Mark of the Demon

  “Can you give a closer estimate of time of death?” Agent Kristoff asked as I pulled my gloves and shoe covers off and dropped them into the same biohazard container.

  “Nope,” Doc said flatly as he picked up his clipboard and started to make notes. “Time of death is pretty inexact and depends on too many different factors, despite what you see on TV. Unless the death is witnessed, all the other factors are merely sufficient to give a range of time. Skin slippage—when the body decomposes enough that the outer layer of skin starts to slough off—is usually around three days, but that can be hastened or slowed by humidity, temperature, etcetera. Rigor mortis can come and go anywhere from three to thirty-six hours, depending on the person’s physical condition and what they were doing right before they died. Lividity—the settling of blood in the body—is a good indicator, but even that gives us a pretty broad range of time.”

  I resisted the urge to smirk. I’d been through this with Doc before. People were always trying to pin him down about time of death, but he maintained that if he was the one who had to get on the stand and testify to it, he wasn’t going to just guesstimate. Especially since, most of the time, it really didn’t make a difference.

  “Very well, then,” Agent Kristoff said, extending his hand to Doc. “I appreciate you allowing me in to view this autopsy, Dr. Lanza. I’ll be heading back to the office now.”

  Dr. Lanza shook his hand. “Glad to have you.”

  Agent Kristoff gave me a slight nod, then brushed past me and exited.

  Doc glanced at me. “Don’t sweat it, Kara. Maybe his mind’s on something else.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said with a scowl, unconvinced. Or maybe a pair of pretty eyes is wasted on a total prick.

  I KEPT MY PROMISE TO MYSELF AND WENT HOME TO change clothes as soon as I finished at the morgue. This time I made a point of dressing as if I actually had a clue about being a detective, pulling on black twill pants and a tailored blue shirt, belting on my Glock 9mm and badge, and telling myself that this was not because I might see the obnoxious Special Agent Kristoff again. I was just trying to look professional. Yeah, right, a tiny voice in my head mocked me. But I also took the time to brush my hair out and apply proper makeup. Just trying to look professional.

  It was late afternoon when I made it back to the station, and there were two news vans in the parking lot when I arrived—media from New Orleans, which surprised me. Someone had probably tipped them off that the Symbol Man might be back in action. I could see the chief of police, Eddie Morse, standing in front of the station, cleverly positioned so that the Beaulac Police sign with the picture of the badge was just over his right shoulder as he spoke to the reporters. Chief Morse was slightly above average height, with perfectly styled gray hair and barely an ounce of spare fat visible. He had an angular face that looked as if it had been carved from stone and never smoothed out, yet its “tight” look had many people whispering that he’d had some work done. Set in this chiseled face were blue eyes that were always scanning, as if trying to find the best person in the room to be seen with. He proclaimed himself to be a model of physical fitness and often stated that he wished to be an inspiration for the men and women who served below him. He ran, lifted weights, bicycled, and ate a clean, healthful diet. He looked like he was in his forties, even though he was probably into his sixties. He was never sick and credited his healthy lifestyle for the fact that he’d had no need to see a doctor in over a decade. He claimed to be unaffected by the heat, even going so far as to work out in long pants and long-sleeved shirts.

  He was roundly despised.

  I made a face as I drove past. I was all for being in good shape—especially as a police officer—but no one liked to have it shoved down their throat.

  I parked on the far side of the lot, well away from the little news conference out front. I had no doubts as to the subject matter. The only interesting thing that had happened in the parish for the last month was the murder, and since I was supposedly leading the investigation, I didn’t want to risk being called to speak on camera. I was a little surprised that the chief was even allowing himself to be interviewed; he usually preferred to let the Public Information Officer handle press conferences. He definitely wasn’t a media whore like most of the public figures around here. Then again, he was appointed, not elected, so he didn’t have to be. But I supposed a possible Symbol Man murder was interesting enough that he felt obliged to make a statement. I walked quickly and quietly to the back door, managing to duck in before anyone outside spotted me. I’d been on camera once before, after a large check-fraud operation was shut down, and had managed to give a fantastic impression of a babbling idiot. I had no desire to repeat the experience.

