The Umbras

by Derek Keeling

  The long rectangular building took up the land from Third and Portland St., to Second and Portland St.. It extended one city block wide, with a parking lot paralleling it and Portland St.

  The light turned green and Walter pulled into the vacant lot. There was not a soul to be seen. He saw an entrance to the building and parked near it. The car shut off without any problems. He sat in the car, unsure. Unsure about what he was going to find in this place, if anything. He figured if the F.C.P.D. closed the case without thoroughly investigating the scene of the crime, then maybe, he might find something worthwhile.

  Chapter 7

  The Photograph

  Long stringy strands of yellow and black police tape hung in a criss-cross fashion on the main entrance doors. Police Line Do Not Cross, written in bold black Helvetica stared at Walter, warning him of his trespasses. A feeble attempt at exclusion. Thick fog encompassed the space between Walter and the door, almost becoming a barrier in itself. But Walter, without any hesitation to the warning written in black, violently ripped the shiny plastic tape from the door and threw it onto the ground.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” he thought. “Nothing makes any sense anymore? Why did they pick this place to kill her?” He was confused and distraught. A state of confusion mixed with a slight dosage of paranoia crept upon him, shrouding out his rational thoughts for a brief moment. “Why was she here? Was there a reason?” he wondered.

  He jiggled the door handle, hoping that it would be unlocked, but to no avail. He took a quick glance around the area to see if anyone was around that would spot him breaking into the building. Still, there was not a soul to be seen. And even if there was a person lurking in the darkness, the fog was so thick that no one would be able to see, or be seen.

  He readied his shoulder for the impact, and in one swift motion, lunged into the weak plywood door, tearing it cleanly from its frame. The sound reverberated throughout the warehouse. And the slap the door made as it savagely slammed to the warehouse’s cold cement floor, pulsed through the building like a hundred people slamming their foot down simultaneously in a vast cathedral. Regardless, he was in. The interior of the massive metal building was mostly dark, with a few spots that were a shade or two lighter than the rest of the warehouse.

  “What the hell is that?” Walter whispered. He stood staring at a stack of something large and oddly shaped, but he couldn’t make it out. The dark was thick, mimicking the outside fog, and Walter’s unadjusted eyes didn’t help the situation. He squinted toward the tall shape about twenty feet in front of him, trying to force his eyes into defeat. As he began to walk closer, the shapes became clearer. A perfect stack of what appeared to be boxes. “Packing crates,” he said, not amused with the find. He smacked the wooden crate with his hand. His confusion and paranoia had unexpectedly turned into anger. He wasn’t sure why, it just had. A deep breath came from the Detective as he tried to calm himself and continue with what he came for. Whether or not there was anything at all was a burning question in his mind. But it could only be answered, it could only be satisfied, by continuing his search of the vast warehouse.

  As he walked past the wooden crates, he looked up. He noticed that the entire warehouse was open, with only one upper area. In comparison to the entirety of the warehouse, the solitary room was tiny. “Probably an office or something,” he thought to himself. Two windows could be seen on the side of the room. Walter looked around to try and find the way up. But as he did this, something shiny caught his eye from the far opposite corner of the building. He decided to try and find the entrance to the room after he investigated the mystery. He walked diagonally across the warehouse, scanning the area as he went. Nothingness, pure nothingness. Whatever they did in this warehouse was an enigma to Walter. The emptiness appeared unbounded.

  Within thirty seconds, Walter was standing in front of a mass of shiny, yet rusty barrels. Numerous fifty-five gallon drum barrels were shoved, with no apparent order or reasoning, into the corner. He looked fervently around the drums, searching for anything that could make some sense of this case, or at least point him in the direction of something that would make sense. But he found nothing, he just stood against the barrels with his head down, frustrated with the way things were going. But giving up was never his way, nor was accepting defeat in the pursuit of justice.

