by Baker, Alex
She had immediately contacted the claims processing area at the Department of Treasury, which oversaw the public service, and got the specifics of how the program worked. Instantly, Laura got that feeling, the one when things all came together; the yes moment. Within an hour she was sitting in a private room with the claims manager. Normally she would avoid notifying anyone even closely related to an area of interest, but given the department head was a female, she felt safe with the course of action.
Sure, it had been suggested that a female could have been behind the series of crimes, but the odds were staggering against that happening. Plus, the attacker had to be able to overpower the victims. Laura was sure it was a male, and when the manager pulled the information on each of the claims, she was proven correct.
Daggert was a simple claims worker. The whole affair had been orchestrated by a man in his late twenties that had worked for the state processing money claims for six years. He was nothing unusual, either: married, personable, hard-working, respected, and, well, demented, Laura recalled. Okay, so a little unusual.
The suspect had been all too happy to volunteer for public events where the department sent employees out to assist the citizenry face-to-face with finding their missing funds. It was a perfect way to meet potentials. Add on top of that the access to all of their personal information via state database and all the details he could glean from speaking to them, and everything fell into place.
When questioned as to why he did it, he would only say because he wanted to.
Although it could never be proven, Laura believed his wife had to know what was going on. How else could he explain his disappearances at the time the women were killed? But, the spouse denied any knowledge or involvement and no proof could ever be obtained that backed the detective’s claim. In the end, the police department was more concerned with taking the killer off the streets.
For her role in things, Laura drew a lot of attention: some of it positive but a lot of it negative. Many of the tenured investigators did not like being shown up by a rookie, much less a cocky female who was more concerned with her career than being one of the boys or their blow toy.
Their hurt feelings mattered very little to her. It was opportunity, and it opened up the avenue to the notoriety and trust that Laura had sought and, subsequently, received from her superiors, namely Chief Epps. There were steps she wanted to take up the career ladder, and that case had helped open the door for her ascension.
It had also added a lot of gray hairs to the chief’s head full of curly, black hair. Looking at the display in his office, Laura began to think the elder department head would be completely devoid of color by the time they figured this one out.
Dwayne spoke-up, and she realized she was not the only one that had taken an interest in the board. “You know, Boss, there are more modern ways to do that, right? I mean, you’re going all old school. Probably even have an app for that.”
Chief Epps did not share Dwayne’s humor and went straight to business, instead. “People, media has dug their teeth into this murder case and are dragging it around like a dog with an old bone. I don’t expect it to get buried anytime soon.”
“Yeah, saw it pop-up a little bit ago,” the forensics officer added, “They’re calling him the Superheroine Stalker. Think they could have come up with something a little catchier than that.”
“Whatever they choose to call it, they’re going to have a field day and get every citizen in this city whipped into a panic. I’m already getting reports of a pile of misinformation being passed around. That’s why I’ve called a conference,” the chief stated, tapping his folded glasses on the desk.
“Is that a good idea, sir?” Laura asked. “We get too specific and it may drive the perp into hiding – him knowing that we are on top of him.”
Chief Epps leaned back in his well-worn leather chair. To Laura, it often seemed as if the seat was aging with her superior, both with their share of wrinkles and rough spots. “Correct information is better than misinformation. My concern is the public at large knowing what we are dealing with and keeping them calm. Besides,” he said, putting his glasses back on and interlacing his fingers, “we don’t exactly have a hand to tip. Or do we? Please tell me we’ve got something else to go on before I get out in front of the wolves.”
“Well,” Laura began, “one of our Amazing Women was a pro. The other had been out with friends. Both had frequented a bar-slash-club called the Tobacco Factory down on Fifteenth. We’ve spoken to establishment workers and customers from around that time period, but no one could provide us with a lead to go on.” Although they may as well have pointed the finger at me. It appeared someone else was using her old hunting grounds for picking targets. The suspect could have very easily been in the bar at the same she was there. The whole situation had made her feel uncomfortable while she was there questioning people. This was all hitting a little too close to home, as the perp was consistently making all too familiar rounds. Could Ambrose even have knowledge of that type of specific information?
“We have the place staked out?” asked her superior, breaking the line of thought she had been on and bringing her attention back to the matter at hand.
“Yes, sir. We will have an unmarked glued to that place,” Laura answered.
“As mentioned before, Chief,” Dwayne said, “neither of the costumed victims were bitten and no weird comic-related devices were used to kill them. So there appears to be no definitive connection between them and the previous murders or dead animals that have been drained.”
“What about your squad? What did your team find out from the crime scenes?” the chief asked.
“So far…nothing,” Dwayne answered unhelpfully.
“Just like the other cases,” Chief Epps replied, sitting forward. “We do have a connection.”
Dwayne shook his head. “Okay, let me clarify. We have too much at these crime scenes. Killer used this new spray, called Invisible. I’d heard about it at a conference a short while back, and apparently our guy got wind of it too. It’s marketed under the pretense of securing yourself from big brother by removing your DNA.”
