by John Stone
“Well no one else has ever taken ownership for it! So I suppose it is mine.” Carlo said. “Anyway, I saw him diving in my dumpster. I told him to take a hike and all he told me was that the boxes he was putting inside were for Mr. Russell at the police and he left.”
“So what spurred you to open up the top box and find the foot?” John asked.
“No offense, Detective Russell...but I didn't see why you'd need twelve pairs of shoes. I figured you could maybe spare me a pair so I decided to see what was inside. Wish I hadn't now, obviously, but at the time it seemed worth it.”
“Good call,” Damianos smiled wearily. “And you were right...I definitely didn't need all of those shoes. Did you manage to get a good look at the man who put the boxes in the bin?”
Carlo's eyes turned upward as he seemed to look back into his own memory.
“Yeah but not the boss-man,” Carlo finally said. “Just the guy who was driving the car.”
The interview was going nowhere fast and getting anything helpful was like pulling teeth. Carlo had shed light that there was more than one person involved—but to what extent? For all they knew, the man who dropped off the shoe boxes was under duress and had no choice but to be the delivery man. Just to be safe, Damianos made sure that John wrote down a description of the man as Carlo remembered him.
Besides having an idea of what the drop-off man looked like and that he may not be working alone, they hadn't learned anything overly helpful for the investigation. They still knew that someone was running down removing people's feet, having them be dropped off in trash bins.
It was just as disturbing of a thought as it had initially been.
**
The next morning finally seemed to bear fruit—Dr. Darby had some information.
While he hadn't had a chance yet to examine all of the feet, he had gone through enough to have made some discoveries. He could already tell that the victims consisted of six men and six women. He was finally going to be fully extracting the feet from the shoes and wanted to give Damianos an update before he dove headfirst into the rest of it.
“Would it be possible to at least begin to identify the bodies based on the feet?”
“Well...it's a bit complicated, of course.” Dr. Darby said, his words laced with obvious uncertainty. “Given some more time, I could possibly learn more; approximate age, height, and maybe even estimated weight if we're lucky. Besides that, I'm not sure if I'll be able to learn anymore with just the feet to go off of.”
At least it's something, Damianos thought.
Thankfully, it wouldn't be the last “something” he'd be receiving that morning.
Alan Davros had come up with the preliminary report on the shoes. All of the shoes had been bought at the same store, and they're all the same model and make.
As soon as Alan had given the report, Damianos obtained the name of the store and told John to pay them a visit. He also wanted him to inquire if the store kept a record of couples buying the same pairs of runners. John Avers, as usual, set off on his task without a second thought, determined to make sure his end of the investigation amounted to something.
Meanwhile, Damianos decided to head to the morgue. He wasn't looking forward to having to see all of the feet so made sure to prepare himself as much as he could.
They were there the moment he entered—twelve pairs of dead feet.
Two autopsy tables were covered with them. It was still strange seeing feet by themselves. They looked so odd without bodies above them. Their only distinguishing feature was that they were all branded.
“It sure is something,” Dr. James Darby walked in. “But just wait, if you think it's strange now...it gets a whole lot stranger.”
Darby stepped over to the tables and waved his gloved hand over the feet.
“Notice anything?” Darby said, pointing to the brands.
“Hard to miss.” Damianos said, stepping closer.
“Each left foot has been branded, always the left. And, mind you, it's an actual brand that was burned on with a hot iron, not a tattoo or anything a little more civilized.” Darby said, his eyes examining the feet with a quiet curiosity.
As much as he didn't want to, Damianos took a closer look at the feet. The brands on the left feet all looked very similar. Close up, the burns resembled numbers on the bottom of the heels.
“The numbers are consecutive when you look at all the feet...in order from 66601 to 66612.” Darby said, running his finger over the heel with 66605.
Does that mean they were the last victims of 66,600 others? He was afraid to even ask it aloud. His thoughts were far too horrifying to divulge. Thankfully, Darby had another theory.
“I've been thinking about it,” Darby said quietly. “666 is considered the number of the devil. So maybe what we're look at is the mark of the devil and twelve of his victims...”
The devil—that would sure be one hell of an arrest.
If Darby was right, they were dealing with something biblical. That was a dangerous possibility. Contending with angels and devils wasn't something Damianos was prepared for.
As history could attest, religion was a powerful motivator sometimes, even in killing. How could one stop someone who was killing to appease a higher power? Who was Damianos to stand against the will of celestial beings?
Even if Satan wasn't to blame, it was clear to Damianos that someone out there was keeping people imprisoned and torturing them through some ritual. The brands alone seemed to suggest that the victims were looked at as being less than human.
A few minutes later, Damianos left the morgue completely disgusted. Unfortunately, he couldn't get away from the feet as quickly as he'd have liked since he was still without a car and unable to drive. He managed to call a cab and was thankful to be sitting again. The entire ride back to the precinct, though, he could only hear the footsteps of feet running through his mind.