  Walter could see a set of metal stairs leading up to the room that hung in the warehouse. He could also see something else, directly across from him. It had the shape of a car, but with other accentual features. He quickly paced toward the mystery. About ten feet away from the mystery, and to the left of Walter, he noticed a huge metal bay door. The kind of door used for bringing in huge trucks or huge payloads of material. The door was slightly ajar, and fog could be seen trying to sneak in from under it.

  Continuing through the warehouse, Walter was now within visual range of the mystery vehicle. A cluster of stout, bright yellow forklifts neatly parked in the corner of the warehouse. Feeling like the office held more potential for evidence or clues, Walter turned for and headed toward the stairs that led up ten feet to the room.

  A rigid rebar-like staircase, cold and sharp, stung at Walter’s exposed hands as he tightly gripped the handrail. The room had a sign above the door that read, Office Employees Only. Walter turned the handle to the door, and threw it open.

  “Glad I don’t have to break another one down,” he thought rubbing his shoulder which ached with pain. “That’s definitely going to bruise,” he whispered.

  The office was a shell of a room. Nothing but a few folding metal chairs and cheap drywall, stained a dull yellow from cigarette smoke. Atop the center of the room was a circle that was nicely stained into the wall, the old resting place of an old clock. “It seems even time is gone from this place,” he thought. He blew a breath of resentment out, followed shortly thereafter by a sigh of disapproval. He was starting to feel regret for showing up in the first place.

  “Wow, what a crime scene,” he thought with utter bewilderment. Just as he was about to give up on the seemingly frivolous search in the office, something small and brown caught his eye. He bent down, and with one eyebrow arched picked the object up. It was a very small brown cigarette filter. All of the tobacco had been smoked and all that remained was a stub of a filter. Walter examined it closely with studied eyes. He began to fidget with the butt, trying intently to consider its value. He stood for a moment and then placed it into his pocket. It was his only piece of evidence so far, and he wasn’t going to let it go, regardless of how menial it was.

  Suddenly, he heard a quick and quiet metallic sound come from outside the small room. Slowly, he crept across the office and down the stairs. His eyes were now fully adjusted to the darkness. He peered across the warehouse, with the utmost attentiveness, scanning left to right for any sign of movement, or anything that seemed unusual. But he didn’t see anything, just an empty void of a warehouse. He took a couple steps forward, still scanning for movement. A dark spot on the cement caught his eye. It stood out in contrast to the sheer gray concrete below his feet. His eyebrows perked up and he started walking over to the spot. As he began to kneel, it became clear what it was that he was looking at. His eyes focused onto the stain and he noticed tiny drip marks surrounding it. Blood, the blood of the beautiful and late, Marcia Darden. This he was sure about.

  To see her poor, pale face dressed with death was a shocking image for Walter. The weird thing was, he had seen many dead bodies before, most in worse shape than she was. To Walter, her beauty, and her death, should have never been. It was like seeing the ripest, juiciest and most luscious fruit you’d ever seen, smashed to pieces right in front of you.

  He examined the blood stain closely, looking for any signs of a trail. But there were no drips leading off in any direction. He stood, and after taking his fedora off, briskly scratched his head. A shower of dandruff sprinkled onto Walter’s shoulders and the cement floor. His lack of personal hygiene was a testament to his commi
tment to the case, weirdly enough.

  His eyes veered toward the forklifts, searching for a blood trail. He turned slowly to his left looking meticulously on the floor. When he made it back around so that he was facing the stairs to the office, he saw it. A few dark drip-like spots dotting the stairs and handrail. As he drew his eyes down from the stairs, he saw a few scattered drips heading from the steps toward him and the stain of blood. It was obvious what had happened now. He could tell the struggle began either in the office, or on the stairs themselves. Marcia’s blood starting dripping out onto the stairs as she came down them, and finally ending up where he stood, where she died. It became clear to him.

  “I probably missed something in the office,” he thought. His eyes were randomly led to something under the stairs. It looked like a small square piece of paper. Perplexed at this, he headed for it, desperate for a physical piece of conclusive evidence.

