The Chief Detector turned to Elisa Smith with a sigh. “Okay, get your men to take the body to the morgue.” He faced Josiah Hartt reluctantly. “I think you’d better come with us.”
The tiny village of Stonemoore was as quiet as ever. A few familiar eyes glanced towards Lylith as she walked, a simple community silently greeting her; smiling at first but then spotting the Chief Detector by her side and changing their looks unquestioningly to ones of suspicion.
Josiah kicked at the dirt, old black boots dirtied with specks of mud. The winter sun suddenly brightened and he turned his head away, using his hand to block out the light. The mountains rose up in the shadows, great towers of grass and dirt stretching through the clouds and beyond.
The dwellings they passed were simple structures, similar to the hundreds dispersed throughout the valley. The walls were constructed out of the logs of the forest, chipped and splintered and carved into shape. The logs were in turn held together by a thick layer of sap, drained from the trees as they were being cut. There were windows, but nothing as pristine and fine as those found in the towns across the moors. The roofs were coated by thick layers of hay, fastened together by long sweeping plaits; winding themselves around chimneys carved out of the trunk of an old oak trees. As they strolled on they passed row upon row of these houses, identical from afar, but so diverse in their construction.
The hospital was looming now; a featureless grey series of cuboids stacked against a cliff face. In silence they walked towards it; the Chief Detector with his hands in his pockets, nervously watching Josiah as he swaggered coolly ahead of them. Lylith felt the urge to walk by the stranger’s side instead.
The Stonemoore hospital was a grim place indeed. Flickering lights rattled above their heads, blinking on and off through the air-conditioned haze. Doors near enough broken off their hinges swung to and fro behind him, accompanied by a bitter draft of wind.
The Chief Detector hated people undermining him, not at home, not at work, and certainly not in front of a crowd of people. But he had his suspicions and he wasn’t going to let them go unanswered. Who was this Josiah Hartt, how did he waltz onto a fresh murder scene and seem to know everything about the victim? Everything he had deduced seemed perfectly logical, but after all his years in the force Fraun simply wouldn’t believe such calculations could come without prior knowledge of the crime or the murderer. Perhaps he already had the guilty party in tow. Such a quick catch would certainly look good in the papers…
“Nice place you’ve got here.” Josiah Hartt remarked from behind, eyes flickering across the bare white walls. “Good to know we’ve got something good to look forward to once our time’s called.”
“I know it’s not much, but it’s all we could afford. Stonemoore’s a small town Mr Hartt, and we had hoped a morgue wasn’t the best use of our expenditure.”
“But you were wrong weren’t you?” Josiah quipped. “Footprints down the hallway, all those big filing cabinets; Stonemoore’s not the quaint little village you’d like people to believe. Have there been a lot of murders here?”
“Not one in seven years. This valley is a popular old persons retreat. The aged population have a nasty habit of dying. But I am surprised there aren’t more. The war left a lot of scars in our society; all these beliefs, all these factions. People were bound to get hurt.”
“Well exactly.” Josiah remarked as they turned another corner. The same bare walls, the same tired feet. “Having the right belief in the right place can get someone an awful lot of power can’t it; Chief Detector Fraun? What exactly did you believe?” Marcus turned sharply on his heels, casting towards Josiah the most threatening glance.
Lylith walked by the newcomers side, and she couldn’t help but smirk as she watched the Chief Detector squirm. Josiah Hartt was the one comfort in the mess her day had become, and despite the fact they’d only met over a crime scene, she couldn’t help but be glad they had met. He seemed to know what he was doing. She didn’t even mind the bleak mortuary ward when beside him. Not that it was any different to any other part of the hospital she’d visited: the stench of disinfectant, floors that squeaked, the fast approaching set of white doors. She felt at home there.
