“Bad day for a bit of car trouble,” he cheerfully stated. He was of a stocky build and bald, with a slight birthmark on the back of his head. We joked a little about the misfortune and how I broke down at the best possible place, home.
He seemed to identify exactly what was wrong with the car almost immediately and reconnected a few bits and pieces. I couldn’t even begin to think how things had become disconnected unless it was a prank by one of the neighbourhood kids. He asked a lot of questions about me in such a short space of time and seemed intrigued when I told him I was a detective. He multitasked and sorted the car out whilst asking question after question. The normal interrogator became the interrogated. It was harmless really, and I felt happy to engage with him rather than stand in silence.
“That’s you sorted,” he said as he extended his hand out to shake mine.
“Sebastian.” I offered my own hand in return. ”Thank you.”
My tone rose inquisitively as though to suggest I was asking for his name. He had an incredibly powerful grip and practically interrupted me with his jovial tone, sensing my request. “Al.”
“Thank you, Al. You’ve honestly done me a massive favour,” I exclaimed.
“Hey, no worries, Seb. I heard the car choking and figured I knew what it could be. Plus, it was an option to get up close and personal with a classic. Fantastic car and fantastic taste my friend. Until we meet again, I guess!”
I nodded in approval and hopped back in the car. Seb. I hadn’t really been called that since I was a child. I smiled at the wistfulness of the reference, turned the key and with that slight hand motion, life seemed to pump through the car. The sound of hard, old school muscle regurgitating that vintage roar in the morning air was music to my ears. I looked at the radio dial and it was similar to the one I remembered in my father’s car as a child but not identical. Everything I seemed to look at took me back to that day. It was always the case on my birthday.
I put the car in gear and eased off, turning onto the road. Al, a few feet down the road turned around to watch me set off and gave me a friendly wave so I waved back. What a nice guy, the world needed more people like that considering the Arthur Henderson types out there.
As I pulled up to the station, I was always left impressed with the architecture. Our station almost felt like the younger brother of the Washington Capitol Building with a large oval at the centre of the roof. Large pillars kept an overhanging ridge over the side of the building where some small stairs led up to the main entrance. A modernised disability ramp almost ruined the vintage feel of the building but was a mandatory requirement for public access. It felt more like our station was better placed as a museum given the wow factor.
I slowed the car down and as I rolled into the car park, nearby passers-by with their umbrellas looked at me like I was a low-rider, some sort of gangland thug. I revved like a boy racer just for effect, a pointless exercise to motivate me. It occurred to me how strange it was for the town to have so much life this early in the morning, as it was only around seven. Then again, this city always had some sort of seedy life coughing up at unsociable hours. Like I said earlier, it kept me employed.
I hopped out of the car and the rain hit my face. It was refreshing almost, feeling the drops bounce off my forehead as I looked up to the dusky sky. The faint light of the sun breaking through gloomy dark clouds brightened the view and reflected from the metallic sheen of the car. A slight breeze in the air made the surface of my skin chill.
The slam of the car door broke my concentration, as I almost unwillingly closed it, as if in autopilot. With a slightly hurried jog, I bounded towards the grand stairs leading to the main door of the station, unsure why there was a call.
“Two, three, four,” I mouthed as I headed in the main doors. It wasn’t even a nervous tick or anything this time; I just needed to bring myself into the room. Whatever the day had in store for me, it was enough for my phone to be buzzing before the day even broke.
The main foyer of the station was rather grand with a large statue in the middle of the back wall, and balconies of the second floor following around the wall above. The statue was nothing short of magnificent; a knight on horseback holding some scales in his left hand, with a blade in the right hand. I meant it when I said the station had museum-like tendencies; though I struggled to connect the dots between police and medieval knights, other than the faint connection with the scales.
The statue had a grand plaque brandishing a Latin phrase at the hilt, “Et aequalitatem iustitiae,” which meant, ‘The Equality of Justice.’ With the clicking of my brogues simulating the noise of horseshoes, my footsteps echoed in the hallway as I headed to the elevator.
