by Hadena James
Unfortunately, even his capture would not make the Church admit to any culpability in the current crisis. They would circle the wagons and keep blame from falling on them. It was what they did best; protect themselves and their institution.
Twenty-Three
Nothing was better for the body than sleep and a huge shot of adrenaline. The oxymorphine wore off before the epinephrine shot. I woke up in a good mood. I couldn’t remember ever waking up in a good mood. Of course, I didn’t normally sleep for forty-three hours either. That might have had something to do with it.
My stomach finally dragged my sleepy brain into consciousness, demanding to be fed. Room service provided me with a steak, an assortment of steamed vegetables, a salad, two slices of Texas toast, and a bowl of fruit. Blood oozed from the steak as the knife pierced it. It was cooked to perfection, rare but hot.
As I scarfed down the food that my body desperately craved, Gabriel sat across from me. He didn’t look mad, he looked concerned. I would have done better with mad.
“Xavier is writing it up as a pain induced break from reality. He is leaving out words like psychotic and uncontrollable,” Gabriel said as I moved from the main course to dessert. A slice of apple pie that had been hot when it arrived, but was now room temperature.
“I have already said I would apologize to her,” I reminded him. Unlike most migraine episodes, I hadn’t forgotten this one. In retrospect, it was more real than reality. I hadn’t seen the bruise on Fiona’s head, but I was sure there would be one.
“Forgive me for being concerned,” he snipped.
“Look, it was a perfect storm that we didn’t know was brewing. I must have been having symptoms and ignoring them. Then I got hit in the head and assaulted with sage. The three combined sent me over the edge. It is unlikely to ever happen again.” They had given me my own room. My homicidal migraine incident had earned me that. However, the Department of Special Investigations guys had been on scene for the incident. It could go badly for me.
Being cranky while having a migraine was one thing. Almost executing someone and putting a gun to your own head was another. I had a bruise on my own temple from the barrel of the Beretta.
“Unlikely, but not impossible,” Gabriel stated.
“True,” I answered. “I can’t sign a document saying it will never happen again. It’s happened a few times in the past, but until the other day, I’ve only had one victim. And frankly, Callow deserved it.” I shrugged. “What I can tell you is that it is rare for me to get to that point. I understand my migraines better than most people do. The fact that I missed the early symptoms is because I was in the middle of a hunt. If I hadn’t gotten the concussion, I might have spotted them, but I did and that clouded my judgment.”
“Spin it however you need to. Let’s just try to minimize fallout,” Gabriel sighed. “Now, about your nun; she was once a prostitute. She found God in rehab and joined the convent when she was released. However, the reason Father Schneider found her is because she was left half dead on the doorsteps of his church. Someone had sliced her up pretty good. The doctors thought a machete most likely caused the cuts. We searched and didn’t find any machete wielding serial killers in Detroit. We did discover the Detroit Thugs liked to send messages using a machete to cut up their victims. And our arsonist serial killer torched another house two nights ago, this time we saved more. Take a look at these,” he handed me a stack of pictures.
The victim was only partially burned. A knife had nearly severed the head. Blood was dried on the floor around her. However, more importantly, was that her body lay in a circle, a white circle. The remains of a star were inside of it. On the floor around the circle were several symbols, but the one that really caught my attention was the Cross of Lorraine.
I wasn’t an expert on demons or Satanism, but I did hold a degree in the Middle Ages. The Cross of Lorraine was a symbol of the Knights Templar and nowadays it was associated with Freemasonry. Neither of these things was important. What was important was that it was the only non-sacrilegious symbol in the room. Everything else came from books, most of those written by Aleister Crowley, the most famed black magician of the 19th and 20th century.
To most, the cross would look like a profanity. To me, it looked like it was for protection. Dealing with demons was tricky business. Using symbols from Crowley’s grimoires meant that whoever it was, was probably attempting to summon a demon. I wasn’t sure I believed demons could be summoned. The devil didn’t need to do much except watch humanity implode. We could probably think of much worse things to do to ourselves than he could.
A Satanist wouldn’t be summoning demons, they didn’t do that sort of thing. Sure, there were radicals for every religion, but a radical wouldn’t feel the need to protect themselves. They would feel invincible against a demon they were summoning.
Only a God-fearing man would feel the need to protect himself from the devil when summoning a demon. He would want all the divine help he could get. I shook my head.
“Well,” I sighed, “I was wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Gabriel asked.
“I dismissed Bellamy Schneider as a suspect because he could account for the whereabouts of one woman. Most of these are straight from the pages of Aleister Crowley’s book on Black Magic, but a few of them are more archaic and straight from the pages of The Rite of Exorcism. Who knows both sides better than a priest?” I asked.
“And he has a link to the Detroit Thugs, but we searched the place and found nothing. The Diocese confirmed his inner-city missionary work and we have talked to several women who have escaped Detroit with his aid,” Gabriel said.
“Who’s the victim?” I asked, pointing to the woman in the photos.
