Fathom by Mikel Parry

CH-FREEZING HOT

Demo tossed and turned all night, watching the horrific scene at the courthouse play over and over like a video stuck in loop. This, mixed with his own prolific demons that plagued his mind like a cancer, made it a truly unbearable night. So many questions had arisen in so little time. It wasn’t like him to be involved in something seemingly so big. He was just a little fish, now being swallowed by the whales. He needed to get outside. He needed some air.

Stepping out onto the street from his apartment complex, he couldn’t help but notice the quiet calm before the storm that was the early morning. The magical hour when most people were fighting the urge to sleep in and let go. In mere minutes they would awake and drag themselves back into the grinding stone of life. But in this brief moment, the streets had lowered their voices to a whisper. The peace was dispersed in a heartbeat with the clamorous ringing of the cellphone vibrating in his pocket. Demo cringed realizing that a call this early could only mean bad news. He didn’t want to, but he did it anyway and answered the phone.

“Demo, it’s Jacky. I need you to come down. No time for chit chat. I’ve sent Martinez to pick you up.”

Demo began to say something but only received the monotone cat purr from the phone in response. He perused over the past details of recent events catalogued away in his mind. So many pieces seemed to be a significant part of a much bigger puzzle. But ironically, several pieces also seemed to fit into a mob style warning. Tread lightly detective, Demo thought. Suddenly the quiet was ruptured by the wail of a siren. Demo didn’t need to see it to know it was coming for him. The streets had a way of echoing the sound that seemed to pinpoint his location like a bat swooping in for a moth. He stared at the ground and sincerely hoped none of his neighbors were watching. That would be the last thing he needed in his otherwise innocuous existence. Tires screeched to a stop, expending a rich, burnt, rubbery smell that stung his nostrils.

“Hop in. Jacky wants you to come with me. Got to get you to the docks, as of yesterday.”

Demo peered inside the car to see two young eyes staring back at him. They were an almost rustic brown that had a relaxing aura. The man’s complexion was clean shaven and professional. He had dark brown hair, and an athletic build. He appeared dependable and trustworthy, a real unshakeable personality. It was no wonder that Jacky relied on him as her errand boy. His complexion told the rest of the story; serious and with purpose. His name was Richard Martinez.

Demo paused, feeling a tennis ball sized lump grow in his throat. If Jacky had sent Martinez, something had just hit the fan. Demo knew that if he got into the car, he’d pick up the nightmare right where he’d left off. What troubled him the most, was the puppet master of this nightmare, pulling on his strings like a helpless marionette. Reluctantly, he got in the car. Immediately he was greeted with the traditional city cop smell of old spice and mouthwash, the two essentials you need when being rushed out the door. The car squealed away with the lights blaring.

“We’re officially knee deep in this, Demo. Whatever is going on has got Jacky straight wheeling. It’s not like that girl to get so shaken up. She didn’t even tell me what’s going on. Word is they’re bringing in some of the big boys.”

Demo couldn’t help but notice the influxes at certain points in the sentence, divulging the seriousness of the matter. As the buildings whizzed by, Demo’s mind wandered. He wanted more details about anything they had found. For once his intuition was getting him nowhere. Evil always had a method, no matter how chaotic. The mind of even the most seditious killers still had similarities with the drug enticed, violent morons. He just had to find that common point, assume that mindset, and follow the path. After all, he himself was a murderer—at least in his mind. Demo leaned back against the battle-worn seat of the police car and took a deep breath, staring out of the window at the meshed collage of images passing by. He hoped he had what it took to solve this case and cut the puppet master’s strings.

“We’re almost there. When I pull up, stick with me and I’ll walk you in. This place is absolutely bumping so leave all the talking to me.”

Demo shook his head, coming back out of his daydream.

“Where’s Bobby? Did Jacky call him, too?”

Martinez shook his head.

“Don’t know. All I know is this one hits close to home with Jacky.”

