The Real

by James Cole

  Jeremy clicked over to Jinni’s voice on the other line.

  “Hey,” he said. “Did you hear about June?”

  “Yes, Jeremy,” Jinni replied. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine – listen, Jinni, can I call you right back? I’ve got Tavalin on the other line.”

  “No need – I’m driving over right now.”

  “See you in a minute.”

  Jeremy clicked back over to the other line. “Tavalin?”

  “I’m here,” replied Tavalin.

  “Any idea what the symbol might signify?” asked Jeremy.

  “That I don’t know.”

  “How did the police react when you told them?” asked Jeremy.

  “Are you crazy? I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, I didn’t like the way they treated us, dragging us down there and asking a thousand questions. They made me feel like a criminal. Also, I couldn’t be entirely sure the symbol was the same until I looked at it again online.”

  “You probably should have told them anyway,” chided Jeremy. “It might help them figure out who the killer is.”

  “June is dead and nothing I say or don’t say to the cops is going to bring her back. I’m not equipped to handle joy rides in the back of squad cars and interrogations down at the station. Call me apathetic, but if I never deal with the police again, it’ll be too soon.”

  “I suppose I can’t fault you for that,” agreed Jeremy. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the morning’s activities either. But as far as feeling like a criminal, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. I think that’s just how they conduct these interviews.”

  “If you want to tell them about the symbol, go right ahead,” said Tavalin. “Just leave my name out of it.”

  When Jinni arrived, Jeremy told her everything that he knew, including the connection of the strange symbol and the band. On studying the Cocytus website, they discovered that Tavalin had been correct when he identified their genre of music as a subcategory of rock known, ironically, as deathcore.

  Chapter 22

  Monday, November 24

  Jeremy might have skipped his eight o’clock class had he been able to sleep in. That, however, proved to be impossible as his mind flipped relentlessly through its rolodex of recollections – memories of June. The pleasant memories he relived; the vague memories he revived as best he could; the scarcity of the memories he regretted; that there could never be a new memory made enraged him. Jeremy slept fitfully throughout the night and woke up well before the late November dawn.

  The morning air was seasonably cool, but it felt cold as hell as Jeremy rode his Hayabusa to campus. He expected a certain level of activity at the crime scene, but in no way did he anticipate the pure pandemonium that greeted his sight as he closed in on the Facility. Police cars, news trucks and a plethora of University-logoed vehicles had transformed the street in front of the Facility into a parking lot. A virtual army of city cops, highway patrol officers, and University policemen guarded and patrolled every intersection, sidewalk, and doorway. A crowd of onlookers milled around behind the sawhorse and yellow tape barricades that had been erected around a large portion of Grover’s Field. Imbedded within the crowd were the news crews with their lights and cameras and microphones stuck in people’s faces. On the other side of the barricades were ten or more forensic lab workers wearing white coats and latex gloves as they sifted through the abundance of trash left over from the RockFest. It certainly was not the image the University suits wished to be beamed from the booms of the satellite news trucks to the four corners of the earth.

  After taking in the other-worldly scene outside the Facility, Jeremy wandered inside. The stairwells to the upper floors of the Biotechnology Facility were cordoned off and a campus cop stood guard at the elevator. The ground floor and its classrooms, however, were open for business.

  He got to his classroom fifteen minutes early and mumbled a hello to the two students already there. He took his accustomed seat in the back and, with dread, turned his attention for the first time to the University newspaper.

  “MURDER IN GROVER’S FIELD” read the prominent headline. The article offered nothing Jeremy didn’t already know and included most of everything he did know, including how her body was mutilated and some internal organs removed. There was, however, no direct reference to the symbol engraved in her forehead nor any mention of the band who called themselves Cocytus.

  Chapter 23

  Tuesday, November 25

  By Tuesday, the third day after June’s murder, the activity around campus and the Facility had settled down. Around lunchtime the police reopened the upper floors of the Facility. Needing something other than the murder to occupy his mind, for once Jeremy wanted to work. Early that afternoon as he sat at the console of his primary instrument, a state-of-the-art UV spectrophotometer, Grady popped in.

  “I heard what happened to June,” Grady said. “I know you two were close and I’m sorry.”

  “Did you know her?” asked Jeremy. He would have been surprised to learn that Grady spoke to anyone besides him, as skittish as he was.

  “I knew her enough to know that she had a kind heart.”

  “Yes, she did,” concurred Jeremy. “I’m going to miss her.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “What?” asked Jeremy with indignation.

  “I’m not being disrespectful,” added Grady hastily. “All I’m saying is maybe she’s better off – she’s been released from her cocoon.”

  Jeremy glared into the black of Grady’s sunglasses but all he could see was the reflection of his own annoyed face. “Just once, Grady, I would really like it if you would just talk in an understandable way. Is there any way you could do that for me?”

  “Our bodies are like cocoons – just a few silky threads wrapped around our souls to tether them to this earthly plane. One day, the threads break and the soul is freed to roam the hidden realms. We should not mourn June’s passing for death is not the end.”

