by Elle Gray
“What do you mean?”
She looks up at me, and her face is strained. Pinched. She looks haunted. It’s an expression I know well. After nearly ten years with the SPD, I’d seen more than a few cops who wore that same look. It’s the look of a case that really got under your skin and that you could never seem to shake. It follows you everywhere. Blake is just usually so good at compartmentalizing; I never thought I would see it on her face.
“Talk to me,” I tell her.
“When I started working in Seattle, I was assigned to close out a string of cold cases dating back to the early 2000s. But there were a few that stuck out to me. Five were open cases that landed on my desk because they were local. Older cases from before my time that had just never been closed. So-called disposable people. The homeless. Prostitutes. Junkies. Six, all told,” she explains. “Because they were people with high-risk lifestyles, SPD did a half-assed job handling the cases and never linked them.”
“But you did.”
She nods. Blake slips another file out of her satchel and slides it over to me. I open it and see that it contains six crime scene photos. It doesn’t take me long to spot what she wants me to see: the cross with the flame behind it at each scene.
“It’s not on their skin,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I think that’s why the connection was never made. It was spray-painted on walls or dumpsters. But always near the body,” she says. “So when I saw the tats on the wrists of the murder vics he g
ave you, the connection was instant.”
It was instant because those first six cases are never far from her mind. She’s held onto them all these years.
“Why did these stick with you?” I ask.
Her smile is tight, her face drawn. “The first vic I found personally was a fifteen-year-old girl. Prostitute,” she tells me. “Teresa Reyes. She was just so young and…”
Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish the statement. I get it. I can see the emotion swirling in her eyes and can see just how hard this is all hitting her. It’s like ripping open an old wound. But true to form, the ever-stoic Blake is holding it all in, refusing to let her emotions run roughshod over her. I watch as she stuffs it all down deep inside then turns her cool green eyes on me.
“You never told me any of this,” I note.
“It’s not exactly the sort of thing you bring up at dinner parties,” she admits. “Besides, this one was personal. I vowed that eventually, I’d find the man who did it.”
“Why didn’t anybody look into it after you found the link?”
“Nobody wanted to touch it. These kinds of cases aren’t high up on the priority list. You know how that goes,” she spits, her bitterness apparent. “My supervisor said it was flimsy at best. Said the crosses were probably just graffiti, and anyway, it had long since been cleaned up. Refused to let me work them. Declared it a waste of time, since not even the SPD was looking into it.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, that figures.”
“Anyway, with nine confirmed victims, we’re chasing a dangerous guy, Pax. A really dangerous guy,” she says. “I don’t want you involved. I don’t want you anywhere near this.”
“It’s too late,” I tell her. “I’m already involved. Like you said, his message was for me.”
“Let us handle it,” she argues. “Seriously, this is getting serious. We’ll take it from here.”
“You think your bosses are going to let you run with this? They didn’t before, Blake,” I contest. “And because of that, this guy has been running around butchering people for the last twenty years.”
“But now we’ve got new information. Definitive links. I’ve also got more seniority and clout now,” she says. “They’ll have to let me open a book on this.”
This is as close to bigfooting her way onto a case as I’ve ever seen her come. But I know it’s because she’s afraid for me. I know she doesn’t want anything to happen to me any more than I want anything happening to her. And when you have a serial killer who has been operating for at least twenty years, you have to assume that not only is he cagey and intelligent, but dangerous.
But more than that, I can see how personal this is for her. I can see how badly she wants to catch this guy. I would have a better chance of stopping the sun from rising tomorrow than I do of getting Blake to back off of this. Now that we have a link and a lead, she’s going to go full bore on it.
“I can’t stop you from taking this back to headquarters,” I say. “But you can’t stop me from looking into this on my own. And I think if we pool our resources, we’ll stand a much better chance of getting this guy.”
“Pax, this isn’t a game,” she says, sitting up, a hard edge in her voice. “This man has been killing for twenty years. And now he wants to draw you into his game.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Shut up,” she snaps. “This is not the time to go all alpha male on me. This is serious.”
“I know it is. I know this isn’t a game,” I say. “But nobody’s gotten a sniff of this guy for two decades. Until now. I have a chance to—”
“This isn’t about you, Pax!” she roars, jumping to her feet. “This isn’t about feeding your ego.”
“I disagree. He made it about me.”
“Don’t be stubborn. Stay out of this,” she says. “I’m begging you.”
I look at her for a long moment, and she sits back down, letting out a long breath as if to calm and gather herself. She knows she can’t stop me from doing this.
“It’s like I told you, Blake. I got into this because I want to make a difference,” I tell her. “I want to do some good, some actual good, in this world. I guarantee Veronica would have told me to see this through.”
She laughs softly and shakes her head, looking down at her hands. Her concern is well-intentioned. It’s not like I don’t appreciate her looking out for me. I absolutely do. She’s a good friend like that. But this is something I feel like I have to do. I feel it down deep in my bones. Veronica would absolutely want me to chase this guy down.