  “… waiting on autopsy results before we are willing to connect this murder with the Symbol Man murders.” I heard the chief’s voice as the door closed, and I continued down the wood-paneled hall and on to my closet-size office. Other than his fitness fanaticism, the chief didn’t seem like a bad sort, though I had shockingly little personal experience from which to form any real opinion of him. He was appointed chief of police by the mayor nearly a decade ago, causing more than a few bruised feelings among the upper echelon of the Beaulac PD at the time. Eddie Morse was not a local boy. A former deputy chief of a small town in north Louisiana, he had moved to Beaulac only about a year before his appointment. After the previous chief died of a heart attack, the higher-ranking officers at the Beaulac PD were all jockeying for the position, only to have it yanked away and handed to a total stranger, and there were many who felt that the job should have gone to someone with more-intimate knowledge of the area.

  Personally, I didn’t think that background mattered at all as long as the chief knew how to be a chief, and in the past decade he’d managed to avoid any major scandals—which was a minor miracle in Louisiana. The only beef I had with him was that he rarely, if ever, associated with any of the patrol officers or nonranking detectives. But, of course, that was a two-edged sword. There were many times when it was nice to go unnoticed.

  I could see Detectives Boudreaux and Pellini down the hall by the coffee machine. Their backs were to me, and I paused. Should I make the diplomatic move and ask them for advice? Not that I was all that sure their advice would be worth a crap, but some things were necessary for the sake of diplomacy and making an effort to fit in. I made a sour face. I knew I needed to make some sort of overture to them, since they sure as hell weren’t going to come to me and offer up their assistance.

  “… nothing but bullshit cases,” I heard Pellini moan in his distinctive nasal baritone. “I shouldn’t have to work this domestic violence crap. They shoulda been assigned to Gillian, y’know, since she’s a chick.”

  “No shit,” Boudreaux answered. “I can’t believe the captain gave the murder to her. What a crock of shit.” I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the scowl in his voice. “She’s gotta be fucking the captain. Betcha that’s how she scored the transfer too.”

  Pellini sniggered, but I didn’t bother waiting to hear his response. Fuck diplomacy, I thought, as I strode up to them.

  “Hi, guys!” I chirped as I reached for a coffee cup. “Whoo boy, do I ever need a hit of java right now.” I gave them both an extra-cheerful grin as I poured the coffee. “All that work fucking the captain in order to get all the good cases is wearing me right the fuck out!” I saluted the two with my coffee cup as they stared at me. “Y’all should try it sometime!” Then I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “But you two should probably practice on each other first so’s ya don’t embarrass yourselves. I mean, I know it’s been ages since either of you has fucked anything other than your hand.”

  With that I turned and sauntered back down the hall. I could have sworn I heard a bark of laughter come out of Crawford’s office, although when I passed by, his back was to the door and he appeared engrossed in a report on his computer. But Wetzer appeared in the doorway of his office, and to my shock he laughed and lifted his
hand in a high-five salute.

  “Dude, that was fucking awesome!” he exclaimed.

  I grinned and returned the high five. As I ducked into my office, I heard Wetzer as he called down the hall to Pellini and Boudreaux: “Duuuudes, she fuckin’ owned your asses!”

  I laughed as I shut the door behind me. The insinuations concerning my sexual activities were more annoying than offensive. I’d grown used to that sort of thing a long time ago and had accepted that I couldn’t talk to anyone of the male persuasion without being suspected of rampant lust. However, it was a seriously cool feeling to realize that I’d just scored points with others in the department for giving the two dickheads a smackdown for stirring up that bullshit. I’m one of them now. I just proved that I can hold my own.