  “For June’s sake I hope you’re right,” said Jeremy, “but as for me, I’d just as soon keep my cocoon anchored right here in this world for as long as possible.”

  “You should be careful what you wish for, Jeremy. Some things are worse than death. Remember that.”

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, November 26

  It was Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving and the campus resembled a ghost town. The undergrad students had all gone home for the long holiday. The upper floors of the Facility, however, bustled with activity as the professors and grad students tried to make up for the time lost earlier in the week.

  Jeremy, too, was hard at work in his lab when Jinni called.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” she asked.

  Jeremy’s parents, who lived a few hours south of Destiny, were gone on vacation, a Caribbean cruise.

  “I’m sure,” he replied. “I could use a little down time.”

  Jeremy declined Jinni’s invitation to spend the holiday with her at her family’s home. Feeling as he did, he had no desire whatsoever to spend the next day and a half pretending to be cordial. Ever since June’s death, Jeremy could do little more than go through the motions of his life. He attended his morning classes and showed up for the labs he taught and zoned out in front of the television at night. Although every conversation at the Facility gravitated to the murder, he had little to say. On the outside he wore a brave, even nonchalant face but underneath it all he had done nothing but think about June and the waste that was her death. He felt awful.

  “I should be back by Friday afternoon,” said Jinni. “You can call me if you like.”

  It was mid-afternoon when Tavalin unsuccessfully tried to sneak up on Jeremy while he worked.

  “Don’t even think about it,” warned Jeremy. “I’m really not in the mood.”

  “I had to try,” Tavalin quipped.

  “Have you h
eard anything else about the investigation?” asked Jeremy.

  “Just what I’ve seen on television,” replied Tavalin. “Did you see our good friend Lieutenant Sykes’ interview on CNN this morning?”

  “Wow, CNN?” exclaimed Jeremy. “No, I didn’t see it. What did he have to say?”

  “Not too much,” replied Tavalin. “He didn’t look very comfortable with all the questions they were asking. I must say I thoroughly enjoyed seeing him on the hot seat. Now maybe he knows how we felt.”

  “So they still don’t have a suspect?”

  “Apparently not. Sykes appealed for anyone with information to come forward. He said that someone at the RockFest must have seen something.”

  “Did they mention the symbol at all?” asked Jeremy.

  “No, but certainly they’ve figured out by now where it came from.”

  “You would think,” agreed Jeremy.

  “Think of all the time that and the other mutilation took,” said Tavalin. “Why would anybody go to all that trouble?”

  “They wouldn’t,” began Jeremy, “unless that was part of the motive. Take away the mutilation and maybe that takes away the reason the sicko killed June in the first place. It had to be one of Cocytus’ drug-crazed fans gone bonkers.”

  “Maybe you should go back down to the station and explain it all to Lieutenant Sykes,” Tavalin joked. “It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

  “I hope I never have to talk to that man again.”

  Chapter 25

  Thursday, November 27

  On Thanksgiving Day, Jeremy turned on the television, expecting nothing more exciting than the pre-game parades. When he surfed by the cable news network, he learned of what the talking heads described as a shocking new revelation in the slaying of June Song.

  It took the media exactly four days to learn of the symbol carved into June’s forehead and how the killer carefully removed her internal organs, including her heart. All morning long, Jeremy watched the news shows as each of the various experts claimed his or her fifteen minutes of fame. Medical examiners rotated through to discuss the technical details of human dissection. The criminal psychologists discussed the mindset and motives of the textbook mutilator-killer. Authorities on the occult were conjured up, strange characters who either studied these shady factions or else had been cult members themselves. The symbol itself was the centerpiece of most of the discussions.

  They even showcased an interview with the drummer of the band, Cocytus, who maintained that the symbol was meaningless. He said that he and his band mates had essentially cut-and-pasted the elements of the symbol’s dark-themed imagery from various sources they found on the internet. He seemed most uncomfortable when asked to explain the source of the band’s name.

  Sheepishly, he answered, “Cocytus is a name for the lowest level of hell. I can only tell you that we ran across the term one night and thought how bitchin’ it sounded.” At that he covered his mouth and, to someone off camera, muttered, “Sorry,” before continuing. “I know how it might sound suspicious or whatever, but that’s about all the thought we put into it. We never expected anything like this to come of it.”

  For his final comment, the drummer read a disclaimer, obviously composed by someone other than himself: “We, the members of the band Cocytus, have never, nor do we now, condone the use of any of our copyrighted symbols in the commission of any crime. We truly hope that the person or persons who are responsible for this heinous crime are brought to swift justice. Thank you.”

  The pundits on television mostly ignored the idea that the symbol was meaningless. They surmised and supposed and hypothesized all manner of meanings and innuendos that could and should be derived from the symbol. Jeremy suspected that the media moguls were happy to stretch out this sideshow for as long as people would turn on their televisions to watch. No one, it seemed, truly gave a damn about the death of his friend June, except as a sensational tragedy to exploit.