It was his own footsteps that filled his ears when he marched back into the precinct. He went straight to the captain's office and told him about Dr. Darby's latest discovery.
“So...what course of action would you take next?” The captain asked.
“Honestly...I'd like to devote any resources we can to finding the twelve bodies. They could probably tell us a whole lot more than some toes do.” Damianos said.
The captain slowly nodded.
“Use any of the resources you have at hand.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The brands, as horribly degrading as they were, were at least something to go off of. It was ritualistic for all of the victims—always branded on the same foot in the same spot. To accommodate the ritual, the people responsible would need to have a forge or ranch nearby; perhaps in close proximity to wherever they were indulging in their “faith”.
There were several ranches located outside of San Diego but they were all owned and run by well-known families...far too conspicuous for such violence.
“We can rule out all of these.”
Damianos put aside a stack of papers that were in front of him. John Avers sat by his side, also pouring over files and records of any nearby ranches. It was far from exciting but Damianos appreciated being able to sit down. He'd never admit it aloud, but he was relieved to be resting his foot, especially with dead feet on his mind.
The phone rang abruptly and Damianos recognized the voice on the other side.
“Detective Russell...” Carlo said, his voice unusually quiet.
Damianos heard Carlo give him a location to meet but almost didn't hear him. He was too distracted by how distraught Carlo sounded. There was raw fear permeating through the phone.
“We need to go. Now.” Damianos said, hanging up the phone.
“By 'we'...you mean me, right? I already got yelled at for letting you walkabout.” John said with a raised brow.
Damianos didn't have time for a debate. He was already on his feet and halfway to the door.
“I'll take the bus if I have to!” He called back.
/> After a moment, John reluctantly followed his partner. Damianos could practically feel the John's eyes roll behind him.
**
The car ride was an uneasy one. Damianos barely knew Carlo but in the little time he had spent with him, he had always been spry and mocking in his attitude. On the phone, though, he didn't sound anything like that—like the old man was about to expire.
They finally came to the location that Carlo had told him to meet them at and Damianos, despite his injury, strode past John as they got out of the car. They were at a rarely frequented park that overlooked a beach. It was actually rather beautiful by itself but the lack of activity and life seemed to dry it of its appeal. If its abandonment wasn't enough, what was now planted in the park certainly would.
A large cross had been wedged into the grass—a figure was nailed to it.
Carlo.
The homeless man hung motionless from the cross. Rusty nails pierced his hands, keeping him pinned in place. His head was bowed and his eyes clothes; either dead or dying...Damianos couldn't be sure yet.
It was what was below him that made it all the more horrific.
His ankles had nearly been severed—his feet dangling loosely from his legs by mere bits of flesh. Blood rolled down his feet from the wounds, falling down to the ground where an open shoe box rested beneath him.
“...get him down...” Damianos said, his loss of breath making him barely audible.
John cautiously stepped forward, peering around for any spectators while Damianos just put his hands on his head in frustration. He couldn't take seeing the poor old man up there.
“Get him down!”
After a few minutes and after Damianos had called for an ambulance, John managed to get the cross down. Damianos was quick to check Carlo for a pulse and was thankful to find a faint one.
“Carlo...hey. Carlo!”
Damianos lightly tapped his hand on the man's cheeks.
Carlo's eyes slowly opened and the terror and pain that filled them sent a shiver through Damianos—the old man had seen Hell.
**
On the way to the hospital, Damianos sat in the ambulance next to where Carlo lay, being cared for by the EMTs. However, he looked hard at Damianos, as if wanting him to come close. Damianos had to practically throw the EMTs aside to listen to what Carlo had to say.
“...I saw him. I saw him.” Carlo said, his voice weak.
“Who? Who did this to you, Carlo?”
Tears filled the old man's eyes and heaved violently, his face red with pain.
“Did you recognize them?”
“Sir, you're going to have to sit back.” One of the EMTs said sternly.
This could be his only chance. Who was to say Carlo was even going to survive the next few minutes. He was bleeding so much. He needed to know what Carlo did before it was too late. He needed to have this attack mean something other than another tally to add to the victim list.
Damianos ignored the EMTs and leaned in closer to Carlo.
“Did you recognize them, Carlo?” He repeated, wanting to break through the visible pain Carlo was experiencing.
Carlo caught his breath, slightly calming himself for a moment.
“...yes...yes, I did, detective.”
“Who!?” Damianos said, almost having to push an EMT away.
“He runs a club...cabaret type place downtown...beard...” Carlo said. “And...he...he said he was the messenger...of death. That he's the thirteenth and last apostle...of Jesus...they all had to die. That's what he kept saying...they all had to...”
Carlo began to slip out of consciousness and Damianos clung to the last words he had spoken. Thirteenth apostle. Messenger of death. “They all had to die”.
Carlo had probably never heard a fly in his entire existence. He didn't deserve this—nobody did.
For the rest of the ride to the hospital, Damianos fell into a silent rage while the EMTs tried to keep Carlo stable. The moment they parked and rolled him to the emergency room, Damianos marched over to John's car where his partner waited for him.