The car pulled up outside a large warehouse, which sat among rows and rows of other warehouses that all looked practically identical. Towering roofs sat overhead, worn from the elements. The warehouse of interest was a buzzing beehive of activity. Men and women darted in and out of the rusty doors, clamoring as they went. Demo noticed the distressed look on some of their faces; this wasn’t just a random murder.

“Follow me, she’s inside,” said Martinez, signaling for Demo to follow.

Demo stepped out of the car into a surprisingly brisk atmosphere. The air seemed full of tiny floating icicles. He hadn’t dressed for the occasion. The cold was only amplified by the bleak outlook of the crime scene. He had seen this before. People had different ways of dealing with an unwanted reality, and looking occupied was one of them. A few footsteps towards the warehouse he reached a conclusion, which solidified the further he went forward.

Martinez reached back and grabbed Demo’s wrist thrusting it to his side. His sudden burst of strength was incredible. Demo flailed forward like a ragdoll.

“He’s with me. We’re looking for Jacky. Is she inside?”

The policeman looked at Demo once before responding.

“She’s there, but I wouldn’t go near that woman right now. This one’s got her rattled.”

Martinez nodded. It appeared he, too, was reaching some conclusions of his own.

Demo shook his hand free from Martinez’s vice-like grip on his wrist. He didn’t like the feeling of being dragged around like a schoolboy. He carefully inspected the details of the warehouse from the outside in as they entered. Metal siding and an old vintage sign filled with holes being the only discernible marker between this warehouse and the herd of others. Upon entering, a round of chills attacked his vulnerable exposed skin and made him physically shiver. The inside was even colder than the outside.

“What is this place?” questioned, Demo looking around.

Martinez shook his head while scanning the room.

“Don’t have a clue. Just looks like some old, abandoned warehouse to me.”

But to Demo it was teeming with questions. The inside was some sort of chemical factory. Old conveyer belts retired from their once vivacious, laboring life stood in rows. Widgets of every kind painted the walls, exhibiting the wonderful innovation that must have birthed the warehouse in its day. Demo looked down at the floor. His aging dress shoes stared back at him reminding him of how down and out he really was. Solving cases seemed so much more glorious in the movies, and came with more money. Looking at the rusted, deteriorated floor below his feet, he smiled. This place and he shared a lot in common; a tangled dichotomy of glory to rags. Demo reflected briefly on his own glory days. The mornings when he loved waking up seemed so distant now. His nerves of steel were finely polished by his days at the academy. And then there was his partner, Mike, who he couldn’t think about anymore. The clouds were forming in his head already. Dark clouds filled with remorse and anger. He had to control them or suffer their thunderous rage.

“There—Jacky’s there” hollered Martinez, who was by now a surprising distance ahead of Demo.

Demo followed Martinez’s finger, doing his best to break free from his torturous trance. With a subtle nod of the head, he set his course. On his way things started to get interesting, almost as if the people around him had disappeared. In his mind they were muted. The only points of interest were those now talking to him as he went. Sets of tools, bags filled with clutter, empty canisters, and a trail of cords all lead to two massive, metallic doors. Demo imagined himself as the killer, glancing behind his back as if being watched. Had he dragged the body here from somewhere else? Or had he done it all in-house? Both seemed viable, but ultimately there could only be one answer. A sober feeling of doubt swept over him. If this was the same killer—the killer who had set the car scene up to ensure it would never be forgotten—his work would be truly cut out for him. But then again, maybe the killer had been in the car that day . . . Just then, looking like the grim reaper himself, Jacky burst through the doors. At her side was Bob Cat, whose eyes looked blank and empty. Jacky, however, was a fiery maelstrom.

“Demo, get over here!”

He did as he was told and approached the coiled up Jacky cautiously.

“Tell Martinez to drive faster next time. I needed you here earlier.”

