tucked under her right arm, allowing her to maneuver three cups of coffee between her hands. Sisto noticed a look of contentment across the woman’s face as she handed out the coffees.

  “Black. Black. And, a pumpkin spiced cappuccino with shaved nutmeg for the lady,” Caden joked, handing the cup to Sisto.

  Sisto wasn’t sure if he was madder at the blow to his ego or the fact a pumpkin spiced cappuccino with shaved nutmeg sounded incredible right at that moment and the cup in front of him was in fact not the nice item Caden had described. Sisto could bet his left ball, unless pumpkin spiced cappuccinos had started coming in a powdery MRE-like consistency he was accustomed to from the breakroom, he was getting hours-old, burnt, house coffee with creamer that could double as baby formula. Handing the cup over the table to him, there was an unintentional glimpse of cleavage that stared at Sisto dead-on. He was no voyeur, but the glimpse did give his dick a brisk wiggle, reminding him that it had been a while since he had been with anyone. Trying to eradicate his hormonal thoughts, he thanked her and immediately went to sip the coffee, hoping it was hot enough to burn his lips so that his attention would be diverted.

  Caden sat down and informed the two that she had found something of interest but asked them for a recap first. Bell, removing his notepad that looked like it had been issued to him when he joined the academy a hundred years ago, sifted through the pages and detailed everything from the two power plant workers stumbling on the scene during “mid-blow,” to his nose burning of onions and cilantro while discovering the ownerless eyeballs. The last part of the recap caused Caden’s nose to crinkle and a look of repulsion formed over her otherwise beautiful face. After Sherlock Holmes’ incredible description, Caden looked towards Sisto and asked him if he was able to pick up on anything. He explained his vision to them, recapping to Bell a second time after telling him the story during the car ride back to the station—how he saw the tattooed hands creating the human architecture in the freezer. Sisto also explained how Carson was losing it, trying to play a twisted game as he explained the verbiage in the note. Sisto was kind enough to not burst Bell’s bubble—that it had in fact been him that had actually found the eyeballs, giving Bell a slight shift of relief.

  “Okay, well it seems like you have a fan, Tom,” Caden stated, setting her manila folder in front her, preparing to unfold her discoveries.

  “I reached out to a friend at the Carrington field office of the FBI. Bell and I helped back up the feds on a case a few years back, taking down a domestic terrorist group that was crossing the country to set off bombs at an important protest rally at the end of the last administration. The terror cell thought they were going to start a revolution and start the cleansing of America. Anyways, the agent in charge and I kept in touch and, after reaching out today, I was able to get some breadcrumbs regarding Carson Vinnova’s movements during the last two months.”

  She looked at both men to make sure she had their attention. Sisto and Bell, on opposite sides of one another, were sipping on their coffees with eyes intent on her. With the room fully engaged, she proceeded, “So, Porter explained to me that the Brooklyn office had gotten chatter the last few months about Jack Vinnova venturing out from his money laundering and starting to dabble in gun running. Jackie Boy himself, along with his four confidants, were all being surveilled with hopes one of them could lead the feds to the source. About a week and a half ago however—”

  “Carson Vinnova falls off the map.” It was more of a statement than a question from Bell’s direction.

  “Close,” Caden replied. “He booked a flight from Brooklyn to Florence International, rented a car under an assumed name, then disappeared.”

  “Plates?” Bell threw out as a longshot.

  “Car was found torched just outside Mustain city lines a week ago.”

  A sigh came from Sisto’s side of the table, causing the two detectives to redirect their focus from each other.

  “The farmhouse was three days ago,” Sisto said with no room for doubt.

  “We are still waiting on forensics to confirm, but based on decomp, that sounds about right,” Caden said, seconding that motion.

  “Your psychic powers tell you that?” a reluctant Bell genuinely asked.

  “Sort of,” confirmed Sisto. “The memory I was thrown into at the barn, which was at the time right before the murder, had a full moon.”

  Turning his phone around for the two detectives to see was a weather app with a moon cycle built in. The app indicated that three days ago it was a full moon.

  “So, Carson went from one victim to another within three days? That seems to be escalating pretty fas
t, don’t you think?”

  The astuteness of his question surprised Bell and impressed Caden, causing them to glance at each other in unison. Caden caught herself glancing a moment longer than normal at Tom Sisto, surprised to only at that moment notice the change in his demeanor over the last year or so. Sisto had picked up a ton of knowledge of how crime scenes are processed and easily slid into the mindset of how offenders operate and execute their actions. Causing more empathy was the thought of Sisto’s experience that had brought him to his current life status, assisting her and others like her in putting away the worst of the worst. Caden had known she wanted to wear the badge since that night her friend Jenny had been attacked. That was a choice she made. Tom Sisto had received unprovoked physical and emotional trauma onto him and had since carried the burden of The Reels, as he referred to them. The selflessness of putting his gift, probably curse as he saw it, to assist her and Bell but more broadly Saratoga City, as well as Mustain, was honorable.

  “What are you thinking, Tom?” Caden finally said.

  “Yeah, Tom. Enlighten us,” Bell added insultingly.

  “Well,” hoping he wasn’t about to stick his foot in his mouth, Sisto answered, “the way I see it, it seems he is either off the rails, which I can confirm by wearing his memories that he definitely has a few screws loose, or he has someone that has helped him map out his vengeance.”

  “You’re saying he has a partner?” Bell asked. “There is no evidence of that.”

  “You say that because of the fact that Carson found out about the article,” Caden blurted out, connecting the dots approaching Sisto’s insinuation.

  Sisto nodded in agreement. “There is no one that we know of that Vinnova still talks to here in Saratoga City. It doesn’t make any sense that an article from last year on page six would end up on his radar.”

  “Unless someone fed it to him.” Caden finished the path he was running on.

  “Okay,” said Bell, submitting to the idea that Sisto may actually have it right, “so we are looking for two of these sickos.”