“A little bird told me a rumor that the boys in blue use a photo of me for target practice. Any truth to it?”
“Not for shooting practice, but there is a dartboard in the office that your picture keeps finding its way onto,” Steve replied, distracted. He kept the bright beam of his flashlight on the body.
Isis pouted. “Well that’s a bit disappointing. What does a girl have to do to get her picture up in the shooting range?”
“I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, knowing your talent for rubbing people the wrong way and your history of challenging any sort of authority.”
Isis chuckled and looked over at her friend. He turned back toward her and pointed his flashlight in her direction, careful to keep the beam out of her eyes. She raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting for him to go into mom-friend mode.
“Isis, you of all people should know that it’s not safe to be urban exploring at night, especially not now,” Steve said. She shook her head and thought about just how predictable her friend was. There were times when it was reassuring, but mostly it was irritating.
“I need to make a living, Steve,” Isis replied. “I can’t just hide in my apartment because there have been a few break-ins.”
“A few break-ins? A few—?” Steve paused and ran a hand over his face in exasperation. “Isis, in the past couple months, you’ve nearly been shot three separate times. Then there was the incident two weeks ago when you were almost hit by a car while photographing the scene of a robbery. Is your life really worth a paycheck?”
“Four times,” Isis corrected. “You’re forgetting the rave incident last week. And it was an SUV not a car and that barely counts as a close call. Those damn things are too bulky and slow. You’re welcome for that clear picture of the license plate, by the way.”
“Isis,” Steve sighed as he shook his head, frowning when a thought came to him. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you supposed to be off until next week?”
“Steve, check this out,” Isis said, quickly changing the subject. She wanted to avoid the topic of what had happened last week when she had been photographing a rave for a story on teenage subcultures. Someone had fired a gun into the crowd, which caused a panic that swiftly turned into pandemonium — leading to multiple injuries and a few fatalities. In the chaos, Isis had been knocked down and would have been trampled had it not been for Steve’s timely appearance. He always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.
“Christ, Isis. The doctor said you had to take it easy,” Steve protested, reaching down and rubbing his sore leg.
“A couple bruised ribs and a concussion and she expected me to lie around doing nothing for a month? I don’t think so,” Isis protested, waving her penlight at the wall. “Now will you please look at what I’m pointing to?”
“Two cracked ribs and a broken one,” Steve corrected her as he stepped up beside her. He frequently gave up when arguing with her, unless she was doing something life-threatening. Isis was high-strung and extremely stubborn, which wasn’t a good combination.
“What is this?” she asked, circling her beam of light around the blood. Steve pointed his own flashlight toward the symbol. She glanced over at Steve when he didn’t respond right away, noticing he was squinting as he studied the strange markings.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. He moved closer and she followed, twisting around when she thought she heard footsteps behind them. Shivering a little, Isis turned her attention back to the wall in front of them.
“Odd,” Steve murmured as he continued to examine the symbol, moving his flashlight over each part of the symbol.
“What?” she asked. Steve looked over at her with a half-smile.
“Off the record?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I just take the pictures, Steve. I don’t write the stories,” Isis replied, wondering if her friend would ever figure out what her job did and did not entail. He still confused journalist and photojournalist, though Isis was sure he was sometimes trying to get a rise out of her. Steve snickered and looked back at the symbol.
“The main part of it seems to be a Chi Rho, an early christogram, one that was frequently stamped on money. Except the top of it . . . it’s backwards. I’ve never seen that before. It’s like a corruption or something. The markings on the stem resemble cuneiform script, one of the earliest forms of writing,” he explained, highlighting the different parts with his flashlight beam.
“What does it say?” Isis asked, fascinated. Steve shrugged and shook his head.
“I know what cuneiform looks like, but I don’t know how to read it or translate it,” he replied. “My archeological and ancient linguistic knowledge is sadly quite limited.”
“Well that’s disappointing,” Isis muttered, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve got to be honest, Steve. The fact that you know all that, it’s a little scary.”
“I read a lot,” Steve replied as he looked back to the body. Isis kept looking at the symbol, surprised at how cleanly it was drawn. It didn’t look like it had been created in a rush.
“About christograms?” Isis said under her breath as she turned and followed him back to where she had left her camera.
“I’m a student of the world,” Steve stated.
“Uh huh,” Isis replied, disinterested. She pulled out her camera and took a couple quick shots of the symbol on the wall. She shivered again and rubbed her arm briefly, feeling the goosebumps on her flesh.
“You’d think some of the heat would’ve gotten in by now,” she commented. Steve didn’t seem to notice as he continued to study the body. He crouched down and rubbed his chin, keeping his light on the dead woman.
“Did you know her?” Isis asked as she put the camera away again, glancing over at her friend. Something about Steve’s expression made her wonder if he recognized the body, although she didn’t know how since the woman lacked a face and her clothing wasn’t distinctive enough to identify her. The distant sound of police sirens interrupted whatever answer he might have given. Steve glanced up and then turned his attention back to Isis.
“Look, you got your shots. Could you at least give me until tomorrow afternoon to find out who she was and let me notify any relatives she might have?” Steve asked, tiredness seeping into his voice.