Marcus pushed one of the doors aside, allowing Josiah and Lylith White to walk through. The room beyond wasn’t much to look at. Rows of filing cabinets lined the walls, the wooden surfaces stacked with test tubes and measuring equipment. Four metal tables were arranged in the middle; three of them were empty, with just a neatly folded sheet lying on top of each. But Josiah and Lylith were directed towards the fourth, fastened in the corner and well and truly occupied.
The woman had been brought by horse ahead of them and she lay there now covered in the same white sheets, completely naked; the mud from the floor still smeared on her cheeks. Her skin was flat and cold, sweat beads drying slowly across her skin. Her hair was pulled neatly back behind her head, revealing her pock marked forehead. Like a freshly slaughtered pig.
“Her name was Roseanne Price.” The Coroner stood over the corpse, dressed in a long white gown, clutching in his shivering hands a simple plastic clipboard. His eyes were wide and grey, framed by a pair of far outdated spectacles. “I ran an MP check, there was no problem there. I checked the address the Detectors found in the church with my contact and the Civilian Index. Her name is Roseanne Price, thirty five years old, a mother off two; recently separated from her husband Harvey Swift. She’s still listed as living at his address, although I’d suggest she’s moved on since.”
Josiah turned on his heels, a smug grin on his face as he looked towards Marcus Fraun. He returned to the coroner. “You’ve contacted her husband?”
“No, not yet. It’s raining heavily on the route in Pollock, and the horses are simply refusing to budge. They’re used to rain but there’s a real downpour from what I hear.”
“Rain from Mugollen; correct on every account.” Josiah grinned. “Looks like I’m on fire today. Well - everyday.” He leant over the body, running his hands along her stomach. He pressed harder, looking towards her lips in search of a response.
“Erm….” The coroner began, thrown by the stranger’s movements. He held out his clipboard in an attempt to draw him away. “I have my report for you to read Mr Hartt.”
Josiah lifted his head. “Thank you.” He nodded, returning to his work. “Leave it on the side, I’ll amend it later. Now if you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone with Miss Price?”
Marcus Fraun sighed again. He hated every second of this humiliation, but couldn’t deny from what he had seen that Josiah’s opinion would be invaluable, and if the coroner found anything Hartt said he hadn’t, then the Detector would at least know if he was hiding something.
“Come on then Miss White,” the Chief concluded at last, “I’ll escort you back to your home; I’ll need a statement before I can leave you...”
Josiah leapt up, holding out a finger in protest. “No, no!” He exclaimed. “I’ll need Lylith to stay with me; she’s really rather vital in discovering the truth behind Roseanne’s Price’s death. Also I like her shirt.”
“Now hold on a moment….” Marcus snapped. “You want the Chief Detector and coroner to leave you alone with the corpse, yet you want some woman who found the body to stay here with you? No offence Miss White.”
“A lot taken actually.” Lylith muttered.
“Do you want me to find the cause of this woman’s death or not, because let me tell you - I will get answers.” Josiah said, waiting expectantly for Fraun to budge. The coroner uttered a few words, and with a firm hand led a disgruntled Chief Detector away.
“You have five minutes.” Marcus grunted before the couple slid slowly around the corner, the doors screeching back into place behind them.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Lylith White quizzed, walking around the metal table and to Josiah Hartt’s side as soon as the doors stopped swinging. “Why do you want me here? Like he said, I’m just some nobody who found her.”
“Okay…” Lylith began, leant against the table, arms crossed in fascination. “So what do you need to know?”
“Now, I realise this might be hard, but you’ll have seen it, you just have to try to remember - was there any sort of saliva on her lips, dribbling down her chin perhaps? The wind would have dried it by the time we arrived...”
“No…I don’t think so. She was sweating a lot, her hands were clenched-”
“Her hands!” Josiah exclaimed. “You approached her from the right side, yes? So what about her fingertips, were they wet, any signs of salvia on those, any dampness at all?”
“No, I…I don’t think so-” She stammered. “Look, I was kinda busy being sick at the time, it was sorta hard for me to tell anything when I was chundering porridge all over the collection bay floor. Why do you want to know this stuff anyway?”