“How does it remove DNA? We talking bleach here?” the chief asked, and Laura was thinking the same thing, picturing a criminal dragging around a cleaning lady’s supply cart.
“Remove is a bad word,” Dwayne answered. “Think contaminate but on a massive scale. The spray cloaks what is there with a genetic stew – a mix of DNA from hundreds of humans and animals – throw in some plants. We could be back there identifying carrots.”
“Carrots, Mister Early?” the chief asked dryly.
“Carrots, sir,” Dwayne said, fighting back a smile. “Point is, the original cases showed no traces, while, in contrast, these incidents are overflowing. We’re still combing through everything, though.”
“Throw in the already copious amounts of questionable fluids from the motel and it is impossible to tell what belongs to who,” Laura added.
Aside from Chief Epps’ heavy sigh, the room fell silent for a moment before Dwayne spoke up again. He seemed reluctant when speaking, cutting a glance towards Laura as if to ask for approval.
“There was one breakthrough I haven’t mentioned, Boss,” the forensics officer said, and despite his look, Laura could not tell where he was going with the statement. “We were able to match the previously unidentified blood sample from the Sarah Whent case with the sample Detective Stenks brought back from Las Vegas.” By the time Laura caught on, it was too late to ward off the words. All she could do was visually chastise him.
“I wasn’t aware we had secured a sample from the Las Vegas P.D., Detective,” the chief said accusingly. Laura was well aware she had acquired his full attention.
In lieu of a verbal response, she cut him a wry smile.
“Sir,” Dwayne said, breaking up what Laura was sure would be a severe ass chewing, “you wanted answers. We’re trying to give you one. We’ve got a clear connection here, and it
lends a lot of weight and credibility to Detective Stenks’ testimony about the events that transpired out west.”
Okay, he made a good point by bringing that up. Laura was still determined to give him hell about it later.
“So this mystery guy…Ambrose, I believe it was…actually exists? Is he who we are looking at for this?” Chief Epps asked, his eyes still on Laura.
“We’re still working on making the case for that,” Dwayne replied.
“Well, we did just have a new body show up. A young man was found earlier today in the museum district. Dry as a bone and bite marks on the body. Sounds like the same trademark from before – could be this same guy is back in our city,” the chief added. He made another deep sigh and nodded in Dwayne’s direction. “Good recovery, Mister Early.” His eyes cut back to Laura. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear the previous statement.”
“Stricken from the record, sir,” Laura said.
“Now, where are we at with who dug that little Kysta girl up?” the chief asked.
Dwayne cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Laura gave him another look, this time as if to ask ‘You’re not seriously going to say anything about this right now, are you’. The forensics officer centered himself and pushed onward.
“Based on our examination, I’m certain the hole was dug from the inside out, and my crime scene team is investigating the details further just to make sure,” Dwayne said, blurting the words out in a way where it sounded like he didn’t even breathe. To Laura it was as if he was hoping to mask the words so that the chief would not really notice what was said.
It did not work. Chief Epps was leaning forward again, his head tilted cock-eyed as he removed his glasses and sat them down on the desk. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Mister Early. The media is going to be here soon and we have people being bitten and sucked dry, women being dressed up and killed like some sort of sick comic fanboy fetish, and now a dead girl has dug herself up and is out there, what, walking around again?”
“Um,” Dwayne said hesitantly, “yes.”
The chief rubbed his face and suddenly looked to Laura to be exhausted and rapidly aging before her eyes. “Is all of this somehow connected to this guy you chased across the country, Detective? Please tell me we have some answer…something.”
“Sir, we just don’t know. As I stated before, some of the details are the same – some totally different. It could all be this one guy. It could be multiple people working together. It could be copycats,” Laura said. “I know the press and the people and the mayor are going to want answers, but I don’t think us giving you bad information is going to help. The last thing we need to do is to have to retract statements later and look like fools.” When she was finished, Laura wondered if she had come off too strong. But then, it was rare for her to be the voice of sense and reason while the chief was the emotional one.
“True enough,” the chief responded, reassurance creeping back into his voice. “I’ll think of something to say to keep this positive and working for us.”
A knock came at the door just before it opened and a young officer leaned in.
“Sir. The press is here and waiting for you in the conference room,” he said. “I’ll let them know you will be there shortly.” With that, he closed the door and left.
Chief Epps put his glasses back on, hanging them way down on his nose. “Looks like I’ll have to come up with those words real quick. The buzzards are circling.”
13
The echo of the scream still resounded through the empty church, bouncing off seasoned wood and stained glass, as Roofy started into a run. He barely landed his first step before the journey across the room got derailed. There would be no reaching the spot where his fallen caretaker lay. The law enforcement officer that the big Russian had knocked over just seconds before was in full retaliation mode. The man-beast masquerading as an officer delivered a tackle with the force of a falling tree trunk. Roofy would have been surprised but there was no time to appreciate the attacker’s power or speed of recovery – the floor was coming.