  I squeezed past my desk and plunked down into my chair. My office was only about the size of the walk-in closet in my bedroom, but it was mine. The walls were plain white, which I kept meaning to decorate with pictures or posters, but somehow I never managed to get around to it. I had a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and barely enough room for one extra chair. I didn’t mind having a small office. That just meant I didn’t have to share.

  I spent the next several hours typing up my notes and running more checks on missing persons, placating the twinges of hunger with the cereal bars I kept stashed in my desk for when I worked late. A few possibilities emerged among the missing persons, and those I set aside. They were probably long shots, but I’d get with Dr. Lanza later to see if we could compare dental records, if they were available. DNA comparison would be used only if we were reasonably certain that we’d found a match, since it was expensive and took forever.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Agent Kristoff’s remarks about not limiting avenues of investigation came back to me, and I frowned. Was I doing just that by clinging to my deep-seated conviction that this was the Symbol Man again? What if I really was being narrow-minded? It was possible—albeit remotely—that this could be a different killer, one who was also versed in the arcane. Perhaps the symbol on this victim had been a coincidence. No one—including several experts in the arcane whom I’d consulted—had ever figured out just what the symbol was supposed to represent.

  I mulled over the possibilities, eyes still closed. And that Agent Kristoff—was he always such a prick? Maybe he was just having a bad day. But he does have some nice eyes…. My thoughts drifted to another set of eyes—crystal blue, full of power, ancient and potent …

  He stood behind me, potency surrounding me and arms loosely clasped around my body as I looked out over a stone battlement into a lushly forested canyon. Above were tumbled cliffs split by a shimmering waterfall that plunged to mist-filled depths. I could see creatures in flight—at first I thought them to be birds but then realized they were reyza and syraza, wheeling and diving in some sort of complex aerial sparring match. I looked to my right to see a reyza crouched upon the stone wall and beside him a man wearing what looked like some sort of medieval guardsman uniform, with a sword at his waist. The man didn’t seem to have any fear of the reyza. In fact, they seemed to be deep in conversation. I looked down, oddly unsurprised to see myself dressed in a black silk shirt and leather breeches, with a sword strapped to my side.

  He lowered his head to nuzzle the side of my neck and I smiled, leaning back into him and holding his arms tighter around me. “All yours, dearest,” he murmured. “Call me to you, and I will give it all to you.”

  “All of what? This?”

  His hands slid over my breasts, teasing, caressing. I dropped my head back against him and gave a languorous sigh. “This world. Your world. All worlds,” he breathed. “Call me to you.”

  “But you never gave me your number,” I said. “You have a cell phone, right? Isn’t that it ringing … ?”

  I jerked awake, still hearing the insistent trilling. I blinked several times, trying to clear away the lingering shards of the dream, finally realizing that the trilling came from my pager, not from a cell phone that a Demonic Lord was carrying.

  I fumbled for the pager, wincing as a sharp crick in my neck made its presence known. I jammed the button to silence the pager and tossed it on my desk. Teach me to fall asleep at work. I smiled wryly as I finger-combed my hair back from my face. Small wonder that I’d fallen asleep, and small wonder that I’d had a crazy dream that threw me into the comic book my aunt had given me. Maybe something about getting only two hours of sleep in the past two nights?

  I picked up the pager and tried to get my eyes to focus. Why the hell did they page me instead of just calling me here? I glanced up at the clock, blinked, then looked frantically at the time on the pager.

  “Holy crap,” I murmured, shocked. I hadn’t just fallen asleep. It was five in the morning! No wonder my neck had a crick in it. I’d been damn near unconscious!

  Then my eyes focused on the actual message on the pager. My throat tightened as the meaning penetrated. Another victim. That made two victims in three days. The Symbol Man was definitely back.

  THE BODY HAD been found at Leelan Park—only a couple of miles from downtown Beaulac on the east end of the lake. The park was one of the pride and joys of the city, built within the last decade through the combined efforts of residents, local businesses, and the estate of the previous mayor of Beaulac, the late Price Leelan. There were sports fields, basketball and tennis courts, and a sprawling playground with nearly every conceivable climbing or swinging activity represented. A boat launch was in constant use on nice days, and on weekends when the weather was pleasant the park was packed with people.

