Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society

by R. D. Hunter

  CHAPTER ONE

  The house had a fever. I sensed it as soon as I stepped out of the car. The air felt heavy and oppressive, weighing on my shoulders like a thick blanket. I swallowed hard and had a sudden urge to strip out of my jacket, despite the chilly, late January air. No doubt about it; something terrible had happened here.

  This was no great leap of deduction. Even if I hadn’t been magically tuned in to my surroundings out of sheer habit, there was still the small matter of the curious throng of neighbors and onlookers, barely held at bay by a couple of bored-looking patrol officers and a thin line of yellow police tape. I took a moment to absorb my surroundings.

  The house itself was nothing special to look at. It was a tan, two story structure, on the smaller side for this area, but well maintained with a neatly trimmed lawn and a few bushes out front. The neighborhood was one of dozens of suburbs located in and around Atlanta, populated mostly by normal, quiet folk just looking to live their lives. This made it all the more news-worthy when that peace was broken by blood and violence.

  My partner and training officer, Bill Perkins, came around and stood by me, taking in the scene in silence. I was glad for his presence. Bill was a tall, black man in his mid-thirties. His large frame and square features made him seem like the quintessential ‘bad cop’, but he was always quick with a smile and an encouraging word and I had it on good authority he wasn’t above playing My Little Pony dress-up with his two girls when the mood hit him.

  “You up for this, Mel?” he asked, his tone low. I nodded.

  If anyone else had asked me that, they’d have gotten a razor-sharp reply that made them slink off somewhere quiet to lick their emotional wounds in solitude. But I knew Bill’s words came from a place of honest concern, not condescension. He’d been training me for close to six months, ever since I’d been transferred to Special Criminal Cases. It was a new unit, a joint operation between the Atlanta Police Department and Fulton County Sheriff’s Office, setup to handle high-profile cases; grisly murders, robberies where an exceedingly large amount of cash or high value object stolen. That kind of thing.

  And this was to be the first case where I was the lead investigator. If I handle this right, and I was a full-fledged member of the team. A lot of eyes would be on me. Speaking of which…

  “Ah, Shit,” I said quietly as I spied Lieutenant Calloway’s tan Ford sedan parked at the curb.

  Rick Calloway was the second-in-command of the S.C.C. and had no love for me or anyone who peed sitting down. On the force since before the term ‘gender equality’ meant something, he made it no secret that he thought the only thing female officers were good for was fetching coffee and reading parking meters. Suffice it to say, we’d clashed more than once since my transfer.

  “That was quick,” Bill remarked. “He must have run lights and siren all the way here just to get ahead of you. Asshole.”

  “Nothing to be done about it,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Let’s get this done.” We approached the police line and stopped in front of one of the officers. I flashed my I.D. and badge. “Melanie Graves and Bill Perkins, S.C.C.” He gave a short nod and lifted the tape a few inches.

  Before we could cross, though, my attention was caught by a young woman wearing an expensive, leather coat standing among the other onlookers. Even this early in the morning, she had on a thick layer of makeup and her blond hair was carefully styled. She was wrestling with a four or five-year-old little boy who, obviously bored at just standing around in a crowd for so long, had begun tossing rocks up in the air and catching them for something to do.

  She grabbed his wrist roughly and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “You better be good or one of those cops over there will take you to jail.” Oh, hell no.

  I walked over and crouched down until I was eye level with the little boy, whose eyes grew wide with fear and tightly clutched his mom’s arm. He relaxed when I gave him my best smile and handed him a piece of chocolate I had in my pocket.

  “Hi, I’m Melanie,” I said brightly. “What’s your name?”

  “David.”

  “Well, David, it’s always important to listen to your mother, but we aren’t going to take you to jail. Cops are good guys, and we only take bad guys to jail. And I can tell you’re not a bad guy. Right?” He popped the chocolate into his mouth, grinned widely and nodded. “So, remember, if you ever need help, you come find a police officer. We won’t be mad and we won’t take you to jail. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Attaboy.” I handed him two more chocolates, being sure to save some for myself, then stood up and looked politely at the mother who was glaring railroad spikes at me for contradicting her in front of so many people.

  “In the future,” I said sweetly, “it might be a good idea not to make your child think that police officers are just looking for an excuse to cuff him and throw him in a cold, dark cell. We want him to be able to come to us if he’s ever lost or hurt and need assistance. Don’t you think?” I didn’t bat my eyes innocently, but I came close.

  The mom opened her mouth like she wanted to say something smart, then closed it again with a snap and nodded sullenly. I beamed.

  “Good. Now, unless you saw or heard something relevant to the investigation, this might be a good time to go back home, sit down and have a nice breakfast.” I looked down at David. “You like waffles?” He nodded enthusiastically, large smears of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “Waffles it is then.”

  I watched them go with no small amount of satisfaction. The mom shot me dirty looks over her shoulder until they went inside a house a large house, four doors down. God, that felt good.

  “Uh, Mel?” Bill said behind me. “Crime scene inside. Boss waiting for us. Remember?”

  Oh, yeah. That. I guess public relations was over. Time to go do my job.