Damianos had to get away for a while—otherwise he'd probably kill anyone who even remotely resembled the attacker Carlo had described.
**
In the early hours of the next morning, after a night of struggling to find rest, Damianos was awoken from his trouble sleep by his phone. It was one of the surgeons who was caring for Carlo. The doctors had worked tirelessly through the night, hoping to be able to fully re-attach the man's foot to his ankle.
“He should make it.” The doctor said, sounding as tired as Damianos felt. “It was a rough night but your man Carlo made it through.”
“Can I see him?” Damianos asked without thinking, elated by the news.
“Not before morning,” the surgeon said. “He'll be in the ICU for another twelve hours yet.”
Nevertheless, Damianos felt a comforting relief.
His fiancé, Annie, had apparently been stirred from her slumber beside him.
“Everything alright?” She asked, half-asleep.
“I'm great,” Damianos rubbed her back warmly. “Some good news, for once.”
It was a bit too early to call John so Damianos settled for sending him a text. He was sure John would be just as relieved as he was and it would be a great message to wake up to. He tried to go back to sleep but his body refused once again. He peered down the bed at the shape of his foot underneath the blankets and was once again happy to have feet.
Damianos had to find the other bodies—and Carlo had given him his best clue so far.
The bearded man. The thirteenth apostle. The messenger of death.
No matter what he saw himself as, Damianos wasn't intimidated. He'd dealt with plenty of deranged people in his career and this man was no different. Just like the rest, he'd eventually be stopped—Damianos swore to God that he would.
**
There were only five cabaret-type clubs in downtown San Diego. Finding which ones had a bearded owner was Damianos and John's first priority when they got to work. After a little while of research, they finally found a man that fit the description. Damianos was ready to pounce, even with his injury but his anxiousness was short-lived. The man had died over a year ago from cancer.
Damianos couldn't believe their bad luck, feeling directionless once again.
They decided to go back to the hospital and see if Carlo could shed any more light on case when he was able to talk.
Walking through the halls of the ICU reminded Damianos why he hated hospitals, especially the emergency rooms and ICUs. He spent his whole career trying to prevent people from being seriously hurt, and hospitals were a reminder that he couldn't save everyone.
Seeing the surgeon who he had spoken to walk by though, had reminded him of another fact about hospitals.
Doctors seemed to work on the same schedule as police—non-stop when needed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Damianos was happy to see Carlo smile. He was starting to look like the dumpster diver he had met. They had only just met, really, but Damianos felt like he had known him much longer. Saving him from dying a horrible footless death probably contributed to that.
“Detective Russell!”
“Good to see you're doing alright, Carlo.” Damianos entered, taking a seat beside the bed. “Unfortunately we haven't caught the guy who did this to you yet.”
Carlo's smile diminished just the tiniest bit but it was only for a moment.
“That's alright, that's alright. I'm just happy to be alive. And now I get all these free hospital meals. No scrounging for scraps in the garbage today! No, sir! I've hit the big time here.”
“Glad you're looking at the bright side of all of this.”
The two of them, despite barely being more than acquaintances, both burst out into a fit of laughter like childhood friends. After a few minutes of small talk, Damianos thought it was time to finally get to the actual business at hand.
“I was just wondering if the
re was anything else you could tell me about your attacker. Any details you might have missed when you were bleeding out in that ambulance?”
“I think I told you most of what I know already...hard to remember what I said to you honestly. Wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time...”
“Anything would help...even the smallest detail.” Damianos said reassuringly.
“Well, I told you he had a beard, right? Like he hasn't shaved for a whole lot of days. And he was young-like.”
“You mentioned before that you thought he owned a club downtown. You wouldn't happen to remember which specific club would you?”
“Hm,” Carlo folded his arms, bowing his head in thought. “It was something weird. Like the Acrobat Club...no...that wasn't it. Maybe something like the Artisan Club...no...” There was a long pause of silence in the hospital room when Carlo creaked his head back up. “I think it was the Apostles Club or Club Apostle maybe.”
The thirteenth apostle. That's what the man had called himself when he attacked Carlo. It was a bit of a strange coincidence that there was a club downtown focused on apostles while a killer was running around with that word.
“Thank you, Carlo,” Damianos patted the man on the shoulder. “We'll keep in touch, let you know if we follow up on any more leads.”
“Thank you, Detective Russell. I really appreciate that, sir.”
“You're welcome, Carlo. Just rest up, alright? Take it easy.”
**
Damianos was surprised to see a stack of papers on his desk when he returned with John. They were from Alan Davros. It was a report from his inspection of the running shoes. Apparently, the bottom of practically every single one of the shoes resealed some tiny gravel sediments in the groove of the soles. From what Alan had deduced, the type of sediment that was found wasn't uncommon and was expected to be present in almost every shoe sole in Southern California, it was only found near a sand pit south of San Diego. That was a lead, at least. Unfortunately, a lead was nothing without the ability to follow it.