“Natasha Dovroshenko, she went missing four days ago. She is connected to the Thugs, but as a messenger for the Russian Mob. The Russians are pushing Krokodil in Detroit and using the Thugs to do it.” Gabriel pointed at her. “She was found to have Krokodil in her system.”
“Did the killer inject it himself or did she willingly shoot up?” I asked.
“We don’t know. Xavier is trying to figure that out.” Gabriel looked at me. “You do realize the implications of Krokodil in the US, right?”
“One of the worst drugs to ever be invented,” I told him. “More toxic than meth, higher rate of addiction, never been able to get a foothold among users.”
“Because supplies have never been steady. If the Russians are pushing it now in Detroit, it could be across the country by next year,” Gabriel said.
“And Sister Elizabeth Marie went to rehab for?” I asked.
“Her body showed signs of Krokodil use and that was two years ago.”
“So, we have an ex-prostitute who was using Krokodil two years ago, long before most Americans had ever heard of it. We have the Russian Mob connected to a violent gang. And someone is getting revenge upon the suppliers and makers of the drug.” I looked at Gabriel. “Our serial killer isn’t just attempting to summon a demon. He’s a vigilante trying to summon a demon. That changes things.” I thought for a moment. “We have motive. We have means. Now, we just need to connect the suspect.”
“And you want to go shake the tree and see what falls out of it,” Gabriel said.
“No, it won’t work. If it is Schneider, then he won’t rattle just because I shake the tree. He thinks he is doing God’s work. He thinks I’m doing God’s work. He isn’t a psychopath, he’s a believer, a zealot, and as long as I am answering to my calling, then I am not the enemy. Since there isn’t a way to make it look like I’m not following my calling, I can’t shake him up.” I looked at the photo. “I’m not even convinced it is Father Schneider. He’s the best suspect, but if you didn’t find anything, well, it isn’t like he owns a lot of properties to hide people in.”
“So, do you want to follow the serial killer crumbs or the Krokodil crumbs?” Gabriel asked.
“I don’t know. First, I will go grovel for forgiveness from Fiona and see if w
e can stop that bureaucratic nightmare. After that, I say we hand everything over to the DEA. We aren’t equipped to handle flesh-destroying illegal narcotics. If we clean up Detroit, we get rid of our serial killer,” I told him.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Not in the least, I want to nail him to the floor, possibly sacrilegiously, but I also know that vigilantes stop when the problem stops until they find a new cause.” I left the room with Gabriel still sitting there. The new room was across the hall from my old one. I knocked on the door. Fiona opened it. She did have a bruise on her forehead. I thought about making a joke about the matching marks, but didn’t figure she would appreciate it.
“What?” She asked.
“I want to apologize,” I told her. “I know that I had a break with reality the other day and you got caught in the crossfire. You didn’t deserve it and I’m sorry.”
“That might have more impact if I thought, even for a second, that you meant it.” She glared at me.
“I do mean it. I may not be good at sympathy, but I realize that no one deserves to have a gun shoved in their face or worry about dying because of their religion. I can’t take it back, but I can apologize for it. I shouldn’t have let myself get into that state to begin with. I should have recognized the symptoms of the migraine coming on and I didn’t. That was my mistake. The situation snowballed out of control from there. I am not going to make excuses for it. You can accept my apology, because it is sincere, or you can tell me to shove it up my ass. That’s your decision,” I told her.
“I accept,” she said after a moment. “It scared me, I won’t lie, but it scared me even more when you put the gun to your own head. I didn’t realize until that moment exactly how much pain you were in. I’ve never met someone who would willingly take their own life to stop a migraine. And I accept part of the blame. I thought you were just faking the headaches to get me to stop practicing my religion, because you didn’t like the smell. I didn’t realize that I really was triggering that sort of physical pain. I apologize as well. This doesn’t mean we are now best friends and I’m not going to come over and braid your hair, but I’ll be more understanding of your physical state when I’m in your presence.”
“I can live with that,” I told her.
“Aislinn,” she said as I turned to leave. “Would you really have shot yourself?”
I turned my head to show her the bruise that was being covered by my hair. She stared at it for a moment. Hers was turning a sickly yellowish-brown, but mine was still purplish-black. I had held the barrel to my own head a lot harder.
“I can’t answer that,” I finally said. “It’s the first time I have ever turned my gun on myself, but not the first time I have ever thought that death would be a release from the excruciating betrayal of my own body when I have a migraine. It isn’t just about the pain. It is a complete subjugation of my own personality. My own heartbeat causes me pain. My brain creates hallucinations. I can even feel my blood circulating through my head when it gets that bad. I don’t know that I would have pulled the trigger, but I can’t say that I wouldn’t have either.”
“I think you were right,” she said.
“About what?” I asked, confused.
“About Father Schneider. You were muttering in your sleep the other night about him. You said he was the killer,” she answered.
“That’s strange. I don’t think that when I’m lucid.” I frowned.
“Your sleeping mind and awake mind are often in disagreement. You cry in your sleep. Did you know that?”
“Why would I cry in my sleep?” I asked.
“Because you want a relationship with Patterson Clachan, but don’t believe he deserves it. He’s a serial killer and shot Nyleena, but he’s your grandfather. You’ve been arguing those points in your sleep for several weeks now. It always makes you cry.”
