Mark of the Demon

“I appreciate everything that you and the other officers are doing.” His smile was warm and sincere. “Please don’t hesitate to call or come by the church.”

  “You can count on that,” I assured him as I shook his hand. I could see why his church was so popular. Too bad his dog hated me.

  I MADE A QUICK DETOUR HOME AFTER LEAVING THE SCENE to grab a shower and change of clothes, then raced back to the station to get started on putting my notes in order. It was nearly mid-morning by the time I made it back, and I circled the tiny lot reserved for detectives and patrol several times, looking for a space, before finally giving up and parking on the street.

  The broad glass doors at the front of the station swung in at a touch, revealing a spacious lobby with the Beaulac PD emblem worked into the tile of the floor. A scattering of people sat on chairs, probably waiting for copies of police reports or for appointments with detectives. I avoided eye contact with any of them and went straight to the door that led to the offices, swiping my ID card and heading on through as soon as the lock clicked open.

  I hardly ever entered through the front door, but I couldn’t see the point of walking all the way around the building to get to the back entrance that patrol officers and detectives often used. However, using the front entrance meant that I passed right by all the offices for administration and the higher-ups. Normally that was no big deal, but to my surprise I heard my name called out just as I passed by Chief Morse’s office.

  I blinked and took a step backward, peering around the door frame in case I’d misheard. It was by no means common for the chief to call random passersby into his office. In fact, he hardly ever associated with the troops, and I didn’t think he even knew my name.

  I was wrong. Chief Eddie Morse stood in the foyer of his office, in front of his secretary’s desk, a manila folder in his hand and a slight frown on his face as he looked at me. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, white shirt starched within an inch of its life and tucked perfectly into place, dress slacks immaculately pressed, tie in a tight double Windsor. Not a single steel-gray hair on his head was out of place. “Detective Gillian,” he repeated. “Do you have a minute?” It was asked in a tone that said that he didn’t give a shit if I had a minute or not but that I’d better make a minute.

  I resisted the urge to gulp nervously and merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He jerked his head toward his office, then headed that way, clearly expecting me to follow.

  I obliged and followed him, taking in the surroundings in a quick glance as he moved to the far side of the broad oak desk. The office was neat and perfectly styled, much like his person. Dark-blue carpet matched the colors in the Beaulac PD seal, which had been painted on the wall behind his desk. Books were arranged by height. Certificates and plaques on the wall were ordered in perfect harmony with one another. One shelf was devoted to trophies, and the brief glance that I was able to make told me that they were either for athletic events or firearms competitions.

  The chief motioned me to sit with the folder in his hand. So I sat, trying to not appear uncertain, even though I definitely felt that way. Chief Morse never called nonranking detectives or patrol officers in. Even if someone was in serious trouble, the chief preferred to have his immediate underlings take care of ugly tasks like discipline or firings.

  He leaned back in his chair while I remained sitting stiffly upright. He flipped open the folder, looked at the contents for a second, then made a “hmmf” noise and looked over at me.

  “You’re working these murders,” he said.

  It didn’t sound like a question at all, but I gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

  His frown deepened, though I couldn’t tell if it was a frown of displeasure or of thought. This was the first time I’d spent more than five seconds in the man’s presence, so I didn’t have much experience to draw on.

  “I read your initial report on the first case,” he said, voice clipped. “Same symbol on this latest one as well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve read up on the previous cases?”

  “Yes, sir.” I resisted the urge to fidget.

  “So you’re the resident expert.” There was still no clue from his tone as to where he was going with this. He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but he was looking at me as if expecting a response.

  I hesitated briefly before answering. I didn’t want to appear cocky, but I probably did know more about the case than anyone else in the department. “I don’t know if expert is the right word, sir,” I finally said, “but I have a strong familiarity with the case.”

  Chief Morse set the folder down, expression still unreadable. “Captain Turnham says that you asked for the Symbol Man files not long ago.”

  “Yes, sir. I was transferred to Violent Crimes just a few weeks ago, so I figured I’d take a look at some old case files to start getting a feel for it all.”

  His lips pressed together and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk and lightly clasping his hands together. “Why the Symbol Man cases?”

  “Well, sir,” I said, as I tried to gather my thoughts into something coherent, “it’s not often that any detective gets the chance to work this kind of case, or even see the details of the case. I’ve been a detective for only a couple of years—in Property Crimes—and I thought that by reviewing the files I could learn something about homicide investigations. And that’s pretty much the biggest unsolved case we have, and … Well, I’ve been interested in the case for quite some time.”

  His eyes were intent on me, as if expecting me to say more. “I see. So you’re just trying to be a better detective?”

  I couldn’t read his tone at all. Very frustrating. “Well, yes, sir. I mean, I really enjoy police work and intend to make a career of it.” I could feel myself getting flustered despite my best efforts at control. “I’m sorry, sir, but have I done something wrong?”

  “I saw you out on the scene at the wastewater plant, Detective Gillian,” he said, ignoring my question. “You seem to be pretty meticulous and organized.”

  He’d obviously never seen the inside of my kitchen cabinets. “I do my best, sir.”

  “What were you doing to the body?”

