“Skot?”
He looks up to see she has returned. He had not even realized it. He is not even sure how much time has passed. She stands there, still some space away, looking all the world like a chagrined child.
“I’m sorry,” she says, weakly.
“Lily.” He rises, going to her, wrapping her in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, too.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she repeats, “You’ve been so patient and supportive.”
He continues to hold her tight, feeling a strong squeeze from her own arms about his waist.
“But,” she says.
He pulls back. She looks up, tears welling in her eyes.
“I know something is wrong, and I think I need to go and work on it,” she finishes.
“What?”
“I’ll come back,” she is quick to say, “I promise, and…” She hitches in a breath. “We’ll stay in touch. I want to talk to you. I care about you. You are dear to me, but …”
“Oh, Lily,” he speaks, hugging her tight, some irrational hope that such might extract the negative from her.
“I’ve been trying. I have,” she continues, then again moving herself somewhat from his insistent hold, “but I think I need to go back to my apartment for a bit, just find myself, work on this in my own way. Okay? Please don’t be upset with me.”
He manages a nod.
“Okay,” he says, and they hug again. He experiences a rush of hope from her physical proximity, but in too short a time, it is stopped as she pulls away. “I won’t be upset,” he says to her, and the shadow of a smile on her lips adds to the encouragement. “I respect your strength. I have faith in you and our relationship.”
She nods, silent.
He runs his hands down her arms, looking near to tears of his own.
“I’ll ..,” she starts, his eyes clicking to her, “I’ll go gather my things.”
*****
The office shows a degree of décor that might make one think of a museum, a place of memory and manners, a place to be on good behavior and be careful not to touch anything. The colors of it are warm, the walls, the furniture, seeming to lull into a relaxation. And the books, volumes upon volumes, lining two of the walls, going up high enough that one would need a ladder.
“Thank you for welcoming us to your home, Dr. Malkuth,” Maria says, stepping forward from her partner, the man still taking in the large chamber.
“It is my pleasure,” Denman replies with his cultured voice, a warm smile on his lips. “Detectives … Kahler and Contee?” he correctly ‘guesses’, angling his face to each in turn.
She nods, reaching into her short jacket.
“Oh, identification is not necessary,” Denman charms, “You two do have an appointment.”
“Do you often have appointments with the police?” Quain asks, pitching the question in a veneer of casualness, still looking up and about at the impressive room.
“No.” Denman chuckles. “But you did check up on my references, so you know I have done such consultation in the past.”
And they did, having decided to seek the help of a professional, once further information began to flow from their very cooperative witness. Alec had begun to feed them knowledge of not only Kazimir Volkov’s appearance but also his mannerisms, things he’d say. The case had been given to others, as suspected, but because Alec purported to have direct intel related to the child murders, they were allowed some more time with him. Comparing notes had begun to paint a rather disturbing, chaotic picture of their suspect, so the department had decided to approve time with a professional consultant. How convenient when one such candidate arose.
Dr. Denman Malkuth, psychiatrist, also highly regarded in the fields of folklore, mythology, the occult. One might think that having enough time for so thorough and varied a knowledge would be difficult at best, but his information had checked out.
“You also teach at college,” Maria mentions.
“I do,” the elegantly-suited man replies, “One class of undergraduates, and a select few seeking post-graduate degrees.”
“That’s a lot of books,” Quain remarks, finally looking over and studying the man they have come to see.
“Do you like books, Detective Contee?”
“Not especially,” Quain replies, “I just don’t know when I have seen so many outside a library or book store.”
“I am quite proud of my collection, though there is always room for more,” he continues with his polite smile, “Would you two care to sit? I can have coffee or tea brought or whatever else you may desire to drink.”
The two share a look of unspoken communication. Such does not go unnoticed by their host.
“No, but thank you,” Quain replies, and the two take seats in the high-backed leather chairs facing the man behind the desk.
After a short moment, Maria adjusts herself, moving forward a touch, her lips parting as though she is about to talk.
“So,” Denman speaks instead, “how would you like to begin?”
“We’re specifically investigating the murder of a child-” Maria starts.
“Just one?” Denman asks, and though it might seem cold, almost rude, his tone and aspect belie his sudden shift to seriousness.
“Is one not enough?”
The host minutely moves his eyes to focus on Quain. “No, not enough to establish a pattern. I understood I might be needed to develop a profile. Such will be limited if there is only one crime.”
“There’s not only one crime,” Maria explains, “We have a suspect. We even have a name, and we have other crimes that are alleged to have been committed by this man, but this particular case might lend more insight.”
“Aaah, I see. What will you share with me?” he then asks, eyes moving to a file held by Maria.
She leans forward to deposit the folder atop the heavy, wooden desk. He calmly takes it, slowly flipping through the pages.
“This is related to the children who were killed in that ..,” he comments, pausing, looking up, pondering, then to the two before him, “abandoned apartment complex, was it?”