“It will help to determine how she died. Our friendly neighbourhood coroner and that Field Specialist in the collection bay think Roseanne’s own heart decided to call it quits and move on to the great beyond; that she got all in a fluster over that bit of graffiti and the ticker went pop-”
“But you think she was murdered?” Lylith asked.
“That is correct.”
“That’s quite a big claim...”
“It’s quite a right claim – it’ll be hard to tell until the autopsy yet I believe we can find out before then. There was a faint smell of poison on her lips, suggesting it was that which killed her. If it was cyanide then there would be frothing at the mouth before death, hence the reason I wanted to know about saliva on her lips. Of course after being made to swallow poison the normal reaction would be to stick your fingers down your throat and try to heave it back up again…”
“So her fingers would be wet!” Lylith White realised.
“Yes, they would.” He leant over to the woman’s mouth and pulled it open, staring inside. “It seems you’re right though, there’s no scarring from her fingers at the back of her tongue, no forced gagging; maybe she wasn’t poisoned after all or - or maybe she didn’t know she’d been got… Aaah!” Hartt exclaimed suddenly.
Lylith leapt over, joining him by his side. He pointed towards the corpse’s neck. On her pale, cold skin sat two tiny puncture marks, the size of pinpricks but now red and swollen. “Look at that. They’re so tiny… Oooh whoever did this must have been clever. They’re almost invisible…”
“So what got her, an injection?” Lylith suggested.
“No…” Josiah Hartt squinted. “Good guess, but completely and utterly wrong. A pairs of needles would have left a much bigger mark than that. But what tool could possibly be quite so small?”
Lylith sighed, leaning back against the table. She winced for a moment, repositioning herself as her body came into contact Roseanne’s cold, dead leg.
“So this is your party trick is it?” She asked. “All these things: poisons, saliva, needles – do you just specialise in the grim and the dead, or does it work on the living too?”
“It’s not a trick Lylith. I can just tell things, by looking, by observing. That’s all it is. Generally the dead need examining most, but of course the same rules apply for anything, a pencil, an oak tree…You.”
“I’m sorry?” Lylith coughed. “You know about me?”
“Not yet.” Josiah shrugged. “I’ve been rather busy. But I could find out if you liked. Stand away from the table for me...” Lylith White obeyed, shuffling into the centre of the room. “No, straight.” Josiah instructed.
“I am.” Lylith nodded.
“Oh, okay.”
The room fell silent for a moment as Josiah Hartt examined her. She blushed slightly, never before had she been under such harsh and wondering eyes. He leant in closer, moved farther back, sniffed at the lapels on her coat before withdrawing himself and leaping onto one of the unoccupied tables. “So you’re around twenty five - that much is obvious. As is your short sightedness; you have red marks from tight reading glasses on your nose and behind your ears. I know you’re only recently of your age - the necklace around your neck is brand new; there are no marks on your collar from repeated use. It’s a few days until Christmas and so nearly a year since the last yet still its shiny and clean. I’d say your birthday was in October?”
“September actually.” Lylith sniffed. “The 28th.”
“Ah well, almost there. As for your job; it seems reasonable for me to suggest you work in one of the windmills down the valley…”
“Excuse me!” Lylith White exclaimed, staggering backwards. “How could you possibly know that; I told no one where I worked since we arrived here? Did I?”
“Not to my knowledge. I only just discovered the fact myself. You’re fairly strong; your arm and stomach muscles are prominent, your legs as slightly less toned though - suggesting that some of your arm work requires you to be seated. You can get muscles in your arms from lifting just about anything, however judging by the mist of flour beneath your cuffs I would suggest you were carrying heavy sacks. A windmill’s a safe bet. To confirm my judgement - when you were standing awkwardly, I asked you to stand straight, however you thought you already were, meaning bent slightly over is your natural position. Turning a wheel perhaps? That would certainly explain the lack of muscles around your thighs.”
“Well that is pretty… pretty incredible....” She laughed.