Demo shrugged his shoulders. He looked into Jacky’s eyes to see blood filled subway tunnels rushing in and out of her cornea. Her hair was in a ponytail, which was never the case. Her makeup looked rushed, and it was clear she hadn’t been sleeping. Demo glanced at Bob Cat who responded with a vague headshake. Demo couldn’t handle the suspense anymore. Bravely he stepped forward trying to get inside the two thick steel doors. Jacky’s hand jutted out, smacking dead center into his chest.

“You’re not going to like what you see. I want to find this bastard and stick a needle up his arm. Don’t fail me on this one, Demo.”

Demo listened to Jacky’s words as they passed like echoes through a massive cave. The level of stress in the room was beyond manageable. Each person was sitting on the edge of letting go.

“It’s the witness, isn’t it? The witness and . . .”

Demo’s words stifled Jacky who put an arm over her face, holding back tears. It was then that Bob Cat filled the holes in the only way he knew how.

“They’re blues, Demo. Someone is gutting us from the inside out,” Bob Cat said somberly.

The news wasn’t news at all to Demo. He had come to this conclusion already. In his head a loud snap erupted as two pieces of the puzzle seemed to fit together. The overall emotion of the scene showed the true signs of what ordinary people feared most. That those set apart to protect them were now as vulnerable as they were. Dead cops were always the last thing anyone wanted, especially Jacky. Jacky was charged with caring for them, at least in her mind. Losing a cop under her watch was no less than losing a child for her. This must be devastating.

“I’ll need to be alone,” said Demo, looking at Jacky.

Jacky looked away for a moment, trying desperately to control her emotions.

“It’s already done. Be quick, as the feds will be here soon.”

Demo didn’t hesitate any longer. He stepped from the splotchy light of the warehouse into the double doors of the murder scene. It took a great deal of effort to push them open, but as soon as he did it was obvious why. The air shot past Demo with a blustery whoosh, bringing with it bitter cold. He was walking into a massive freezer. If he had been ill equipped before, he was reeling in regret now. The freezer’s air bit at him like a rabid, ice-toothed dog. He immediately felt his body shiver. He had to keep moving and fast.

He focused on one corner of the room and began scanning while forcing a murderous mindset on himself. He needed to not only formulate the questions, but also come up with the answers. He did this until something made him pause. His stomach churned like an acidic sea in a storm. He dry heaved, letting the sick emotion out in a physical manifestation. He hadn’t been ready for this.

In the middle of the room was the source of his sickening emotion; the scene’s details now etching into his mind like a chisel into stone. Two men sat in prayer-like positions, each frozen solid and obviously dead. Their adoration was directed at yet another man, whose figure was also that of a venerating man, but unlike the others, his hands sat high up in the air. He was frozen stiff, much like the others, except his eyes were missing. More accurately described, they were gouged out, leaving two gaping holes where his visual connection to the world had been removed. But the heinous artistry continued towards his back. Meticulously designed in every wicked detail were angel’s wings, carved from ice with expert-like precision. Demo fought the urge to puke, caught up in its beautiful evil. How could anyone be such a monster? Turning away to pull himself together, he was met by yet another appalling sight. Above the freezer doors were the words,

EYES OF BEAUTY

They were etched into the steel walls of the freezer in detailed strokes. Whoever this was had taken great pride in their work. It sickened him to the core to think of all the time spent in this room with the corpses; a truly desensitized predator playing humanity for sport.

You sick freak.

But it was the freak he needed to understand. Jacky was depending on him to pull something out of the room that no one else could. He needed to pull out the emotion, the purpose—and the killer’s motive. These things went past mere evidence alone. Even though it racked his resolve greatly to do so, the dog and pony show must go on.