Quain blinks, head moving back, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Maria answers, “there is information in the file regarding that, though we’ve obviously left out many of the details.”
He looks up, propping the opened folder in his hands as if measuring its weight or lack thereof. “Obviously.”
“Some of the information has been left out due to-,” Maria begins and is again interrupted.
“I understand the protocol,” Denman says, exhaling, bringing his hands up to interlace his fingers, “but the more you leave out, the more my profile will be prone to error. This could quite especially be noted if some of the more gruesome details are excised, such as the condition of the bodies, the manner of death, anything that may have been missing, ostensibly taken as a trophy.”
“This is an initial interview,” Quain says, “We’re not even sure how much you might be able to help us.”
“Of course.” The host puts on a shallow version of his charming smile, staring at the other man. “And you say you have a suspect and a name of said suspect. Why don’t you arrest this person?”
“We don’t have sufficient information to issue a warrant.”
“And you may not even know where this person is,” he says, only adding the barest touch of a lilt to the final word, as though making it a question out of politeness.
“That’s right,” Quain finally speaks in the broadening quiet.
It is like a pebble in a pond, as that same silence envelopes the short sentence. The three sit there, studying one another.
“This ritual killing, even the executions, they seem like sacrifices,” Denman pronounces, intruding on the quiet.
“Seem like? Who has told you this?” Quain challenges.
“It’s fairly obvious-,” he tries to resume.
“Is it?” Maria cuts him off.
Denman stares, the curve of
his lips gone, though he appears to be calm, intensely focused, but he does not immediately speak, then, finally, “a sacrifice is a gift, but it is also a transference of energy. Did you know that some cultures thought that birds would carry the soul to the Afterlife?”
The mention of a transference of energy spikes reaction within both detectives, but they hide them fairly well.
“There were no birds or evidence of birds at the crime scenes,” Maria offers.
“Of course not.”
“But you just said-,” she tries.
“I did, but the only birds who may have had it right were the carrion eaters.”
The two detectives share a look.
“Are we discussing theology now, Doctor?” Quain furrows his brow.
“Forgive me my indulgence.” Denman smiles warmly. “I’m quite sure my personal beliefs are not germane to the investigation, but it would be helpful, for a profile, if I had some idea of the mental workings of our killer. It’s actually difficult to tell if this is someone comfortable with killing.”
“What?” Maria has her turn to wrinkle her forehead, face turning slightly as though literally trying to better hear. “They’ve killed children in cold blood.”
“Yes, but they do it as a sacrifice. They use metaphor and ritual to possibly obscure what they are doing, perhaps even to obscure their own feelings about it.”
“What are you saying, Doctor?” Quain pushes.
Denman pulls in a deep breath, sitting up straighter, then leaning back in his own chair. “When killing is a ritual, it takes on new meaning, new depth,” he elaborates, “This is not just the physical ending of life. There is a purpose here.”
“We want to link these to the suspect, and we want to bring him in and make him pay for this,” Quain speaks, his words and tone even a bit of a surprise to himself.
Maria glances at him rather quickly, eyes blinking wider.
Denman almost smirks. “Foregone conclusions will not benefit an investigation, Detective. They might even compromise it.”
“What’s a profile, then, if not a foregone conclusion?”
Denman just stares at Quain, still calm, focused, and his lips do curve into the hint of that smirk, a shadow beneath a polite grin.
“A profile is usually done to help identify a suspect, to predict when next there may be a victim. Since you have a suspect, I am left to assume this is being done for the latter; otherwise, it might seem I am being manipulated into providing evidence to your foregone conclusion.”
Quain stiffens, shoulders going back.
“That’s not why we’re here,” Maria quickly says.
Denman moves his eyes quite slowly from Quain to his partner.
“Then why are you here?”
Maria sighs.
“We have little evidence to connect our suspect. We would like this profile as a way to tell if we’re on the right track.”
“I see,” the host remarks, “Well, I will be happy to provide this service.”
“Thank you,” Maria offers.
“You are welcome, of course.”
The appointment concluded, Denman meanders over to a hidden bar, opening to reveal several crystal bottles. He pours himself a decent measure of fine scotch, neat. He takes his time, enjoying its scent, then has a light taste.
It had not taken much to find out the police were looking for outside help on this most difficult case. It had not taken much beyond that to generate the proper credentials and get himself put to the top of their list of potential candidates. All others had proved a pale, distant second at best.
He drinks further of the scotch.
He almost pities the two detectives, for they are in far over their heads. He wonders also of Quain Contee. The man knows not how close he lingers to the edge. Denman ponders, is the man little more than meat? Is there more worth to him breathing than dead?
He wonders.