As I walked, I looked down at the precinct badge painted and varnished into the floor expertly; Island Heights Police Department. There was a certain grand feel about walking in the front door of the station; it made me proud to serve and protect. Equality and justice, two words I did tend to live my life and fulfil my duties by. Unless of course, I was fortunate enough to get my hands on Arthur Henderson, the one man who didn’t deserve equality. How do you balance out his sins on the scales of justice?
I pressed the button to open the elevator doors and was met by the horrible buzzer sound it made as it powered on and recalled the cabin. As the doors opened to greet me, I gesticulated with my hands and re-enacted Moses parting the sea, with old steel doors. As badass as I thought I must have looked in my mind, I probably came across as quite eccentric to my colleagues. At least I amused myself at this early hour.
I suppose I was quite odd. From the classic car I drove, to my mannerisms and dress sense, I was the stereotypical 1930s detective, in the 2010s. Waistcoat, shirt, brogues, and smart trousers. I was only missing a bowler hat, or fedora, for the truly unique noire feel.
As the elevator reached my floor, I headed to the situation room I had monopolised since the Arthur Henderson case. It had become more of a storage room really. People didn’t like to go in there, as I had photos and mug shots sprawled across whiteboards. This was a reminder to me, a daily motivational tool to find the bastard and gut him; whereas to my colleagues, it was like glorifying the devil in his own twisted shrine. We used to host team briefings in the situation room but had almost turned the upstairs staff room into it now. At least you could have a coffee whilst you got the latest case, or staff update. I think that’s why I was never told to vacate and relocate the proverbial shrine.
I scanned the room as I walked in the door. Everything from the crime scene images, a map of the country, dotted and pegged with expected whereabouts of Mr Henderson. Inclusive of a city map with similar pegs and string linking everything. You could tell I was obsessed. No one really wanted to come in for fear of disturbing my process. Images of cryptic messages left behind at Arthur’s latest hideaways, or crime scenes. The worst was the bloodied room. Images of that one covered an entire whiteboard with some coded messages that were found there.
That was a unique crime scene. When we first got the call, my phone buzzed about seven times before I answered. The Chief asked for me specifically, to try and decipher what the hell was going on. Arthur had made it clear it was him. He had found a seedy hotel room that had quite a unique architectural set-up. There was a small hallway into the room, with a step down into the main bedroom area, leading into what can only be described as a small subterranean pool.
He’d booked the room out for almost six weeks in one of many fake names, and in that time had somehow managed to fill the room up with about six inches of blood, with the occasional addition of entrails in amongst it. Forensics identified a mixture of the victim’s blood, coupled with various animals DNA, specifically pigs and lambs. Suggesting it was all for show and painfully deliberate. It was strange really, having to dress in a full plastic protective suit to observe a crime scene.
I dressed with intrigue, as I prepped myself to go into that room. Excitement brimming at the unusual nature of preparation, I walked down th
e small hallway to the stair, as the blood bobbed just millimetres away from being able to spill over the hall.
Anyone that entered quite literally had to slowly wade through blood just to get anywhere in the room, as walking and splashing could inadvertently disturb anything above ankle length. Bizarrely, one wall was left completely blank in the room: like a blank canvas. Blood spatter was riding up the other walls. A bloodied bone-saw was plugged into the wall, which was the obvious implement used to create the mess. When it was taken away as evidence, a perfectly white gap with plug sockets stood out like a sore thumb. It was probably yellow, murky, and dirty, but comparatively to the rest of the room, shone like a dentist’s front teeth.
One of the bloodied walls had a message written to me in blood: Detective Blackwood, ‘X’ marks the spot.