He closed his eyes. He had to be quick as at any moment a higher authority equipped with badges would kindly escort him out. He retraced his steps back to the door. He had to find a connection between the two murders. One seemingly chaotic string tied together with the other. But what strings were there? The location was ambiguous to any style of murder. Warehouses were notorious for being excellent stages to play out savage exerts of human cruelty. That’s not what made this unique. It was the style of the murders. There was an obvious connection between the blindfold, the gouged out eyes, and the posture of the victims. What didn’t make sense was why? The first victim was still being identified, but he had willingly driven himself to the heart of the city’s justice system. Or maybe in the victim’s mind the complete opposite of that rang true. Maybe it was the centerpiece for corruption. Maybe to the victim, the whole system was corrupt, and this was his way of telling the world he’d had enough.

A suicide . . .? Perhaps vindication came through a self-fulfilling prophecy invented in the man’s deranged head. If he was going to kill himself, then making every detail of the event perfect would be all-consuming and all he could think about. But then why these men? What was so special about these particular men? Demo shivered from both the cold and the sudden shock that hit him. He took a long, drawn-out breath. He needed to take a closer look. Approaching the frozen, angelic-styled corpse, he looked over every detail of its design. This would have taken hours. The emotional attachment to this man must have been significant. Or was it what the man represented? Demo kneeled next to the man, mimicking his posture. He imagined the killer removing his eyes before finishing the job, imagined him pacing around his soon-to-be notorious work, practically glowing with satisfaction. Demo followed the eye line being produced by the dead man. The killer had wanted him to see those words, even in his death. This was becoming far deeper than anything Demo had ever experienced. He needed more information and space. Taking one last close look at the gaping holes left for eyes, he realized that the body appeared to be completely exsanguinated; he made a mental note. He turned to leave, barely able to feel his arms, when the two doors burst open. Instantly, he found his face plastered against the ice cold floor. His lungs collapsed under a weight pinning him down as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

“I can’t breathe!” Demo screamed what ultimately came out as a whimper.

The small of his back screamed in pain. The force bearing down on it was agonizing.

“Hold still and shut up!” growled a mysterious man’s voice.

Demo felt the cold creeping into his bones. He needed to get out now. Just as he was deciding that maybe he should just give up hope and become another frozen corpse, he heard Jacky’s feisty voice. He had never been so happy to hear her.

“I said he’s with me! You guys can’t come in on my crime scene and start pushing your weight around! There’s a damned protocol for this!” Jacky screamed, shoving her finger into the chest of a black suited man.

The man stood firm. He stared at Jacky without breaking eye contact despite her aggressive nature. He was an older man with a thick head of grey hair neatly combed to one side. His face was a chiseled block of manly features containing deep green eyes that never seemed to blink. It was obvious, without the overtures of badge flashing, that he was now in charge. The Feds had arrived.

“You brought a civilian in on this, Jacky? What on earth were you thinking? What happened to keeping this case professional?”

Jacky paced back and forth before slapping the head of the man who was holding Demo down.

“Get off of him, you idiot! And I was done with our professional facade the second two of my cops went missing and were found dead! No one has come close to catching this guy, and desperate times call for desperate measures! You know I’m not just going to walk on this one, Roslin!”

Roslin stepped back. His eyes scanned Demo on the ground, taking in everything they could.

“Stand down and let the man go. But if I ever see him sniffing around again, I’ll take you down with him, Jacky! This has officially escalated beyond your pay grade.”

Jacky let out a belligerent snort. She wasn’t used to being put on a leash. She’d been the one yanking for so long she’d all but forgotten the feeling. Although Jacky and Roslin’s conversation was vicious, there was a familiar undertone to it that intrigued Demo greatly. They had a history.

“I can’t believe how you people work. You show up after the dust settles and take all the credit. What a pile of political BS.”

Roslin ignored her, rolling smoothly off and away towards Demo who was struggling to get up. He watched without helping as Demo finally got back to his feet, shaking wildly from the cold and all that had transpired. He looked like he had just fallen down a flight of stairs. Roslin’s interrogation iron, however, was red hot and ready to press.

“Demotreus Ward, isn’t it? I’ve heard about you. I’m Agent Tanner, Agent Roslin Tanner. I heard you put on quite the show at crime scenes. You like to mix things up.”