  Around lunchtime, Tavalin called. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

  “Regrettably, yes,” replied Jeremy. “It makes me sick at my stomach, but for some reason I can’t stop watching.”

  “That’s why they keep playing it,” said Tavalin, mirroring Jeremy’s opinion. “They keep it rolling because it pumps up their ratings. And, get this – I read online that Cocytus has had over a million downloads of their songs since their connection to the murder became public.”

  “I’m sure they must hate that,” added Jeremy facetiously.

  Changing the subject, Jeremy asked, “So why aren’t you spending the holiday with your mom? Judging by how often she calls, I would think that you two must be close.”

  Because Tavalin seemed uncomfortable speaking of his mother, Jeremy often brought up the subject, if for no better reason than to try and figure out why his friend seemed loath to enter into a discussion of her.

  “I really have no desire to visit my mother,” replied Tavalin. “She’s a manipulative, mean-spirited bitty, and that’s putting it nicely.”

  “Where did you say she lived?” asked Jeremy.

  “I didn’t. She moves around a lot.”

  “She sounds like quite the character,” said Jeremy.

  “What are you going to do this afternoon?” asked Tavalin, taking his turn to change the subject.

  “The smart thing to do would be to study, especially since I skipped the first exam,” replied Jeremy, “but we’ll see. I’m good at finding other things to distract me.”

  As it turned out, this afternoon’s distraction had to do with a certain girl burned to death back in 1969. Monika’s mention of Claire at the secret beach rekindled Jeremy’s desire to look for more information on the hippie queen. The most promising avenue of investigation seemed to be Claire’s artwork, though before tonight, the only example Jeremy had been able to find was a low-resolution thumbnail of a painting that only served to tease.

  Long after the last football game ended, somewhere in the far reaches of the world wide spider web of the internet, in a footnote to a footnote, Jeremy’s perseverance finally paid off: One of Claire Wale’s paintings – a composition entitled Wicked Water – would be on display tomorrow night as part of an art showing at the local gallery.

  Chapter 26

  Friday, November 28

  It was about eight p.m. on Friday when Jinni called, having just returned to town from visiting her family. She suggested they swing by Holgram’s Department Store to take advantage of their after-Thanksgiving sale.

  “We’ll have to hurry,” she said. “They close at nine.”

  “I would go, but there’s somewhere else I need to go tonight.”

  “Where?” Jinni asked.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “What about Holgram’s?” asked Jinni. “I can’t miss this sale.”

  “Do this thing with me and I promise I’ll take you shopping in the morning.”

  Jeremy picked Jinni up a few minutes later and drove her downtown. The art gallery was located just off the Square.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked, when she realized where he was taking her. “I know you – you aren’t that much into art.”

  “I guess you don’t know me as well as you think,” he teased.

  The gallery consisted of a single room, narrow and deep. Jinni stopped to admire a sculpture showcased near the front while Jeremy made his way systematically along the perimeter, scanning the paintings hung on the walls until he found the one in particular.

  Coming into the gallery, Jeremy had a theory as to why there might be a market for the artwork of Claire Wales. Dead artists command higher prices for their limited-supply pieces but in Claire’s case it was her story that really got the buyers juiced. The hippie queen died almost forty years ago, but her story had a life of its own. Who could resist the legend of a talented young artist who painted scenes of her wilderness home and died shortly thereafter in an all-consuming fire? There would always be some local hipp
ie-turned-baby-boomer in the know ready to snatch up anything of hers that came up for sale. That was what Jeremy had come up with before he had seen one of her paintings in person. However, standing in the presence of Claire’s creation raised his understanding to a new level.

  A river bank separated the scene into roughly two halves, the forest side and the river side. The forest, full of dark green hues and darker shadows, stood in sharp contrast to the bone-white tones of the sun-draped boulders and roiling water. The river crashed headlong into the house-sized rock strategically placed in the middle of the channel. A sheer rock wall, the top of which extended beyond the scope of the painting, formed the backdrop. Immediately, Jeremy recognized the setting: this was, no doubt, a representation of the rapids of The Devil’s Crotch.

  While he had certainly enjoyed the scenery of the river and the surrounding forest, Claire’s oil painting added more to the reality than Jeremy bore witness to before. Though hard to describe, part of this more was a hazy atmosphere and a certain quality of green iridescence that permeated the piece. The net result was a scene so lush and serene that it might have been from a primordial rain forest.

  But it was the melancholy child that was the source of the emotional reaction stirring within him. The child, hauntingly beautiful, stood straight and still, veiled in the murky shade that surrounded her. Except for a contradictory purple flower stuck between the dark locks of her hair, she appeared as an integral part of the shadows, camouflaged within the gloominess. In her eyes a terrible sadness pulled at him like the gravitational suction of two black holes. Jeremy longed to assure the child, to comfort her, to gather her up in his arms and run with her, the way a loving brother might save his young sister from a burning house.

  Jinni brought him back. “I really like this one,” she said, having approached from behind.

  Jeremy asked, “Do you recognize the scene?”