by Peter Hartog
“Will Mr. Kole and Doctor Saranda be joining us?” he asked, looking around hopefully.
“No,” I exchanged a glance with Mahoney, who raised his eyebrows in silent question. “At least, not for the moment,” I added hurriedly. “It’ll depend on what we find.”
Stentstrom set his briefcase on the floor. He removed his coat, folded it neatly, followed by his hat and gloves. He placed them carefully next to the briefcase. Popping the top, he opened the case. Inside lay plastic clothing, shoe covers and gloves, as well as a variety of forensic tools.
“Please help yourselves,” he gestured.
Moments later, Stentstrom and I were bedecked in clear plastic from head to toe. We entered the room, stepping lightly around the blood splatter. Mahoney remained behind, an inscrutable look on his worn face.
The Insight returned, simmering on the edge of my senses, present, yet aloof. I sensed its hesitation, as if held back by apprehension, or fear.
That was a new experience, the Insight afraid of something. Because that didn’t bother me at all. Nope, not one bit. Now wasn’t the time to analyze the Insight’s feelings. Or the fact it might have any.
“EVI, calculate the bloodstain pattern following my POV, and share the results with Detective Holliday and Captain Mahoney,” Stentstrom stated, making a slow, wide circuit around the body in the chair.
Three-dimensional graphs and figures appeared in my visual center, revealing angles, points and areas of convergence as well as the area of origin. As the images cycled, EVI included expected trajectories, and projected heights and distances.
“Extraordinary,” Stentstrom remarked. He shuffled up beside me with a hop to his step. “Do you see it?”
“It looks like our vic was shot by dozens of small-caliber bullets,” I replied slowly as I assimilated the data stream. “But I don’t see any stippling or powder burns around the wounds. And the angles are all wrong. No shell casings, and no bullet holes or scoring in the wall or ceiling.”
“What do you think it means?” Stentstrom asked, his voice quivering with barely suppressed excitement.
“He wasn’t shot,” I answered, feeling like a trainee back at the Academy attending my first forensic science class. “At least, not in the traditional sense. So, what killed him?”
“An excellent question. Look closer at the blood stains. Notice the lengths, and the direction of travel. Do you see anything now?”
I turned toward the wall near the door to study the stains. The Insight continued to roil behind its self-imposed exile.
“I don’t get it,” I frowned. “This is all wrong.”
“Indeed, Detective Holliday.” Stentstrom came up next to me and pointed at several splotches with his plastic finger. “Here, and here. Note how these stains are inverted because of the force which caused them. Now, look at the body. Tell me what you see.”
I moved toward the chair to study the corpse.
Sanarov had been in his late sixties or early seventies, judging from his sallow skin, gray hair and liver spots on his hands, neck and head. He was tall, an inch or two over six feet, and his body was muscular despite his age. I caught an old, faded tattoo on the upper bicep of his left arm around the short sleeve. It was a spider web, with the spider climbing out. Three small bell tattoos were arrayed on the back of his left hand, starting at the pinkie finger, one along each consecutive knuckle. However, his body was covered in thumbnail-size wounds. Even his clothes had holes in them, as if he’d been perforated by a high-powered nail gun. As I looked more closely, I realized the fleshy wounds resembled boils that had burst outward, rather than skin that had been punctured or cut.
“He exploded,” I said.
The Insight eased into me as if inhaling, like a cup filling with water. My senses swelled, and I was drawn to the open book on the desk. Even at this distance, I recognized the unmistakable structure and style of the Bible. I couldn’t see which passage, but the pages were marked with crib notes and other scribblings. When my eyes raked across the desk, the holo-screen flickered. Instinctively, I waved my hand at the screen, expecting nothing since I stood beyond its standard activation radius, and didn’t have Sanarov’s password to reactivate it.
The screen flared to life. One line of text appeared in big, bold letters. I focused on the text.
“Why do the righteous suffer?” I recited. As I uttered the words, the holo-screen shimmered, and the verse changed. “He repays everyone for what they have done. He brings on them what their conduct deserves.”
I became dimly aware of Mahoney behind me in the doorway. I smelled his body wash and sharp cologne, and beneath that, stark and painful memories of his past coming back to roost. The Insight gave them life and depth, and a distinct bouquet of frustration and loss. Mahoney knew something about the victim. Their paths had intersected at some point.
“Detective?” Stentstrom asked, his voice quivering. “What is happening?”
Before I could answer, the words faded to be replaced by a new passage.
“And no creature is hidden from His sight,” I continued. “But all are naked and exposed to the eyes of Him to whom we must give account.”
“How are you doing this?” the medical examiner whispered.
I shook my head and said, “I don’t know.”
More text appeared. My heartbeat accelerated.
“For your sins will always find you,” I read, my eyes captured by the words scrolling across the holo-screen. My breathing quickened. Sweat gathered on my brow. “Your sins will never forget you. Your sins can never forgive you.”
The screen went dark.
With the last vestiges of the magic dissipating, I turned to Mahoney, only to face a youthful version of the man wearing a fresh-pressed suit and tie. He stood in a dank, dark room that was not the church basement, but somewhere else. The stench of blood and gore filled my nostrils. A small body lay at Young Mahoney’s feet. Whoever this had been, the head and face had been crushed by a tremendous force. The face was a pulpy mess.
Suddenly, an unbridled hatred and despair permeated the room in which I stood, and I nearly choked on its intensity. I tried clearing my throat several times hoping to wash the feeling away without success.
The Insight vanished, enervating me further. My breathing grew shallow. Sweat ran down my face in cold rivulets. The image of the captain and that room dissolved, and with it, the raw emotion I’d just experienced. Something very bad had happened both here, and in that place from Mahoney’s past.
But of one thing I was certain: Gustavo Sanarov had been killed in an unnatural manner. Not by a gunshot or stab wound, but by something far more profound, primal, and sinister.
I also realized whoever or whatever had done this didn’t just want Sanarov dead. They had wanted him to suffer until the very end
About the Author
A native son of Massachusetts, Peter has been living in the Deep South for over 25 years. By day, he's an insurance professional, saving the world one policy at a time. But at night, well, no one really wants to see him fighting crime in his Spider-Man onesie. Instead, Peter develops new worlds of adventure, influenced by his love of science fiction, mysteries, music and fantasy. Whether it's running role-playing games for his long-time friends, watching his beloved New England sporting teams, or just chilling with a movie, his wife, two boys, three cats and a puppy, Peter's imagination is always on the move. It's the reason why his stories are an eclectic blend of intrigue, excitement, humor and magic, all drawn from four decade's worth of television, film, novels, and comic books. You can learn more about Peter and his writing projects at peterhartog.com, or send him a tweet @althazyr.
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