  At five a.m., I could hold on to the hope that the body hadn’t been found by a kid.

  The park was large, but it wasn’t hard to figure out where to go. About half a dozen police vehicles were clustered on the end farthest from the lake, near the baseball fields. I parked my little Taurus in the first free spot I could find, did a quick makeup check-and-fix in the rearview mirror, then grabbed my notebook and exited my car. I scanned the area quickly, subtly relieved that I didn’t see any sign of Kristoff. At least I’d fallen asleep sitting up, so I wasn’t too wrinkled. I really needed to keep a change of clothes in my office, or at least in my car. I felt like I’d slept in my clothes, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I smelled like it too.

  I could see Pellini and Boudreaux leaning up against one of the unmarked vehicles. They didn’t look very pleased at being up at this hour, nor did they seem eager to provide their help. Not that I gave a fuck about their help, but I did enjoy a bit of perverse pleasure that they’d been dragged out of bed. Pellini puffed on a cigarette, face drawn in a scowl as he took note of my presence, while Boudreaux remained deeply engrossed in the sports section of the newspaper. I quickly ceased to worry about my appearance. Pellini had quit battling the fat on his midsection many years ago, which meant that his gut had reached the point where it flopped over the top of his belt. He was sporting a Beaulac PD T-shirt that was so worn it looked more like e ulac P, and to add to the insult to onlookers, anytime he lifted his cigarette to his mouth the shirt rode up enough to display a couple of inches of pale and hairy stomach fat. Boudreaux didn’t have a weight problem, but his shirt was so wrinkled I suspected it had been balled up at the bottom of his laundry basket for weeks. And I didn’t want to know whether it was the “clean” or the “dirty” basket.

  I knew they’d seen me, but neither felt it necessary to acknowledge my presence with any form of greeting. No help from that quarter. Fine with me. As least I knew it going in so that I wouldn’t have to worry about being disappointed by them.

  There was enough of a chill in the air that I was regretting leaving my jacket in my office. The sun was well above the horizon, but the western sky still stubbornly held on to the dark-purple hues of dawn. Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered sluggishly in the morning breeze, blocking off the entrance to one of the baseball fields. I walked up to the tape, dew scattering off the grass and soaking my shoes.

  The
officer manning the crime-s cene log was one of my old teammates from when I’d been on the road. Scott Glassman was a self-described “good ol’ boy” from the sticks, with a bit of pudge beginning to show in his midsection and with no desire to ever move over to the detective bureau. Scott was more than content to remain a street cop for the rest of his life. And I had to privately agree that the street was the best place for him. He had a good manner with people, knew everyone, and would go quietly nuts if he had to endure the slower pace and the paperwork required in the bureau. He kept his uniform pressed, his head shaved, and his nose clean. I fully expected him to eventually retire with thirty years of service, still a street cop.

  Scott sketched a wave to me as I approached. “Another victim for ya, darlin’. Doesn’t look good.” Then he frowned, brows drawing together in concern. “And neither do you. Whatcha been up to?”

  “I’ve had a couple of rough nights,” I said as I signed the scene log. “Not much sleep.”

  He laughed. “You? You lead such a normal, boring life. What, didja finally drag a man home?”

  I blinked at him in brief shock as I wondered how he could possibly know, then realized that he was just teasing me. But it was too late. Scott began to laugh even harder. “Oh, my God! You did!”

  “I did not!” I struggled to control the guilty-as-charged expression on my face. “C’mon, Scott. You know me. I have No Life. Where’s this body?”

  Scott sobered. “Looks like your guy struck again. Same signs of torture, same marks, same symbol. Crime Scene’s just finishing their pics now.” He gestured toward a figure on the ground just past the pitcher’s mound. I could see Jill crouching near the body, snapping pictures.