“I am rather, thank you.” Josiah Hartt grinned.
She tilted her head. “And a little bit creepy-”
Lylith was cut short as the doors burst open. Josiah turned sharply around to catch the Chief Detector marching in, casting towards him accusative looks.
“Busy?” Fraun snarled.
“Not particularity.” Josiah replied. “In a matter of moments I learnt all I could and all we need. Although quite why you’re interrupting me only three and a half minutes in…?”
“There’s been another murder.” Marcus said. “Towards the other end of the village, by the Plum and Maggot pub. The same symbol, the same trademarks, everything. We might just have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Really? Marvellous!” Josiah Hartt grinned, making to leave before holding out a hand towards Lylith. “Then our carriage awaits...”
The Second Victim
R osin Ash had found the body himself. He’d been on patrol in the upper regions of the Stonemoore village when he’d stumbled upon a silhouetted corpse in the distance. It annoyed him that this should be the place where somebody was killed: he’d always rather liked upper Stonemoore. The homes there were hardly luxurious, but compared to the rest of the village huts built with plaster instead of logs and flat roofs instead of wads of straw were a joy to behold. These homes even had clear windows, yet they were so thin Rosin felt that if he dared to lean out and touch them they might just crumble like a sheet of rotting paper to the touch,. He stood in an alleyway between two rows of the houses, the ground beneath his feet still moist from rain, the smell of petrichor still lingering in the air.
The Deputy Detector leant on a wall and a plume of dust sprinkled upon his freshly polished boots. He looked out across the forest – a great stretch of redwoods and ferns that ran along the borders of the village for a good few miles of flat land and even a seemingly impossible stretch up the mountain walls themselves. The trees were surrounded by an eerie silence, as wood slowly cracked and shifted in the breeze. The odd rustle of leaves sounded like a whisper, a thousand tiny rivers running down their intricate trunks.
Rosin wanted to be sick. It wasn’t so much that he felt sick – in fact it was the complete absence of that feeling that repulsed him so. He was used to the bodies by now, which was worsened by the fact he’d seen few in his 10 years with the Force. It was the bodi
es in his life before that readied him for this one. He was a hard worker before his time, and for the first fifteen years of his life he’d worked on his father’s farm, using his childlike features to avoid being dragged off to war like the classmates who had long since been taken. Instead of an education he set to work; head down, keeping himself to himself; shovelling dirt and manure and making sure the crop was ready on time.
One day, not long after his fifteenth birthday, a young Rosin Ash heard a gunshot in the barn. He dropped his tools and ran towards the shed. He found inside a body on the floor, blood seeping into the hay. That body was his father. Rosin was sick that day, more than once. When the detectors arrived Ash used his knowledge of the area and the few people still living there to help them track down the killer; it wasn’t hard, everyone knew everyone in that scattered remnant of the settlement and the motives of the murderer were all too obvious before anyone even happened upon a name.
Deputy Ash had seen the man drinking down the pub many a time, and it was the same man whose wife Rosin’s father had been sleeping with. It wasn’t hard for him to remember; walking in on your father with a woman who’s not your mother tends to resonate in the mind. The other woman’s husband confessed to killing Rosin’s dad, but that didn’t solve the problem of what on earth they were going to do with the boy.
Rosin’s mother was by his side as he walked in on his cheating father and so she fled a good few weeks before his death. Nobody knew where she’d gone, but in the midst of war it wouldn’t have been far. That just left the Force. In the years after his father’s death they acted like a foster home. He was old enough to train and that came with shelter and food so at the time, in the hands of inexperienced detectors, it was the only option left. It saved on the paperwork that came with foster homes and foster parents, and the valleys best detectors were being killed in far off battles so fresh blood was needed before the old ones shipped out too. Ash graduated, not with flying colours but with skills enough and although he wasn’t happy Rosin couldn’t see himself going anywhere. The Force was his home, this was his life. He was in too deep to opt out now.
Blood & Baltazar Page 2