Demo locked eyes with him for the blink of an eye. What his radar received was a man who would do whatever it took to win, no matter the cost. It would be best to stay out of Roslin’s way.

“Can we step outside? I think I have hypothermia.” chattered Demo, starting to look ill.

Roslin motioned for his men to clear a path. Demo spotted the man whom had thrust his knee deep into his back. He did his best to look mean, but looked far more pathetic than he had realized. Once outside, the authority war was in full swing. Agents recanted credentials like actors rehearsing lines, each busting at the seams with suppressed anger for the sudden power grab. Demo could understand their sentiment. He even felt cheated by the abrupt nature of it all, and he no longer carried any credentials apart from some crumpled up dollar bills and a driver’s license. Standing alone, he knew he had been flagged, marked a crime scene pariah whom never could return. This thought agitated him greatly. Murder wasn’t just a protocol, a cut and paste effort; each case was as different as the individuals involved. Demo had to reinvent himself with every detail. But this case was paramount. It had drawn him like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t help but obsess. Roslin’s authority wouldn’t keep him from turning over the stones they certainly would miss.

“Demo, we’re over here!” shouted Jacky, standing with her arms crossed at the entrance of the warehouse.

Demo paced through the warehouse quickly, leaving a dumbfounded Roslin behind. He didn’t need to take his time now. His dry sponge was oozing with all that he had taken in; a million pieces of the puzzle that he needed to start putting together. Demo approached Bob Cat who still looked sick to his stomach.

“That’s one sick freak, Demo. I think we’re way out of our league on this one,” Bob Cat said, staring over Demo’s shoulder at the commotion.

Demo looked at Bob Cat while he spoke.

“Who was the judge going to be? For who I’m assuming is the missing witness there inside.”

Bob Cat looked on, realizing all too well that the question had not been thrown his way. Jacky’s clacking heels froze in place.

“Demo, you better be going somewhere with this. I put my badge on the line every time we play these games.”

Demo turned his head slowly and gave Jacky an empathetic look. He knew what she did for them measured far beyond that of mere status alone. She was part of their twisted family. Demo, Bob Cat, and Jacky had spent years together in less than desirable situations. Their family unit could be described as that of a juicy, rotten peach core. Sweet, aged, and disgusting all at the same time, but a core nonetheless.

“Jacky, do you have a name on this?” probed Demo further.

Jacky spun around, looking away from the vivid crime scene. Her cogs were turning as rapidly as ever. Her alluring perfume passed through the doorway just as another breeze wisped by. The scent somehow seemed to warm the air as it went. Or maybe it was the sinuous flow of body heat that Jacky was emitting, caught up on a rollercoaster ride of emotion.

“Lyle, Lyle Ridding. That’s the judge who was going to take the case. But he’s done hundreds of these so I don’t see why he’d be so special or of interest.”

Demo shook his head.

“There are a lot of things right now that don’t make sense. But I need to check every angle. And if I’m going to track this guy down, I’ve got to start thinking like him. No matter how sick the process is.”

Jacky stood still for just a moment. She looked upon Demo with an almost sisterly endearment for a spark of time. But her stone-faced, killer self-returned, assuring that Jacky Stockholm still had control over herself.

“Fine—do whatever you gotta do—doesn’t really matter to me anymore anyways. Roslin’s taken all my thunder and kept me at arm’s length from any details. I don’t know why I’m acting surprised. It’s just the same song played to a different tune. He hasn’t changed at all. Just promise me you can keep it low key. If Roslin finds out he’ll start throwing the book at anyone who steps inside his coveted investigation.”

Bob Cat smiled. Jacky was bringing him back from the nightmare.

“Demo, you did it again. Even over the head of the blues and Jacky. You were right about this being the blood legacy murders.”

Jacky produced a storm cloud of anger that looked poised to strike Bob Cat down. But Demo saved him by trying to lighten the mood.

“I might have been. The connection hasn’t been made in my mind yet. Until then, I’ve only got what’s in front of me.”