  We checked in with the perimeter officer at the front door, donned gloves, masks and bags for our shoes then went inside. We found ourselves in a cozy living room, with a matching sofa and love seat sitting around a wooden coffee table. In the corner was an electric fireplace, unlit despite the cold. A tidy desk with a computer, headset and foot pedal took up much of the free space. There were even a couple of filing cabinets and a cork board with official-looking memos and reminders pinned to it. Numerous paintings hung on the tan walls and several photos of an attractive, dark-haired woman smiling in various exotic locations adorned the mantle.

  The forensics team was already hard at work, dusting for prints, taking pictures and documenting evidence. One of them, a heavyset man with deep laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, came up to us as soon as we walked in.

  “Hiya, Mel,” he said through his mask. “Heard you’re the Grand Poobah on this one.” He shook his head. “I don’t envy you.”

  I recognized the voice of Charley Sawyer immediately. He was one of the best forensic team leaders in the department, and I was glad to have him with me on this one.

  “Hey, Charley,” I said fondly. “Care to give me the rundown?” He shook his head.

  “Sorry. Can’t. Calloway is waiting for you in the kitchen. Said he’d brief you himself and anyone who jumped the gun would be assigned to the graveyard shift for a month.”

  “Well, we can’t have that.” I looked at Bill and gestured towards the open doorway that presumably led to the kitchen. “After you?” I said hopefully. He shook his head.

  “Not on your life, Grand Poobah.” I sighed and walked in.

  Lt. Calloway was seated at the small kitchen counter, sipping a cup of coffee as he read over a thin file. His mask lay forgotten i
n his lap. He glanced up as we came in, then made a dramatic show of checking his watch.

  “What happened, Detective Graves?” he asked sourly. “Did you have to stop and reapply your mascara on the way here?” I nodded.

  “Yes, Sir. Do you like the color?” I learned a long time ago that you could get by with saying a lot to a supervisor as long as you threw a ‘Sir’ in there. His beady eyes narrowed in contempt as he heard the disrespect in my tone, but not my words.

  “Detective, this is the first murder to be committed in this neighborhood in over two decades. Many people, important people, might see this as a disturbing indication of a rising crime rate. We don’t want that. We want people to feel safe inside their homes. That’s why the powers that be want this case cleared up, solved and with a nice pretty bow on top. Is that clear?” I nodded.

  “Yes, Sir. I keep several bows in my purse right next to the tampons for just such an occasion. Is that for me?” I held out my hand for the file. Calloway flexed his jaw several times, then slapped it into my palm. I passed it back to Bill.

  “Perkins, keep her in line.”

  “I’ll need backup and overtime for that, Lieutenant.” Seeing there were no allies to be had, Calloway gave an angry snort and marched out of the kitchen. We heard him yell something to one of the forensics guys who happened to cross his path, then the front door slammed and he was gone. Charley poked his head in a second later.

  “Everyone in one piece?” he asked.

  “More or less.”

  “Well, that’s more than could be said for the victim. She’s waiting for you upstairs in the master bathroom.” He turned to go. “Oh, and if either of you had a big breakfast this morning, you might want to bring one of these with you.”

  He held out two barf bags. Bill took one, then offered the other to me. I shook my head. He arched an eyebrow, then put the extra one in his back pocket, just in case. I rolled my eyes and pushed past him, heading up the stairs. After all, how bad could it be?

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was bad! It was really bad. The feeling of closeness and anxiety grew as we ascended the narrow stairs to the second floor. I made sure to follow Charley and step only where he stepped. The smell hit us when we were about halfway down a small hallway. Burnt meat. Oh, God.

  The stench grew stronger when we got to the master bedroom. It was small, like the rest of the house. A queen-size bed, dresser and vanity filled the room. Against the far wall, the bathroom door stood open. I swallowed hard and went inside.

  It was worse than I’d imagined…by a long shot. The body of a white female lay naked in the tub. Most of her skin was charred and black. Numerous stab wounds adorned her chest and abdomen and a thick pool of blood stood two inches deep around the corpse. Most of it had been absorbed by a white, sand-like substance, haphazardly sprinkled all over the area. An empty container in the corner confirmed what it looked like; salt.

  But the worst, the very worst, was the fact that her head lay at the other end of the tub, near her charcoal black toes. A cursory glance told me it hadn’t been neatly severed. Whoever did it had to have worked at it for several minutes. The folds of skin around the stump were ragged and uneven.

  I shut my eyes and tried to take a deep breath. No good. The stench was too much. I was going to be sick, right here, all over my first crime scene.

  Bill came up and put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  “Professional and detached,” he said in my ear. “Remember?” It had been one of the first things I’d learned as a detective. You had to separate yourself from the crime, in order to see all the angles. That was the job. It was my duty.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding and nodded.

  “Who am I looking at, Bill?” I asked, crouching down to get a better look.