*****
The sound is like a hard slap against dense, wet meat. Another, then another. Voices raised. The two men that form the main focal point wear only the meager wraps over their hands and their dirty and scuffed pants. They are both possessed of lean muscle, looking like they may have been carved from wood. One is slightly taller, and he appears to have the upper hand, taking several hits from his opponent, blocking some, then hitting back with ferocity. The other goes down. The crowd’s loud voice goes up in volume.
There is no referee. There are rules, but there is no official in the midst of the fight to enforce them. There is no count. If someone is downed, he may stay down, and the fight is lost. If he loses consciousness, the fight is lost. If he wants a chance to win, he must get back up. This one does, none too worse for wear, relatively speaking, as both bear marks of the fight.
The other gives a taunting wave, a ‘come on’ gesture, and the fight is re-joined.
Volkov watches from a perch, a meager balcony. The entire structure looks somewhat weak, certainly lacking in decent maintenance. The days when it saw more conventional use are long since gone. Its owner had died deep in debt, though not the kind of debt that might show up in a legal credit report. The space had been claimed, then left to rot once anything inside of value had been taken. It had passed through a few hands, and now it has been claimed again.
The crowd roars as the same man is knocked down. The other does not press, as that is generally frowned upon. It is not technically against their rules, such as they are, but it usually does not happen. So, the one doing a better job stands, waiting, dark eyes slit, focused, bouncing in anticipation. The other looks at him, then gets back to his feet.
Bets have been laid on both sides, of course, and the crowd cheers and groans in line with their own perceptions of fortune. From his place on the raised level, he remains passive, uncaring. He has not made any bets, and he will make more money than probably anyone off of this ‘event’. He finds it distasteful, but he is not one to shy from such things.
She seems to be enjoying it, though, crying out when a particularly nasty series of blows is landed. She claps her hands, bobbing on her shod toes. She glances over at him, then smirks her deeply painted lips.
“What is matter?” Yelena asks him in Russian.
Volkov looks from the fight to his girlfriend, eyebrows rising.
“Eh, not enough blood,” he responds in the same tongue.
Her smirk increases, then she unfurls an open laugh. Some of the nearby guards look over. They have grown used to the sight of the platinum-blond woman, but she still makes them feel unsettled. She certainly stands out, being not only well-dressed and very attractive, but also because she is the only female present.
She looks sharply back over when the crowd roars, noticing that the fighter who had been lately twice to the ground has gotten the upper hand, taking the fight to the floor, grappling with more aptitude than his opponent. Yelena cries out her support, pumping one fist into the air. She then looks back, giving her boyfriend more of her delicious smirk.
“You watch. I have made right bet.”
“What do I care?” Volkov retorts, then turns and walks away.
Judging from the raucous, the fight has indeed ended as he makes his way to an office of sorts. He is quickly met by some of his men. He sets his eyes on one of them.
“Still no word,” the man informs, looking quite reluctant to deliver this news.
The boss sits there, unmoved by this. Tension rises.
“You have checked his home?”
“Yes, boss,” the man says.
“No sign of him? No word?” Volkov asks.
“No, boss. Nothing.”
“This does not sit well with me.” He pauses, coming to a decision. “Filat?” he summons, and another of the men goes more to attention, pleased to have been called. “Ex-Detective Sladky has gone missing. I need you to find out what happened to him. Has he fled city? Has he been arrested? Is he dead? Find out.”
Filat nods once, then heads off on his duty. Volkov angles
his eyes back to the other. Some moments pass as he just looks at the man.
“You have been replaced,” he finally says.
The man looks around, nervous.
“I have had to put Filat on this, as you just saw. Filat has better things to do, but I know he will do this. But you. What can you do for me now?”
“I ..,” the man begins, more agitated, “Let me help Filat.”
The boss shakes his head.
“You had chance. No, you will go to guard children. If you cannot handle that, then you are useless to me.”
He waves a hand, dismissively, and the man wisely leaves.
“Boss? I found something about Soosaar,” says another.
“Oh?” Volkov turns to peer at the man.
“Yeah, I was just going through his normal places, and I talked to the bartender at some joint he likes, the Dove.”
“Yes, I know place.”
“He says he saw Soosaar there, and some lady came up to him and bought him some drinks. They left together.”
Volkov blinks a bit, cold eyes narrowing.
“Did you get description?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, good,” he remarks, “Pass it around. Maybe we find this woman and see what she knows.”
The man gives a single nod then heads off. Volkov then gets back to other matters, wanting to finish up with this and get to far more important things.
*****
The scent of coffee permeates the room. It is a somewhat cramped space in this hotel. The accommodations are certainly not the nicest, but that is how they want it. It is not too bad but definitely not too good. They have acquired quarters here in the corner of the floor, quite by design. Though there are beds in the humble suite, they are generally not used. Each of them has independently acquired a safe place to sleep, keeping such locales secret.
The woman, Livie Cloutier, speaks in her native tongue on a cell phone, her tone somewhat quieted. The other three men, one of whom aided Livie in a recent interrogation, discuss business.
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