Knocking pews back and over, the two landed with a thud. Again, Roofy found no time to react. Despite giving away a fair amount of size to the ex-wrestler, the altered-man picked him up with ease, spinning around to gain moment before tossing the enormous Russian back towards the pulpit area of the main gathering hall. Like a set of pins being decimated by a violent collision with a bowling ball, pews were upset and splintered.
Most of the air knocked out of his lungs, Roofy blocked out the pain and hauled himself up onto one knee and into a defensive position. His body hurt, but it was a position he had been in many times during his years as a scripted entertainer. There were the suplexes through tables, falls from fifteen foot cages, and chair shots to every part of his body. Bones had been fractured and broken. Skin had been torn open. Concussions had been produced. He had stood back up and worked through it all. Conditioning himself to tolerate the damage to his body was one thing; tolerating the demonic symbiont sharing his body like some sort of bastard fetus in fetu was a whole other matter.
“Great job getting your ass kicked, Momma’s Boy!” Apocalypse chided. “Now let me out before you get us killed!”
Across the way, his attacker had taken up perch on the back of a pew, teeth bared and looking like a panther sizing up its prey. A look towards the entrance found the second policeman beginning to make his way up the aisle. He did not appear to be in a hurry. Either thinks his friend has this won or is toying with me. That is going to cost them.
“Quiet!” Roofy grunted. “I know exactly what I am doing!”
“You have no idea what you are doing, Fool!” Apocalypse spewed back. “Except getting us killed! Now let me take over!”
“Niet. You are wrong,” Roofy said under his breath, feigning a more severe injury. Grabbing his chest and leaning over, putting the weight of his upper body on his knee, he waited.
Sensing a kill, the crouching man-beast leaped, growling, and bore down on the prone Russian with blinding speed. Roofy waited until the last possible moment before grasping a snapped-off pew leg and thrusting up with all of his strength.
Splintered wood tore through flesh, ripped muscle and sinew, and snapped bone as it penetrated the target’s chest cavity and showered Roofy in a spray of blood. He used the body’s momentum to fling it off to the side where it landed with a dull thud.
“I can take care of myself,” Roofy said defiantly.
“You got lucky,” Apocalypse spat back. “On the other hand, was it just me or did that sound a lot like when I splayed your old wrestling partner over that ring post. Yuck-o.”
The big Russian let the words distract him a moment too long. The other man-beast had closed the gap with a purpose, seeing his fellow hunter go down, and was on top of him. Going low and driving a shoulder into Roofy’s gut. The attacker never broke stride.
Using the force of impact to lift the ex-wrestler off the ground, he continued his bull charge toward the back of the church.
Despite driving his elbow repeatedly into his opponent’s spine, Roofy could not get the man to break his hold or halt his steps. They passed the altar and showed no signs of stopping.
Before he could figure out where he would end up, the big Russian got his answer. He landed hard in the baptismal pool located just behind the area meant for a small choir to stand and under the church’s centerpiece, an enormous hanging hand-carved crucifix.
Blessed liquid engulfed him, and he fought to pull his head back above the water level to gasp what air he could. There was an instant warmth as the fluid hit his skin and reacted to the taint of demon in his body. Frantically bobbing to stay up while his attacker pushed him down, steam began to build-up on the surface of the round tub each time his skin breached the water’s surface.
The man-beast was too much for Roofy though. His strength was waning; while the altered police officer had the advantage of leverage and a seemingly limitless reserve of energy.
Managing one last small gasp of air, his head was forced back under, and Roofy, with a hand bearing down hard on his nose and forehead, knew he would not be able to get free.
“You’ve lost,” Apocalypse said. “Your feeble attempt to fight them both was only half as pathetic as I expected it to be, but you still lost. Now, give me control.”
The big Russian’s straining was a futile effort. As strong as he was, he could not overcome the raw force being exerted on him. His nose felt as though it was being crushed by a barbell loaded with weights, a knee dug hard into his gut, and his lungs were starting to burn.
“We’re going to die! Let me do what you can’t! I don’t want to go out this way!” the demon yelled inside his head, only sincere desperation replaced cockiness. Although Roofy was not sure why that should surprise him, it did. Feebly hanging on to consciousness and craving air, the thought going through his mind was how Apocalypse’s words reflected his own. He did not want his last moments to be spent at the bottom of what amounted to a kid’s pool at the back of an empty church.
Roofy wanted to live; they both did – him and the demon. To accomplish it, he would have to actually let the thing he wanted to kill save him.
He did just that.
Apocalypse burst forward into control. He would have laughed out loud for effect, but the water was hampering that, which displeased him. What good was it to dispatch his attacker without some theatrics? That would need to be rectified. Damn the holy liquid.
Damned, indeed. His appearance had sent the fluid into a boil, scalding hot on his skin. It must have been just as uncomfortable to his attacker, too, because the man’s grip had loosened ever-so-slightly. That reaction would cost him, Apocalypse plotted.