Isis nodded. “You know I will.”
“Thank you,” Steve said, gratitude apparent in his voice, and Isis shrugged in response. She wasn’t heartless . . . at least, not most of the time. Not to people she considered friends. Steve gestured toward the back and she smirked mischievously.
“Can’t I say hi to some of my old friends on the force?” she asked.
“Go,” Steve ordered, emphatically pointing with his flashlight. She raised her hands in surrender and hurried toward the back. She reached the freight doors and slid her camera bag out first, then slipped through the narrow opening, and hurried over to her car. Isis fished her keys out of her pocket as she approached the driver’s door, glancing to where the red and blue lights were starting to become visible.
“Ooh, I didn’t get shot. My luck might be looking up,” Isis said as she sank into the car.
*~*~*~*~*
The newspaper offices were always bustling in the morning, the place coming alive shortly after seven. People ran around, their footsteps muted by dark gray carpeting. The air was filled with the sounds of rustling paper and ringing phones. Large cups of coffee were downed like shots of good tequila. The frantic sounds of computer keys clattered beneath all the other noises, adding to the neurotic atmosphere. Sunlight streamed in from the large windows on both ends of the building, illuminating the numerous desks spread across the floor as well as the large office toward the back.
Isis hurried through the door, almost cringing at the assault of noise. She purposely wore sneakers to avoid the annoying clicking sound heels made on the tile, a sound she absolutely hated. She rolled her eyes when she saw the dark-haired man with the headset, avoiding eye contact as she moved toward the double d
oors.
“ID, please,” the bored voice stopped her in her tracks. Isis bit her bottom lip, clenched her fists briefly, and then forced a moderately pleasant expression on her face. Turning on the balls of her feet and approaching the desk, she laid her palms on the smooth gray surface, looking down at the receptionist. His feet were up on the desk and he was flipping through a magazine, sports related judging from the cover.
“Rick, we do this every damn day. Now, you know I work —”
“Please don’t curse at me, ma’am,” he replied without looking up at her, flipping another page in the magazine. Isis swallowed and cracked her neck. I will not commit murder today, she thought, repeating the mantra in her mind.
“You know I work here. I’ve been working here longer than you,” she continued, forcing herself to be calm and polite. He wasn’t going to get a rise out of her today.
“Still need to see your ID,” Rick sighed, still looking at his magazine. Isis smiled and reached down into the dark green satchel that she had slung diagonally over one shoulder, fishing out her ID.
“You know what? Even you can’t dampen my good mood today,” she said as she showed the card to Rick. He glanced at it, shrugged, and gestured vaguely toward the double doors that led to the busy offices.
“Thanks, Satan,” Isis grumbled under her breath as she reached the doors and pushed one open, entering the offices. As soon as the door swung shut behind her, her editor pounced.
“An hour and a half late, Isis,” he chastised, pointing at the expensive watch on his bony wrist as he followed her. Isis glanced over her shoulder at him as they moved toward her desk. He was a scrawny man who looked as though he had avoided daylight from the day he was born. His mop of sandy-colored hair was noticeably thinning — most likely from stress — making him appear older than he was. He always reeked of cheap coffee and breath mints.
“I’m sorry, Tom. Trust me, when you see what I’ve got, you’ll want to marry me,” Isis replied as she reached her desk.
Tom responded with a skeptical look. Isis took off her satchel and placed it on the desk, opening it and reaching into one of the front pockets, retrieving her flash drive.
“You know the murder in the old factory last night?” she said, sinking into her seat. She switched on her computer. Tom stared at her, bewildered.
“What murder?” he asked.
“Oh come on. The story has to have broken by now,” Isis said, leaning back in her tall computer chair. “A woman was killed in the old factory last night, shot at close range. Weird symbol painted in blood on the wall?”
Tom shook his head. “I’ll ask Chris about it later. Just show me what you’ve got.”
Isis frowned as she slid the flash drive into the USB port, waiting for the icon to show up on screen. She clicked it, ignoring her boss hovering over her. Isis’ eyes widened as she stared at the thumbnail preview images that showed up, scrolling down as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
“No. That can’t be right,” she muttered, clicking on various shots. The pictures were of the old factory. Everything was exactly how she remembered it . . . except there was no body. There wasn’t even a sign of a body. The symbol had also disappeared, leaving only a blank concrete wall.
“This isn’t right, Tom. There was a woman’s body, right there,” Isis pointed at the screen. She was unnerved and trying her best not to show it.
Tom let out a long minty sigh. “Did you grab the wrong flash drive?”
“No. These are in the old factory,” Isis replied, not turning away from the screen. “Where’s the symbol? This doesn’t make any sense.”
Tom leaned down, speaking under his breath, “If you were drinking on the job—”
“I wasn’t drinking on the job!” Isis shouted, drawing some curious looks over to her. “I wasn’t under the influence of anything. There was a body, right there, and a symbol in blood on the wall. I saw it. The cops were there. Steve was there!”
“Isis, if there had been a murder last night, I think someone would’ve heard about it,” a hint of irritation crept into the editor’s voice.