  Then from behind him, the quick fading in of a very familiar sound, footsteps. They came so quick and so quietly that Walter barely had time to react. He swung his arm around as he tried to face the attacker, slamming it into the attacker’s arm and hand. The clink of an object hitting the ground echoed in the warehouse. Before Walter could fully turn to face his assailant, an arm had wrapped around his neck and begun to squeeze tightly. He choked as the pressure increased. The two fumbled a few steps toward the forklifts. Walter could feel it coming. The inevitable loss of consciousness one has when oxygen enriched blood fails to reach the brain. He felt he only had one chance, and this was it. He mustered up all his energy, and with one clumsy movement, rushed himself and the attacker quickly toward a parked forklift. The result was devastating. The attacker slammed into the forklift with all the might and force of Walter’s push. His grip was loosened a lot, but he still had a hold. Walter breathed in deep, trying to regain full control of his consciousness. But, just as the one breath he took was satisfying his need for oxygen, the assailant regained his grip on his neck. Walter slammed the attacker against the forklift once more, this time knocking the arm away from his neck completely. Walter coughed violently, his body was screaming for air.

  In a flash of a moment, he heard the attacker running away from him, obviously feeling like his efforts were ineffective, and further pursuits would be frivolous. Walter tried to follow, but tripped as he began his pursuit, still coughing and dizzy. He watched the man slip under the small opening in the bay doors. There was no point in pursuit, he could barely see straight. His lungs were tight and felt as if they had just caved in. The cold temperature in the warehouse reveled Walter’s attempts at taking deep breaths. A wispy pillar of cold white air left the aspirated body of Walter Pierce and spread throughout the general vicinity, eventually dispersing into the very air in which he was seeking. After a brief moment of trying to regain his equilibrium, he brought himself up from the floor.

  His mind raced with fears and uncertainties. “Was that The Umbras…?” he wondered, still slightly distraught from the incident. Building up all the energy he had, he staggered toward the partially open, warehouse bay doors. He was not content with the early escaping of his attacker. He needed, as a Detective, to follow the man, and if not apprehend him, obtain some form of evidence to continue his pursuit of the assailant. But, just as he arrived at the bay doors, the loud sound of tires squealing and skidding off filled the air. Walter suddenly dropped down to his hands and knees, which stirred up a flurry of dust and sediment. His head peered out into the open street, disturbing the resident fog around him, which seemed to revel in the idea of movement in a sea of still, condensed fog. Walter, on the other hand, despised the thick droplets of water vapor that appeared to suspend themselves on the invisible cushion of air they surrounded. He could just barely see the dark black shape of the van as it took a left on the corner of Second and Portland St.. Because of the fog’s ability to limit visibility, he was unable to clearly make out the license plate number on the back of the van.

  “I’m in this too deep,” he thought. He was beginning to realize the gravity of his situation. Whomever it was that wanted him dead, was probably the same person, or group of persons, that had killed both Neil and Marcia Darden. With this in mind, Walter was unequivocally certain that they would stop at nothing until he was out of the picture. He all at once felt powerless and scared. An extreme sense of helplessness came over him with sudden rapidity.

  He sat with a slight chill in his bones and a fever of fear running through his veins. It boiled within him like water at sea-level. The dust cloud he had stirred up had begun to settle back into its place, dancing to and fro like miniature snowflakes on the way down to the floor. His knees and elbows were covered in a thin layer of dust.