“If I can help catch somebody who’s been killing for two decades, I’d say that’s doing a little bit of good in the world,” I say. “I’d say it’s helping keep Veronica’s spirit alive.”
She arches an eyebrow, a crooked grin pulling a corner of her mouth upward. “You’re a jerk to play the dead wife card,” she says. “You know that, don’t you?”
“According to you, I’m a jerk anyway.”
“That’s true,” she replies. “But playing the dead wife card makes you more of a jerk.”
I flash her a grin and look down at the photos on my desk again. My eyes are drawn to the temporary tattoos the man placed on the victims and think about what they might mean to him. Judgement, perhaps? Salvation? Does he believe he’s saving their souls? Cleansing the world?
“I know I can’t stop you from looking into this. Mostly because you’re a stubborn jerk,” she sighs. “But I want you to keep me in the loop every step of the way.”
“Deal.”
“And also, if it starts getting too hairy if things look like they could go sideways, pull the plug and walk away,” she orders. “I’m serious, Pax. Don’t put yourself in any danger. If you can promise me those things, I’ll do anything I can to help. Run down names, backgrounds— anything.”
“I promise.” I flash her a grin. “And when I catch this guy, I’ll even let you make the arrest. It’ll look good for your career. I’m magnanimous like that.”
She laughs softly but doesn’t say anything more. I can tell she’s worried. Blake thinks I’m too rash sometimes and do things without thinking. She’s not entirely wrong, but I am also far more deliberate than she gives me credit for. I take time to think about the situation. It’s just that I can process my thoughts and form a plan of action faster than most people, so it simply looks like I’m being rash and foolhardy. Most of the time, anyway.
But Blake worries for me
, and I don’t discount that. I appreciate her concern. She knows that she can’t stop me from doing this. But by giving me the green light, I can see she now feels responsible for me. She looks down at her hands again for a moment, doing her best to control the maelstrom of emotions I see churning across her face. But rather than continue her lecture, she surprises me when she stands up suddenly.
“I need to get back to the office,” she says. “I’ve got some work to do to get the ball rolling on this.”
I get up and walk her through the office, pausing just outside the elevator doors. She turns to me, and though she’s wearing a smile, I can see the turbulent emotions churning behind her eyes. She’s not thrilled with this arrangement. But I can also see excitement mixed in with it all. The thrill of the chase. I get that too.
I arch an eyebrow at her. “If I was still a detective, you wouldn’t be this worried.”
“Of course I would be. But you’re not a detective anymore; you’re a civilian,” she retorts. “And as far as I know, you don’t even have a weapon to defend yourself with.”
“Being a civilian allows me to go places detectives can’t go. Do things detectives can’t do,” I point out. “And I’ve already got my application in for a concealed carry permit. I won’t be defenseless.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “I guess you’ve thought of everything.”
“Don’t I always?”
Blake laughs softly and punches me in the shoulder. “Well, Sherlock, it looks like you’ve found your Moriarty.”
I flash her a wolfish grin in return. “And the game is afoot.”
“The game’s been afoot for twenty years, dummy.”
I shrug. “Yeah well, it sounded cool to say.”
“It really didn’t.”
Ten
Reuben Hayes
Bainbridge Island, WA
Paxton Arrington. The eldest son of Harvey and Jessica Arrington, Harvey being the current CEO of Archton Media, and Jessica being a socialite and philanthropist. These people are old money, and their family built their empire from the ground up, with each successive generation adding to that empire. I have to respect that.
And from everything I’ve read, Paxton and his siblings aren’t the sort of silver-spooned trust fund babies you see in some tabloid scandal every week. No, they were expected to work. To earn their place. Sure, they obviously have advantages that most of us don’t— that I certainly never had growing up— but according to everything I’ve found, the Arringtons don’t just hand the reins over to the next in line just because. They have to prove themselves and earn it. I have to respect that too.
I sit back and study the bank of monitors on the wall before me. I am learning everything there is to know about Paxton Arrington— ‘Pax’ to his friends, which I find especially loathsome. I must say, he has quite an interesting story. The eldest son and presumptive heir to the media empire his family began generations ago, who spurned that life for a life of service. He joined the police force at age twenty-four and served the city of Seattle first as a beat cop, then as a detective, until his dismissal four months ago at the age of thirty-four.
In between, he got married, then became a widower a few short years later. His late wife, Veronica, had an interesting story of her own. But she’s not relevant to what’s happening right now, so I don’t need to learn everything about her. I only need to know where her life intersects with Paxton’s. And I see it’s there, where they met when young Paxton began to change.
It’s clear to me his wife had some kind of earth-shattering impact on him because he went from blueblood and a media mogul in waiting, to beat cop, then SPD detective, and now PI. He shifted from a life of privilege and luxury to one of the most thankless, difficult professions imaginable. It’s something you don’t see very often, which makes him especially interesting to me. And it makes me see just how big of an impact Veronica must have had on him.