The comment made Bob Cat shake his head in disagreement. He began to say something but then paused, taking from his pocket a stick of his favorite vice. Bob Cat was practically drooling by the time he formulated a response.

“Demo, I love you and all but sometimes you’re a blooming geebag. If the Feds are here then the connection has been made. We’re now a part of a mess that goes back decades,” Bob Cat said as he stuffed yet another stick of gum into his soggy bite.

Demo nodded as if agreeing, but in truth was just trying to placate his distasteful partner.

“Bobby, please ditch the Irish tough guy act. It’s nauseating,” Jacky said, rolling her eyes.

Bob Cat looked at Jacky with a flash of surprise before his all too familiar deviant smile crept across his face.

“You just called me Bobby. I knew you cared a little, but I had no idea.”

Jacky immediately regretted her choice of words, so dispatched Bob Cat from her mind with a few flutters of her eyelashes. She was now fixated on Demo.

“Demo, why do you suddenly care so much about the judge? He’s probably at home lounging in white slippers. He’s had no part in this.”

Demo scratched his wrist nervously at the prospective conclusion he was about to release. He hoped he wasn’t right in his assessment, but if he was they needed to know.

“It isn’t who he is; it’s what he stands for. He was the one who was going to take on the case. The murderer or murderers could still be out there. In their minds he’d be the logical next choice. What’s more poetic than cutting the head off the justice system you’ve learned to hate? I think we need to find him now. If I’m right, he may already be in danger.”

Bob Cat and Jacky looked at each other, confused.

“Do whatever you want. But remember what I said. I’m going to be rather indisposed until Roslin gets his ego filled, so don’t count on me for anything,” Jacky blurted loudly.

“Well, I was hoping you could give me a little nudge while you still can,” suggested Demo timidly.

Jacky could see it coming from a mile away. She responded with clear and succinct sentences.

“Victim had been absent from work for a couple weeks; divorced; and minus some traffic tickets, clean. Oh, and that car you had us call in that was supposedly stolen? It wasn’t. It was his car. He bought it at an auction months ago. And I know I shouldn’t, but it’ll be out soon anyways, Kevin Randall was his name, so, so much for that. Oh—and please do keep in mind that this could all be a murder suicide,” Jacky said proudly.

“Year and model?” Demo continued without missing a beat.

Jacky’s once confident face melted back into confusion.

“I don’t know—I’d have to look it up—but that seems like a complete waste of time. You saw the car, just like I did. Wasn’t that enough? And what is it with you and these pointless details?”

Demo closed his eyes, trying to remember the car more vividly. He opened them slowly as if in a trance.

“The pointless details are what drive this mad man. The deeper I’m getting into this, the more it feels natural to look at something so stupidly obvious that everyone might miss it. These aren’t just murders. These are milestones on our killer’s quest.”

“A quest for what?” asked Bob Cat.

“I don’t know. But there’s a connection here that I’m not seeing; a connection that goes back to decades of bloodshed. I just don’t know what it is.”

Bob Cat looked apt to heave his guts out at the response. There was no mistaking his objection to the matter.

“Demo, we don’t want to be in this. This is too thick—too thick even for you,” Bob Cat, said with concern.

Demo placed a shaky hand on his shoulder.

“It’s too late. In the killer’s mind, we’re already part of this.”

Bob Cat spun away, letting out a grunt and moan of regret. Jacky surprisingly also tried to grab his shoulder but missed, grasping thin air. This gesture surprised Demo. Even Jacky was showing signs of kinship with their family unit. Demo’s face then turned a hundred shades of green. If he could see Jacky as a connection then so could the killer. Even she wasn’t safe anymore.

“Take care of yourselves, alright? I’m going to head out, but you know where to find me for emergencies,” said Jacky, distancing herself.

Demo was stumbling for the right words to say when they just tumbled out.

“Jacky, you’re in danger too. If the killer could find us so easily he has probably already found you too.”