  “Er, what?”

  He scowled. “You were squatting by the body and waving your hand over it.” He made a horizontal waving motion with his own hand. “What was that all about? Did you touch the body?”

  Shit. He’d seen me trying to feel the arcane resonance. “No, sir, I didn’t touch the body,” I said, thinking furiously. “I, uh, was trying to see some of the cuts better, and there was some glare from the halogens.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Glare. Uh-huh. And Tessa Pazhel is your aunt?”

  I just nodded, not wanting to say anything that could make me look like more of an idiot. Glare? That was the best excuse I could come up with?

  “She has a rep for being a weird little bird,” he said, “but I’m sure you know that.”

  I couldn’t help but bristle at the slight. “Sir, my aunt is—”

  He lifted his hand, cutting me off. “I know, I know. I’m out of line maligning your family. I shouldn’t have said that. But I want to make it very clear, Detective Gillian,” his sharp blue eyes stayed on mine, “that I want these murders to stop, I want the bad guy to go to jail, and I don’t want any bizarre shenanigans on scenes. It’s not enough just to solve a case. We have to be able to take it to court as well. You weren’t wearing gloves, and it looked like you touched the body.”

  “Yes, sir.” What more could I say? He was right. “I didn’t mean to get so close to the body. I’ll be more careful, sir.”

  He looked steadily at me for what seemed like several minutes, though I knew it was probably only a few seconds. I willed calm, maintaining my demeanor as he regarded me only by utilizing my training as a summoner.

  Finally he waved a hand at me. “You’re dismissed, Detective. Just keep in mind what I said.”

  I stood.
“Yes, sir. I will.” I turned quickly and exited. The secretary glanced up as I passed, giving me a small wink and smile that managed to drag my morale back to normal levels. She’d probably overheard quite a few ass-chewings over the years, and I felt a bit better after the silent reassurance.

  Returning to my office, I shut the door and sat heavily at my desk. I deserved that, I had to admit. At least he hadn’t pulled me off the cases. I forced myself to take some comfort in that—not easy after being rebuked by the chief. But apparently he still had faith that I could handle it. I just had to be more careful. The last thing I needed was for people to think I was as strange as my aunt. It was besides the point that I was as strange as my aunt, but that didn’t mean I wanted people to think it. Who are you kidding, I thought wryly. They probably already do.

  I finally exhaled heavily and spread my hands on the top of my desk. I can handle it. I’ll solve these cases, using every fucking trick in or out of the book. So what if no one had been able to solve the Symbol Man murders the last time he was doing his killing. None of them could see the arcane. That gave me an advantage.

  Now I just had to use it.

  Leaning back to reach my filing cabinet, I yanked open the middle drawer, then riffled quickly through the files until I came to the thick folder containing the pictures from all the previous murders—Series One, as I was beginning to mentally refer to them. I flipped through the pics quickly. All those bodies had been dumped in places that were traveled infrequently, which meant that they were often not found for days or weeks. The body at the waste-water plant had been found quickly, but the fracture injuries made me think that he’d meant to place the body up on the vat, or somewhere else less visible.

  But the victim at the ball field was meant to be found quickly. So why the change?

  I worked my way through the pictures, taking note of something else. The Series One victims had been killed in a variety of ways, except for the last two—who’d been strangled. They’d all shown evidence of prolonged torture, but the main feature that had tied those murders together was the symbol. Always the same symbol, though not always in the same place on the body. Sometimes not even in an immediately visible location. Both victims from my cases—Series Two—had been strangled. So, why the change? Could it be a copycat?

  It doesn’t matter, I finally decided. It’s still a murder investigation.

  But there was one more striking similarity between Series One and Series Two. Every single victim was the type of person who had no one to miss them. Homeless, prostitute, drug addict, mentally ill. Sometimes all of the above. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian—all were represented. And the victims were chosen carefully—of that I was sure. These were not random snatches off the street. The killer studied them, followed them, and made certain they were alone and would not be missed for some time.

  I sat back in my chair, drumming my pen on my chin. How did he take them? Tox screens on the victims had never come up with anything more than traces of “street” drugs, which was to be expected with the types of victims he chose. But if he was holding them for several days before killing them, then any drug he used to subdue them would probably have time to clear from their bodies, though I’d need to check with Doc for specifics. Did he gain their trust? Was there a connection? The investigator on the original case hadn’t found any link between the victims, but I had no idea how deeply he’d dug either. Somehow, the Symbol Man snatched his victims without anyone seeing it happen, then transported them to a secure location where they were heinously tortured for several days and then ritually killed, sometimes suffering for up to a week before finally being put to death. And always the arcane smudges left behind on the body, as well as that unidentified symbol.

  But why? What was he doing arcanely? There were a number of things that involved death and blood, but unfortunately—or fortunately—Aunt Tessa wasn’t an expert in any of them, other than the basic knowledge of Things That Are Bad.

  I picked up the picture of the girl found at the treatment plant and scrutinized the parallel cuts and the symbol carved onto her chest. That shit had to hurt like crazy. And the knife had to be insanely sharp, judging by the precision in the cuts.