On the bed, the once white duvet, sheet, and pillowcase were scarlet in colour with the slightest breaks of white dotted over the bed, somehow untouched by blood. The shape of a human body could be seen through the covers, tucked into the bed so tightly it was like looking at a sarcophagus; at the head of the body was a lamb’s head, being worn like a crown. Once the flurry of photos had been taken of the crime scene, we peeled back the covers to reveal the body of a stout old woman; she must have been about seventy years old but had a fairly youthful body, it was her neck and face that was the give away. There was no ID on her, her fingerprints had been cut off, and her dentures prevented us from identifying the body through dental records.
She was Arthur’s first Jane Doe. Upon removing the lamb-head crown that covered some of her face, it’s almost as if she died from the terror. It hadn’t left her expression. She’d been dead for quite some time. In fact, the smell of the body was what brought the case to our attention, that or the entrails that were in the bloody pool at our feet. Wilted carnation flowers of various colours; whites, pinks, purples, and yellows were sprawled on the bed in a beautiful array, damaged by time. The flashes of forensic cameras capturing their saddened, death-like bouquet felt like such a waste.
As we inspected her body, there was an ‘X’ carved into her stomach and stitched poorly back together, with a small black implement inside. I let the forensics team take plenty of photographs and to the protesting of my colleagues around me, opened the wound to reveal a small lockbox.
It was one of those wooden puzzle boxes that required me to figure out and input the pattern. It was a simple fix, etched into the side of the box were some images of a bird, an egg, a worm, and a tree. I suppose it was subject to interpretation, however, I twisted the cubes around until I presented my desired ‘circle of life’ was presented. A slight click unlocked the box and the pattern revealed the contents: a UV torch.
“What on earth is that?” my colleague asked as I turned the torch to the proverbial blank canvas, the untouched wall in front of me.
Only it wasn’t blank at all. My colleague shook his head and muttered I was obviously in the right job as I connected the dots before he’d even analysed that it was a torch. It was a simple answer to a simple question. ‘X’ did mark the spot. A hidden message for me, a game I was starting to enjoy playing. My colleague immediately started snapping pictures. The torch couldn’t cover the full wall, so I shouted to the Chief outside and asked for some black lights.
What seemed like an age, and after intent studying of the message with the inadequate torch, some larger black lights were brought into the room. What few colleagues were present, they looked on in awe, and I started to decipher what was on the wall. Lots of symbols and letters turned the blank wall into something that resembled the Rosetta Stone.
A riddle, addressed to me, was written and centred across the wall.
Sebastian, Before you doth see, the Head of a Lamb,
Desecrated and carved is the Middle of a Pig,
With her Serpent Tongue remains the Hind and Tail of a Dragon,
Remember and brand this bitch the animal that she is? For she does the same.
Arthur, what a creative game you play. I deliberated the riddle for days and my answers were scrawled on the whiteboard. I didn’t know if the lamb symbolised youthful purity, the pig could be a red herring symbolising me as a lawman? Perhaps gluttony, greed, and mess? The dragon could be the sign of wisdom, myth, and grandiose imagery? But what animal was she? The answer for the animal was simpler but I could sense there was a hidden message amongst the choice of animals.
I broke the riddle down for days and settled on a solution. The Head of a Lamb – “L,” the middle of the Pig – “I,” the Hind and Tail of the Dragon – “ON.” She was a Lion? Or the bitch, Lioness?
I didn’t know what Arthur was trying to tell me or symbolise. Her serpent tongue? She lied? For ‘she does the same’ – does the same as a lion? Lion? Or maybe, she’s not really an animal and she was lying? As if laying on the bed, or lying in general?
It was a small part of a bigger picture, but I couldn’t see it right now, though ‘lion’ felt right.
Either way, it was a grand picture he left behind and almost left me fascinated. As much as I hated Arthur for what he had done, I almost awaited the next instalment in our game. For a second, as I got lost in the puzzles, the riddles, and the meaning behind his gesture, I was reminded of home. Of my childhood and my mother.
I physically spat at the ground for even bringing her into my mind and comparing any shred of likeness and resemblance between the two. Professionally speaking, that was a stupid move: to let an assailant get under my skin so much, but my stomach did turn at the prior comparison.