“For Christ’s sake,” Isis scowled and stood up, grabbing her satchel. She ejected the flash drive and shut the computer down. The noise level had noticeably dropped as her coworkers turned to watch the unfolding drama.
“Where are you going?” Tom asked as she moved past him.
“Bodies don’t just disappear into thin air,” she replied, pulling the strap of her satchel over her head. She was through the doors before Tom had a chance to respond. He shook his head and headed back to his office. The noise continued once more as everyone went back to their jobs.
*~*~*~*~*
Isis pulled into the morgue parking lot, pulling off her sunglasses and squinting against the bright sun. It was a beautiful summer day, but she was too furious to appreciate it. She shifted into park with much more force than was necessary. Her satchel sat forgotten in the back seat, amid stacks of papers. She clipped her ID card onto the pocket of her jeans and undid another button on her dark green blouse to deal with the summer heat. Grabbing her black sunglasses, she slid them over her eyes again.
She unlocked her car door and kicked it a few times to open it, stepping out into the humid warmth. Slamming the door shut, Isis moved across the parking lot toward the front doors of the miniscule gray brick building. Isis had only been to the place a handful of times. She sometimes wondered if the medical examiners found the town as dull as she did.
Just before she reached the door, a movement caught Isis’ eye. She glanced over to the small alleyway and noticed a scrawny black and tan tortoiseshell cat sitting atop the grimy dark blue dumpster. His bright golden eyes fixed on her and he let out a deep yowl, arching his back and rubbing against the wall the dumpster was next to. She smiled and stepped into the alley, avoiding the dirty puddles of what she hoped was water.
“Hello pretty,” Isis cooed as she scratched the cat under his chin, surprised by how silky and clean the cat’s fur felt. “What’s your name, huh? What’s your name?”
The cat purred and rubbed her hand affectionately with his head. Isis didn’t get along with people, but animals were another story. She had never been bitten or stung in her life and animals, even feral and wild ones, seemed to relax in her presence. Looking over her shoulder, Isis saw another car pull into the parking lot.
“Talk about luck,” she muttered as she continued to pet the stray cat. She watched as Steve stepped out of his blue Prius — possibly the ugliest car Isis had ever seen — and started toward the morgue. He stopped just before the doors and sighed, running a hand through his hair. Isis massaged the cat behind his ears one more time and stepped out of the alley.
“Well, if it isn’t the Celia to my Rosalind,” she said, causing her friend to visibly jump and spin around. “Though I’m sure some of your fellow detectives would refer to me as a more villainous character. If any of them actually picked up a book that is. But that would probably impede on their schedule of covering up incidents of excessive force and planting evidence.”
“Isis? What are you doing here?” Steve asked, surprised.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Isis replied, a smile splitting her lips. “Going in to identify a body?”
“I’m meeting someone,” Steve replied, looking nervous when Isis leaned her weight against the door and pushed it open a little. She glanced over her shoulder, unbothered, and then back to him with a small grin.
“Steve, don’t tell me you’re still afraid of cadavers,” she teased. “What’s the name of that phobia?”
“Necrophobia or thanatophobia,” Steve responded. “After the Greek personification—”
“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve had a weird thing about funerals, wakes, morgues, pretty much death in general,” Isis interrupted, leaning against the door a little more. “You can’t tell me that’s not a phobia.”
“I’m not afraid of cadavers,” St
eve insisted. “I just . . . I don’t like the morgue.”
Isis stared at him for a moment. “You’re a detective.”
“So?” Steve replied defensively. Isis pushed the door open wider.
“They’re not going to jump up and bite you. I’ll go in with you and protect you from all the spooky dead bodies,” she coaxed.
“What are you doing here anyway? Some kind of human interest piece or something?” Steve asked, stalling. Isis frowned, resting her elbows up on the bar that was used to push the door open.
“I’m here for the same reason as you: the body in the old factory last night. Or was there another murder I’m unaware of?” she explained. Steve stared at her, frowning in a way that was meant to be confusion, but Isis saw right through the act. She and Steve had known each other for so long, they could read one another like a book.
“What body?” he asked. Isis ran her hands over her face, silently counting to ten.
“I certainly hope you’re better at lying to Justin than me,” she growled. “I’m not crazy. Why is everyone acting like nothing happened last night? What is so important about this woman?”
“Isis, what are you talking about?”
Isis glared at him, pushed the door open fully and disappeared inside the morgue.
*~*~*~*~*
“I don’t know what to tell you. Nobody matching that description came in last night. We had maybe ten pick-ups this week, but none at the old factory.”
Isis gritted her teeth and massaged her temples, getting more confused and irritated by the minute. “That’s not possible. There was a body there last night. It was a woman, about my age, shot in the face.”
The medical examiner, Redfield according to his nametag, shook his head as his eyes wandered down to her chest again. “Nope, sorry. Maybe an autopsy was against their religious beliefs?”
“It wouldn’t matter if it was a murder—!” Isis snapped, stopping to rein in her temper. Redfield shrugged, uninterested in whatever she was saying.
Sere from the Green (The Shape Shifter Chronicles Book 1) Page 2