She continued walking without stopping. With her right hand she patted her side affectionately.

“Then let him try. I’ll blow his face off. Besides you two goons I don’t really trust anybody, and you’re still a stretch.”

Bob Cat mumbled out his appreciation of Jacky’s less feminine qualities. Demo was not amused. The killer had taken down two cops, a witness, and a mystery man named Kevin Randall. This wasn’t something he found comical in the slightest. There was no telling who would be targeted next. This case was spiraling out of control. Demo could feel Bob Cat’s emotions beginning to stick in his gears and grind him to a stop. There was something wrong with Bob Cat.

“Demo, I need a couple days away from this. It’s putting a wedge in my life that I just don’t need right now. You understand what I’m trying to say?”

Demo did, but then again, he didn’t. Bob Cat’s timing couldn’t have been worse. And without Bob Cat to muscle and voice his way through obstacles, Demo would be on his own. He wasn’t afraid of the idea of being alone on an investigation; more the idea of failing. It would all be on him. Demo nodded and Bob Cat walked away. Maybe it would be a good time to take a drive and forget things for a while. He wasn’t getting paid to go the extra mile. In fact, he was barely getting paid at all. Why did he keep pushing himself into such small boxes in life? Forgetting it all, letting it go, he turned away from his mind boggling fixation and attempted to be normal.

He hailed a taxi after walking a few blocks alone. He’d more than likely caught a cold already, and could feel his nose leaking like an untightened water hose. But his mind overcame his physical self. As the taxi driver drove up he looked out to see the water on the bay. It was cold and silent; winter must be coming. Looking inside the cab, the taxi driver asked the expected, reaching an arm out as if already requesting payment. Then it hit him; there was a giant piece of evidence missing. As the taxi driver belched out commands at Demo to hurry up and get in, Demo resumed walking. His eyes now truly opened, his mind was ready. Walking down the warehouse row, he arrived to the exact destination he had spotted—a dock—completely underwhelming in every detail. Nothing stood out, no hidden clues, just a plain, old dock like any other. But in Demo’s mind he wasn’t at this dock, per se; he was gallivanting around the city looking for where the killer would have done it. Where had the disappearing act taken place?

Looking up and down the water’s edge, he studied it, looking for just the right spot. It had to be in a place with low visibility. It needed to be a quiet street. The splash needed to be muffled. But it needed to be within walking distance. The warehouse had given out more detail than he had expected. The crime scene had undoubtedly been found by happenstance by a very rare visitor. That would give the killer time; time to do things right, not expecting anyone to find anything. But the witness had been missing for days, not weeks or months. Maybe, just maybe, this one object was a loose end.

Demo turned and ran alongside the river’s edge. The frosty, humid air filled his lungs as he went. The picture seemed clear; he just needed the right evidence to validate it. His pace quickened. The sun was peeking over the horizon when Demo came to an abrupt stop, welcoming its warming rays with a smile. Maybe things were beginning to brighten up after all. Smiling, he put his hand down on the ground. The rugged leftovers of a car’s velocity unleashed met his touch on the pavement, telling the missing part of his story; tire tracks leading to the dock’s edge. The tracks felt freezing cold to his fingers, but in his mind they were blazing hot; hot with the activity of details, motives, and gaps being filled. The freezing, hot trail of the killer, thought Demo, smiling even more. Seditious planning, artistic murdering, and a royal screw up. He closed his eyes. It made sense to him now. The killer was so proud of his accomplishments he had put them front and center to be sure they were seen; so proud that one object had slipped his mind. The killer, like everyone, needed transportation, and this area was perfect for coming and going. But cars had a nasty way of picking things up—damning things that could put someone behind bars for a lifetime—or worse. The killer had been so occupied with his artistry, his perfection, that the mode of transportation had slipped his mind. Demo picked up his phone and dialed the only number that made sense at the time. It rang just once before being answered.

“This is Mars Baloducci. How may I help you?”