As I watch the monitors, I see a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair step off the elevator and enter the office suite. I’d managed to get my cameras and audio equipment into the main part of the office suite earlier using the same ruse as at the Morgans’ house. I monitored the building’s communications long enough to wait for them to need maintenance on his floor, then disguised myself as a contractor to slip in unnoticed.
It’s disturbing how many people don’t pay attention to who they’re letting into their lives. But it suits my purposes just fine.
Eventually, I will need to find a way to get my equipment into Paxton’s personal office as well as that of his partner. This will do for now, though. I watch her in Paxton’s office from the camera hidden in the lobby and wish I could hear what they’re saying to one another. But then Paxton’s partner leaves the office, and he leads the mystery woman out to a table in the open space on the floor. Perfect.
“And who are you?” I wonder aloud as I look at the woman.
I watch them interact for a bit. They figured out the three names I gave to Paxton the night of the ransom drop. It was the mystery woman who cracked the code on that particular clue, which I find somewhat disappointing since I’ve got such high hopes for Paxton.
There are very few people who would know the name Reuben Hayes so quickly. He’s such an obscure character in a book that has gone well out of style these days. Nobody reads the classics anymore. That Paxton knew the name off the top of his head like that sent a charge through me. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
I watch the body language of the two and listen to their conversation. She’s a very clever woman to have found out my clues so quickly. From their conversation, I glean that she is experienced at this and has access to classified databases. Possibly a federal agent. She could very well be as intellectually formidable as Paxton. And with her in his corner, it means I will need to up my game even higher. Which is good, I like a challenge, and it seems ages since I’ve had a genuine one.
I am excellent at reading body language, and as I watch the pair, it seems to me they’re very close, and there’s a genuine affection between them. I don’t get the sense that it’s romantic, though. It seems like it’s a mutual respect, admiration, and a deep friendship, more than anything.
“Enter Irene Adler,” I muse. “Or perhaps you, and not his business partner, are his Watson.”
A smile touches my lips as I watch them flipping through the files Ms. Adler brought along with her. We’re off to a good start. They have identified my first three victims— or at least, the first three victims I’m giving them. My victims prior to those three, do not count since they were not part of my work. I consider them to be the experimentation. Perhaps a better way to put it would be that they were a pupal phase of my becoming. Through them, I underwent a metamorphosis.
When I emerged from that chrysalis, my purpose was clear. I’ve never been a particularly religious man. I’ve seen firsthand just how destructive and immoral religion can be when wielded by those who use it for their own ends. I’ve seen just how immoral those who claim to have faith can be. This world of ours is infested with those of low character, religious and non-religious alike. Liars, killers, rapists, cheats, and thieves. This world we live in has been overrun and is controlled by the immoral. By the corrupt.
And I, for one, have grown tired of it.
That is why I do what I do: to help cleanse this cesspool of a world we live in. I know I am but one man, but my hope is that others will follow my example and take the steps necessary to help make the world a better place. To make the world more ethical. To populate it with people of higher character and principles. I do my work to show the world that having morals is something worth striving for.
I know that in the end, my work will only amount to a drop in the bucket. But if others see what I do, take inspiration from it, and pick up the mantle of my work, maybe this world can, one day, become a place worth living in. Maybe one day, it can cease being the festering cesspool of immorality and degradation that it is r
ight now.
That is my hope, anyway. That is why I do the things I do.
Once upon a time, I had a normal life. I had a job. I paid my taxes. I had friends. I did all of those things normal people do. Or at least, the things society expects the so-called normal people to do. And for a time, I made myself believe that it was enough for me.
But in truth, the veneer of normalcy never fit right. It was like wearing clothing that was several sizes too small. No matter how I twisted, turned, and tried to cram myself into it, that life never fit me quite right. I was always uncomfortable. I always feared that eventually, the people in my life would see through the facade I had surrounded myself with. I worried that they would eventually stumble onto the fact that I feigned my happiness and contentment with my life because that would lead to questions I did not have the answers to. Questions I wanted to avoid altogether.
But that all changed that one fateful October night. That night started my becoming. It began my metamorphosis. It changed my life. And in my own small way, it is allowing me to change the world.
I look back up at the screen and hear Paxton uttering one of the most iconic lines in Sherlock Holmes canon. It makes me smile and deepens my feeling of serendipity.
“The game is indeed afoot, Mr. Arrington.”
Ultimately, I’m going to have to kill Paxton. In my line of work, I take no risks. But in the meantime, he’ll be an appropriate challenge to play with for a while.
Eleven
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“You realize this is, like, totally illegal, right?”
I nod. “I do.”
“I mean, we’re talking don’t drop the soap, multiple life sentences, federal prison illegal,” Brody continues. “You get that, yeah?”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure you don’t get multiple life sentences for computer hacking.”