  As he stood from his extended stupor, he remembered what he was previously doing before the confrontation with the attacker. He humbly locomoted across the warehouse from the bay doors back to where he was investigating the blood drippings. The ordeal was over, and regardless of his nervousness, or lack of willingness to continue, he tried to pull the strength from deep down inside him. This, of course, came in the form of a small, shiny, rectangular cigarette case. He pulled out a long cylindrical filtered tobacco stick. It’s tan filter was covered in tiny, beige colored, misshapen spots, resembling that of an odd tiger. The translucent white paper, reveled a dark brown tobacco in a crosshatch like pattern. His bony hands fumbled with the lighter, trying desperately to catch a flame. Pieces of red-hot flint scattered through the air like a volcanic explosion as he numerously scratched at the flint-roller. After many failed attempts, Walter cupped his hands around the lighter and cigarette, and after taking a deep breath, as if to breathe away his anxiety, caught flame to the lighter. The flame was brought near to the cigarette, and before it reached it fully, the residual heat lit up the exposed excess paper in a fiery blaze of orange and yellow. He drew in deep, satisfying and calming his shaken nerves and burned up adrenaline reserves.

  “The paper,” he thought with extreme enthusiasm. He took one more drag of his cigarette and tossed it onto the ground, sending hot ember shrapnel throughout the vicinity. He had forgotten about the paper momentarily because of the distraction he suffered. As he began to pick the pace of his walking up, another thought rushed into his mind. He suddenly remembered what happened right before the attacker starting choking him. The sound echoed through his mind like music in an system of cathedral like caves. He remembered the sound of the clinking that he heard as he threw his arm into the assailant’s hand. He rushed over to the area where the incident took place. His eyes frantically searched the hard floor for any sign of an object. As he made his way over to where the forklifts were parked, he noticed something under them. He bent down to pick it up, and before his hand touched it, he quickly drew back. The item he saw only affirmed his theory on who tried to kill him. Walter stared down at the horrifying sight before him, a short syringe with its plunger fully drawn. The deadly liquid concoction remained inside the barrel of the syringe, shining up at Walter with a light auburn gleam. A short silvery needle protruded from the end of the barrel. It was a menacing sight for Walter to see. He then realized the seriousness of his situation, and he was slightly disturbed by it. He knew that if it wasn’t for his quick reaction, he would have been stuck with the needle and probably dead. Another victim to the mysterious Umbras.

  He fumbled through his trench coat pockets, looking for anything to hold the deadly needle. His hand grazed a cold metal object, and as he pulled it out, he realized what it was.

  “Keep one for myself,” Walter whispered as he dumped the contents of his cigarette case onto the ground. He shoved the single cigarette he saved behind his ear, and then he pulled his fedora down onto it to keep it in its place.

  He bent down to pick the syringe up with his cigarette case. As he scooped the evidence into the case, a small amount of the liquid in the barrel squirted out from the needle. It splashed itself onto the inside on Walter’s cigarette case and the surrounding cement groun
d. He tried closing the lid to the case, but the plunger was out just a little bit too far. Walter knew he needed at least some of the liquid in order to do proper testing, without it, there would probably be little or no evidence on the syringe. He slowly pushed the plunger in, spilling a few squirts onto the internal area in the case. The plunger cleared the case without having to push all of the liquid out of its barrel. He snapped the case shut with extreme urgency. He placed it back into his pocket and stood up from his kneeling position.

  Feeling satisfied with obtaining one piece of evidence, Walter headed over to the stairs where the piece of paper was. He could see it laying directly under the stairs as he walked toward it. The rattle of the syringe in the cigarette case was music to Walter’s ears. “Finally, some real evidence,” he thought. The stairs were completely open on the underside, which would allow Walter to easily reach the piece of paper. As he squatted down beside the staircase, he could slightly make out what the paper was. A photograph laid in front of Walter. The white backside was facing up, hiding whatever photo was on the other side. He extended his left arm into the space between the stairs and the wall, reaching with all his might to grab the photo. His middle finger just barely touched the picture, sliding it close enough for him to get a firm grip on it. He turned the photo over as he withdrew it from the underside if the staircase.

  He stood from his crouched position and focused on the photo. The picture was faded with age. There were two men standing in the foreground of the picture shaking hands, appearing to be celebrating something. Both men were wearing clean-suits. A very loosely fitting, full-body garment used to keep germs, bacteria and other contaminants that are on a human body out of a laboratory. In the background was a very large building painted in a drab gray-like color. A huge red acronym sat atop the building.