“I don’t know why I would cry over that,” I admitted.
“Because sometimes, you have moments when you are completely human.” Fiona looked at the floor. “I think you have a death wish, but you also have a way with victims. I think you do feel sympathy, just not the sympathy that normal people think of when they say the word. You have been in their positions. You allow them their weaknesses, but allow none for yourself. It is a very human thing to do. And you’ve been fighting with the darker side of yourself since we met. That shows great fortitude. Most sociopaths and psychopaths can’t do it. You think you’ve taught yourself to be a sociopath. I think you’ve taught yourself to be human.”
“Thanks, Fiona,” I told her.
“One more thing,” she disappeared in her room, “there is a woman in Denver who claims a priest abducted her and let her go. The cops don’t believe her. She’s a junkie and they found her under a bridge, high on heroin. She’s also a schizophrenic, but her address before they found her in Denver was Detroit.”
“Does Gabriel know?” I asked.
“I just found it about thirty minutes ago,” she told me.
“Tell him. Let’s see if he can help sort out the problem,” I told her.
Twenty-Four
It was a Friday night. The first since Gabriel’s team had cracked down on gang activity in the city. So far, the hydra model wasn’t holding up. No one had risen to fill the void in the week that it had existed. Fewer prostitutes hung out on the streets. Even fewer pimps were visible. No one seemed to be handing over cash for baggies. Even the runners and watchers had diminished.
Earlier in the day, the Mayor of Detroit had given a press conference. He claimed credit for the task force and announced a three hundred percent decline in the number of violent crimes over the last five days. The Detroit Police Department was out in force, making sure that everyone was aware of their presence.
We were never in this for the credit or accolades. As a matter of fact, we all agreed that the less attention the better. So for us, the mayor’s boasts of cleaning up the city were just fine.
Whether his stats were accurate or not, I didn’t know. Also, I didn’t care. It was a Friday night and life in the downtown section was in full swing. Lucas and Gabriel had left for Denver yesterday. They were still trying to find our homeless schizophrenic with a heroin problem.
However, sixteen serial killers that we knew of were still roaming the streets of Detroit. That was currently a task for Malachi and me to handle with a little help from Green, Ballard, and Hunter. Green had been unhappy with the addition of Hunter. I understood that, too many psychopaths, not enough normal people.
We were all stuck in the car. Ballard and Green might have blended in with the crowd, but the rest of us would have stood out like a nun in a men’s prison. It was difficult for someone like myself or Malachi to walk down the streets and not be noticed. I wasn’t sure about Hunter. He was an oddball.
This was our second hunt of the day. Shortly after breakfast, an eight-man team, including Franklin and DSIs Cavanaugh and North had gone with us to take down someone who liked children. Franklin had been stabbed. Cavanaugh had been cut. North had panicked and run away. Franklin was still in the hospital. All three DSIs were returning to wherever they came from. The rest of our ATF, FBI, and DEA buddies were out trying to stop the flow of Krokodil and guns. They had leads.
To mix it up, the other three members of the VCU had gone with the DEA agents to bust a Krokodil cooker. They didn’t get to do stuff like that very often.
Of course, we had leads too. Our current location put us about two hundred yards from a suspect. He was trying to convince a brunette, who had once been pretty until the streets had found her, to get in his car. They seemed to be haggling over price. We couldn’t be sure he wasn’t just after a quickie in an alley, so we were surveilling him.
I sighed, lit a cigarette and waited a little longer. The brunette and the suspect must not have been able to make a deal because she walked away from the car and leaned against a building. I cracked the window. The old man from earlier in the week was right. We looked l
ike drug dealers. No one stared at us too hard or too long, worried that we might be the next badasses to take over the streets. Even with my window cracked and smoke escaping through the small slit, no one wanted to notice us.
The suspect moved a few more feet down the road. He began talking to another woman. Malachi was not visibly bored, but he was completely motionless. It was rare for a person, even someone like Malachi, to be completely motionless. Everyone fidgeted, except Malachi, and when he didn’t fidget, it was because he was lost in his own head trying to entertain himself. It was a dangerous state to find him in.
This prostitute was also a brunette. It was a trait our killer liked. He liked petite brunettes. He really liked stabbing them in the throat and having sex with their corpses.
“He’s getting nowhere,” Green said from his position in the backseat. “Why don’t you go find out his price?”
“Yeah, right, I’m too dangerous to be his type,” I said.
“He might like it,” Malachi chimed in. “The worst he can do is drive away from you.”
“I’m not a people person,” I reminded him. “And I’m not dressed for prostitution. If I was, I wouldn’t have any customers.”
“Some guys dig chicks with scars,” Green chimed in from the backseat. “Like a lot. There’s a whole fetish revolving around it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I find myself unemployed,” I answered dryly. “Maybe the problem isn’t him but the girls. They might be on their guard tonight, knowing that prostitution is being cracked down on and that the SCTU is here hunting serial killers. While they were always aware of them, our presence makes them more real.”