That mild, fleeting thought of that crime scene dissipated as I re-focussed to my surroundings; I caught myself staring at the history of the case on the whiteboard, surrounded by my own spittle. I had to find him. I had to beat him. Why did he even target that woman? She was in her late sixties, had no priors; a seemed like a bystander of life. No family, otherwise, they’d have reported the disappearance. Sadly, by being alone, she was easy to be forgotten. I’d keep her in my mind until this case was closed, as a mark of respect. How empty though, living a full life and having no heirs, nobody to continue the family name, a speck of sand on a grand beach by all accounts–
“Blackwood!” the Chief exclaimed as he walked in the door behind me. He startled me as I was lost in thought. I acknowledged him with a simple, “Sir,” like he was the General of a small army.
I suppose in a way he was. I respected the Chief. He was always prepared to go with my wild theories, settle on my crazy concepts, and gave me breathing room to work. He never micro-managed me because I made him look good. He loved a press conference, I didn’t. Whenever I pulled in a few sharks, he’d get the public credit and I made the precinct’s stats look good.
I enjoyed hunting the sharks, like my old childhood poster. I was the predator amongst predators and I fucking loved it. Arthur was more than that. He was no mere shark; he was a whale and the Chief knew it too. Ever since that fateful night of Jessica’s and he called his daughter through teary eyes to say he loved her; he wanted me to catch Arthur, bag him a whale so-to-speak.
In fact, I’ll never forget the words he said to me. “Blackwood, whatever you need, whatever you’ve got to do, you find this evil cunt!” Oddly, that’s the only time I’ve ever heard the Chief swear, and he went straight to A-grade swearing. Something punched him in the gut that night and the devil on his shoulder got full control of his vocal cords.
His voice softened, in a defeatist tone. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to have you cut back on the amount of time you are spending on this case.”
“What?” I responded in shock.
“Sebastian.” He never called me by my first name. This was serious, like a father trying to educate his son; he lowered his voice even more. “You know how much I want this guy off the streets. But I’ve had the steer from above that they think the case is going cold. Other cases are piling up, the others can’t get through them like you can. Upstairs, and the mayor’s office – they think
that Henderson is unlikely to do anything again so soon.”
“How the fuck can they predict that from their ivory towers?” I protested.
“Listen Blackwood.” He was talking to me like I was an employee again. “I appreciate this is as much a kick in the teeth for you as it is for me. Call it bureaucratic bullshit. Office politics. But the closure rate for cases since you’ve been working on Henderson isn’t as good as it has been before. See it as a compliment, you’re one of the best. I need you out there closing cases or you, or any of us, won’t have a job at the end of it. They want to merge us with nearby precincts and solving crime keeps us in front and gives me some ammo to defend the necessity for our station. Granted, solving this one and bringing Henderson in would close a lot of unsolved cases and bring the closure rate up but so would working on others. You invest less of your time.” He coughed. “No, less of MY time solving this, and solving some of the petty shit to bring the numbers up. I know I’m making it sound like you have a choice, but I’m sorry – you don’t.”
You’re damn right it was office politics. Complete and utter bullshit. Little Sebastian, Jane Doe, the others. They were just going to become statistics. Numbers. Their lives were nothing but numbers on a pie chart where the bigwigs would push bullshit and finances around to justify their own high salaries. I’d heard the rumours of the precinct merges and the Chief inadvertently confirmed it to me. Probably figured I was eccentric enough to be trusted with the knowledge and that people wouldn’t try to engage me in small talk. Naturally, I wasn’t one to cause needless drama in the office so his foresight was probably well placed. It still reeked of political bullshit though.
“How long do I have? I feel like I’m getting closer every day, Chief!”
I was left disappointed with the answer, as he pushed a stack of files against my chest, leaving me to fumble with the paperwork.
Dancing With Devils Page 4