  “Nichole Barret, age 36,” he said, reading from the file. “Medical transcriptionist. Worked from home. Single. Never married. No kids. Neighbors reported the smell of something burning coming from the open window at 7:32 am. Firefighters responded and made entry. Discovered the body and contacted emergency services.” He flipped the page over, then looked up with a frown. “That’s it. No next of kin, known associates…nothing. Pretty lonely life.”

  I could relate. I looked at the body for a long moment, processing every detail.

  “He stabbed her, burned her, decapitated her, then poured salt over the body,” I mused, separating the bits of information like a puzzle.

  “Not necessarily in that order. We won’t know what happened and when until we get an autopsy report,” Bill said. I straightened up.

  “See if they can put a rush on it. Tell them Calloway wants this case solved with a bow.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Check in with the officers that canvassed the area. Find out who they talked to and if anyone saw or heard anything.”

  He jotted a few notes down on the file, said, “I’m on it,” then left to see it done.

  “How’s your team doing, Charley?” I asked the team leader.

  “Almost finished. They’re packing up most of their gear now. Got the coroner staging down the street, waiting to take the body.” I nodded.

  “Okay. You see to them. I’m going to do another sweep of the house, just to check things out for myself.” He nodded and was gone.

  I waited until I was sure he’d gone back down stairs and I was alone before retreating into the bedroom and falling to my knees on the carpeted floor. I couldn’t breathe. The pressure in the air had become a throbbing mass, filling my lungs with thick syrup. This wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t even the horror of seeing the mutilated body of Nichole Barret. This was something else. I was under attack.

  Most officers carry a backup weapon somewhere on their person, for when shit hits the fan in the most colossal of fashions. I was no exception. But I didn’t have a little Saturday night special strapped to my ankle. Instead, I pulled out a thin, silver dagger (called an athame) from it’s hidden sheath.

  It wasn’t very big; no more than ten inches from hilt to tip. It wasn’t even that sharp. But it’s usefulness didn’t lie in how many apples it could peal, but in what a trained witch could do with it.

  Oh yeah, I was a witch, able to call upon and manipulate the arcane forces of the universe. I probably should have mentioned that.

  Facing North, I slowly started tracing a circle with the point of my athame in a clockwise motion. As I did, I envisioned a white light following the trail, effectively creating a barrier between me and the rest of the house. I raised my power, picturing it as a pool of glowing energy in my stomach and bubbling to the surface at my silent command. Then, pouring it into my words, I chanted:

  “Spirits of the North, East, South and West,

  Bless this circle and all those inside it.”

  As circle castings go, this was about as quick and dirty as you could get. A true casting can be performed in a variety of ways, but usually involve a period of meditation, an anointed candle and a spell that doesn’t sound like it came from a Dr. Seuss book. But I didn’t have the time or ingredients for that.

  Still, it did the job. As I completed my rotation, I felt a moment of dizziness as the power I’d been summoning left my body, then spread out all around me and snapped up like an invisible shield.

  Instantly, the oppressive weight dragging me down evaporated. The knotted muscles in my back and shoulders relaxed and I drew in great lung-fulls of pure, clean air. There was still the undercurrent of burned flesh to it, but it no longer stuck in my throat and refused to nourish my oxygen-starved body.

  I stayed like that for several moments, just enjoying the blessed relief of being able to breathe and not feeling like I was carrying a metric ton of rocks in my chest. If someone had come in right then, I would have looked a sight; kneeling on the floor with a knife in my hand, gasping like a runner who’d just completed a marathon. But they could go suck an egg. None of them felt this place the way I did.

  It’s li
ke the house was alive, filled with wrath and sorrow at what had happened here. And, for some reason, it’s total attention was devoted to me. What was that all about?

  As I pondered this, I slowly began to realize that I was no longer alone. Another presence had come into the room. Maybe it had been here the entire time, but I’d been so concerned with getting through the initial investigation without collapsing that I hadn’t noticed. I looked up, and beheld the translucent form of Nichole Barret standing in the doorway.

  She appeared the way she’d looked in life, for which I was infinitely grateful. Black hair, trim figure, large eyes that poured ghostly tears that vanished as soon as they dripped down her cheek. She was naked, but a thin mist wrapped itself around her, obscuring most of her body. Her face was twisted up in a mixture of fury and horror, causing her pretty features to be masked by the depravity of what happened to her.

  We looked at each other for several moments. She seemed to be studying me, as if waiting to see what I would do. Truth be told, I felt like running for the hills, screaming bloody murder along the way and not stopping until I reached sanctified ground. Hey, I may be a witch and used to the occasional paranormal occurrence, but ghosts are just plain freaky. And I’d never encountered one that could manifest as clearly as the one in front of me.

  It made me wonder what else she could do. If she decided I was a threat, or just wanted someone to take her rage out on, I doubted my flimsy circle would be able to protect me. But she didn’t move. She didn’t do anything. I realized it was up to me to make the first move.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” I said. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to find your killer and stop them from doing this again.” I wasn’t sure she could hear me. I mean, it’s not like she had ears or eardrums anymore. I put a hint of power into my words, to show that I was sincere.

  She seemed to get the message. I saw her slowly nod, then turn and vanish down the hallway, leaving me alone once again.