  I sighed and pulled out the pictures from the very first body, seven years ago. This one was a young black male in his mid-twenties who’d hit three of the four factors: homeless, prostitute, and drug addict. I flipped through the pictures quickly until I found one of the symbols. It had been meticulously burned into the inside of his left upper thigh, just below the scrotum.

  I replaced that file, then grabbed up the next: a white male in his sixties, homeless, no family, mentally ill. His symbol had been seared directly onto his genitals. More torture. Not just a brand, but one that was meant to cause incredible pain as well.

  But why should that surprise me? It didn’t tell me anything new about the killer. But maybe it told me something about the symbol itself. If it was an arcane marking, then maybe the pain involved in its placing was important. Somehow generating more potency?

  I replaced the files, then pulled out the one on the victim I’d actually seen when I was a road cop. But I didn’t need to look at the pictures. I remembered vividly where that symbol had been. In fact, at first the detectives hadn’t believed it to be the same killer, because no symbol had been found on the body. It wasn’t until the pathologist removed the tongue and trachea during the autopsy that it was found—seared onto the base of her tongue.

  I jumped at the knock on my door and bit my tongue against the yelp. “Come in,” I called, then had to work to control my expression when Cory Crawford opened the door. His flat brown eyes flicked over the files and pictures scattered around my desk, then he looked at me, a sour expression curling his mouth.

  “Dr. Lanza called to say he has court in the morning, so he’s not cutting your latest until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Okay,” I replied, guarded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Cory’s gaze swept my office again. “You making any headway?”

  “It’s … a lot to go through. I’m trying to find a link between the victims now.”

  He gave a stiff nod, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then shook his head. “Kara, I was a dick the other night. You’re going to do just fine. Sorry.”

  I let my breath out. “It’s cool.”

  He nodded again, then closed the door. I could hear his footsteps fading down the hall as I leaned back in the chair, feeling as if a bit of the weight on me had been lifted. Yes, all better now. Now you only have to stress about the chief thinking you’re an inadequate nutjob, Agent Kristoff thinking you’re incompetent, your one-night stand with a demon … oh, yeah, and a serial killer still on the loose. I made a face and sat up again, pulling the scene pictures to me and wishing for the millionth time that there was some way to photograph those arcane smudges.

  I can’t photograph them, I thought with a growing realization, but maybe I can sneak Aunt Tessa in to look at them. If Doc wasn’t going to cut until tomorrow afternoon, that would give me the time to do it.

  I chewed my lip as I mulled over the utter stupidity of such an idea. “Ah, screw it,” I muttered, grabbing my bag. “It’s only my career.”

  BREAKING INTO THE MORGUE WAS PAINFULLY EASY. THE coroner’s office suffered from a lack of funding more than any other agency, mostly due to the fact that people didn’t like to think about death and thus didn’t want to fund it any more than absolutely necessary.

  “I’ve done my share of crazy things in my day, kiddo,” Aunt Tessa remarked dryly as she watched me work the lock, “but I don’t believe I’ve ever broken into a morgue in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, this would normally be far too tame for you,” I replied as I slipped the edge of my folding knife into the doorjamb, noting with wry amusement that the jamb was already scored a dozen times over, probably from people who worked for the coroner’s office. The door clicked open and I stepped inside, wrinkling my nose
at the ever-present odors—the combination of cleaner and decomposition and bleach, each struggling to overpower the others.

  I quickly flicked on my key-chain LED flashlight, then stepped inside and pulled Aunt Tessa in, closing the door behind her.

  “Needs incense,” I heard her mutter from behind me.

  I swung the tiny flashlight in an arc, blue light reflecting eerily off the metal table and stained walls. “Let’s just hope no one gets brought in while we’re doing our little bit of breaking and entering.”

  The cooler was locked, but I knew that the key was oh-so-cleverly hidden in a drawer right next to it. A wave of cold dead air rolled out as I swung the door open, and once again I pulled my aunt inside, this time propping the door slightly ajar with an office chair. I panned my flashlight around the cooler, relieved to find that there was only one stretcher with a body bag atop it. I checked the tag on the outside of the bag to be sure. Yep, this was my victim, Mark Janson.

  The bag was secured with a plastic zip tie, which I sliced through with my knife. I quickly tugged on latex gloves, then unzipped the bag, exhaling as the sight of the young man struck an emotional chord once again. Then I grimaced. The arcane smudges had faded drastically, as I’d feared.

  “There’s not much left of them, Aunt Tessa. Can you see anything?”

  Tessa leaned over the bag, slowly scanning the body, nose wrinkling at the faint odor of sweat and blood and death. “I see what you’re talking about.” She frowned. “Turn your flashlight off, please.”

  I switched the flashlight off, suppressing a shudder at the near-absolute blackness inside the cooler, broken only by the faint illumination sneaking past the propped-open door. But I could see why my aunt wanted less light. The smudges were far more visible to othersight in the dark.

  “There’s not much to see,” Tessa said, “but it’s definitely a male who left these.”

  “The profiles that were done all indicated a white male in his thirties—”

  “Lives alone, parents divorced, yeah yeah yeah,” my aunt cut in with a laugh. “Isn’t it funny how every profile is darn near the same?”