MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 7

“A man lay here,” said Erik. “Or an extraordinarily tall woman. He washed his face; those appear to be his whiskers in the sink. The woman’s attire implies that of a prostitute, but there’s no evidence of sexual contact, especially sexual violence. There’s blood on the sheets; the man entered this room after the murder. By why would two men leave while one stays behind to take a nap?”

“But attention to detail is,” concluded Davis.

Erik moved through the rooms, retracing the path Davis Holden had just traversed, mumbling to himself. James looked over his shoulder, pulled out a notepad, and began documenting the necessary information.

“Broken glass under the table – judging by the fall it wasn’t done intentionally. Knocked over by the woman? And the wine, or whatever that is – get a chemical analysis done on that. It’s too sticky, and it doesn’t smell right.

“The bed’s a mess; either he’s a real uneasy sleeper or there was a struggle. But it would appear that he was the only one who slept here, so that–” Erik gestured to the main room “–must have occurred before he came in here.

“Bloody fingerprints on the doorway and floor – he stood here and fell to his knees. Observing his own work – or coming to grips with it?” Erik knelt by the door. “Then he leaves – there’s blood on the door handle. And no other sloppy handprints. There are other fingerprints, sure, but no one else was this messy. Wonder why…”

Davis Holden stared at Erik in startled awe. James watched the detective with mild amusement.

“Yeah,” said James. “He does that.”

* * * * *

Outside, James Mathus and Davis Holden clutched steaming mugs of coffee. Erik Strand stood a few feet away – seemingly oblivious to his surroundings – and stared out across the street, making the remaining Police officers curious and uncomfortable. They bustled around him as he stood, unmoving. The ambulance pulled away, carrying away the corpse. The crime scene was slowly losing fervor. Davis had made his official statement to the press, and had wandered back, eyeing the two Federal Agents suspiciously.

“You mentioned circumstances,” Holden said warily.

“If this is an isolated incident, then Erik and I shake everyone’s hand and go home,” said James. “But we’ll examine the evidence and determine if this is a federal matter.”

“We’ve been contacted by someone locally who we believe has information about the series of homicides,” Erik chimed in.

James rolled his eyes. “Remember what I told you about discretion?”

“The suspect in the earlier cases,” Davis asked carefully. “Was he ever identified?”

“Yes,” James nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Arrested?”

James was silent.

“You have his whereabouts?”

James pursed his lips. “He has been dead nearly ten years.”

“So you believe this is a copycat killer?” Davis cocked his head to one side.

James had no answer.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 6

He felt the man’s eyes on his back as he looked under the bed, pushing the comforter aside with a pen as to not contaminate the scene with his own hair or fingerprints. He paused for a moment longer than necessary before standing, then he rose to his full height and looked the heavy man in the eye.

“Detective Davis Holden?” the man asked. He pulled back his trench coat and revealed his badge, a red and white flag across the blue and goal seal – the standard FBI insignia. Davis shook his head in disbelief.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Davis said. “I guess if you’re here I can just go home.”

“Not so fast, Detective,” said the Agent. “Let’s get introductions out of the way first, then you decide. I’m Special Agent James Mathus, and my guest is Special Agent Erik Strand.”

“Well, I can give you the tour,” said Davis. “Is this still my crime scene, or should I just hand everything over and let you figure it out?”

“We’re not enemies yet, Detective. We’re here strictly to observe,” said James. “For the time being.”

Davis looked over the two men. Agent James Mathus was red-faced and tired, an Agent here out of obligation rather than his own impetus, but the other Agent – Strand – he couldn’t get a read on. Strand was young, but was meticulously observing his surroundings. Holden knew a professional eye when he saw one in action.

James finally broke the silence. “Why don’t you show us around? It’s a nice place you’ve got here.” James chuckled to himself; the detective didn’t appear to appreciate the joke.

“You know almost as much as we do, I’m afraid,” said Davis. “Single homicide – yet unidentified woman – ritualistic or spiritual in nature. No indication of sexual assault. Language of the symbols yet unidentified – looks like Aramaic, but I can’t say for sure. Beyond that, there’s a surprising amount of evidence – fingerprints everywhere, at least three sets. That, with the three decanters, implies a group brought her here.”

“You sound surprised,” James said.

“Usually when someone – or a group of someones – commits murder, they work a little harder to cover up their identity. But as you can see, there’s a lot here, we just have to go through it. So grab a coffee and a bagel, or whatever it is you secret agents do when real Police are working, and we’ll get back to you.” Davis was being unnecessarily rude and he knew it, but his position as lead detective was not one he took lightly. His experience with the Intelligence community was that they expected the unreasonable but offered very little in return.

“I see you’ve worked with us before,” said James with a smile, not wanted to rise to the insult. “But you’re just going to have to trust that we want this crime solved as badly as you. We’re not here because we want to steal your collar. We truly are here to observe, lend our assistance where we can, until circumstances require us to do otherwise.”

“Until circumstances require otherwise,” Davis grumbled.

“Indeed,” said James, matter-of-factly.

“You’re going to have to be a little forthcoming,” Davis said. He had no patience for mind games. “If we are to communicate.”

“Actually, Detective, we really don’t.” said James. He sighed. It was clear Davis was not easily swayed – this could either be a great boon or a hindrance. “We need to determine if there’s a connection between this and similar murders.”

“This has happened before?” asked Davis.

“Yes,” said Erik from the doorway. Davis raised one eyebrow –he had not heard Erik walk in, nor had he yet heard the Agent speak. “Years ago. An incident in New Orleans. A series of incidents, actually. Similar to this.”

James grimaced. “Agent Erik Strand, this is Detective Davis Holden. Discretion is not one of Erik’s strong suits.” Erik looked at him, not comprehending the comment, and then smiled a little too widely and continued to examine the room. He nodded stiffly at Davis, not bothering to greet him.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 5

* * * * *

I I I

* * * * *

The investigation was simple enough, all things considered. The crime scene was horrific, naturally – a woman had been ritualistically murdered – but the perpetrators had not been careful; there were fingerprints abound, hair and saliva in the sink. What was interesting, in particular, was that no care had been put into covering or destroying evidence. Great lengths had been put into the ceremony – that much was obvious, the girl had been cut up and decorated for something very specific – but once the ritual was finished whomever orchestrated this seemed to have packed and left. Little physical evidence from the ceremony itself was left; the murder weapon was missing, for one, but the room was awash with information. It wouldn’t be hard to place someone in that room, with a little investigation.

The maid had discovered the woman the next morning; the Police had arrived, prints were lifted, forensics took photographs, the tiny cogs of the machine known as Justice began to turn. Once the initial shock over the nature of the crime had diminished, the officers-on-duty began to trust the system, and believed amongst themselves that this crime would piece itself together rather easily.

Detective Davis Holden didn’t trust anything that came easily. Forensics was taking boot prints from the ash and melted wax when he arrived. His immediate thoughts were as such: Someone came here with a purpose. This wasn’t a crime of passion; someone was methodical and careful with the murder. The process was far too ceremonial; the woman was part of the process, but not essential to the process – it was possible that the woman was chosen arbitrarily. Someone didn’t care if there was evidence; too much was left behind to be an accident. Even when the perpetrator was caught – and there was little doubt in Detective Holden’s mind that suspects would be arrested – there was more to this murder than immediately met the eye.

He noticed the two men in long coats almost immediately. He had been keeping an eye out the window – the crime scene was on the first floor of the hotel, and the press were having a field day outside the line of yellow police tape – and he saw them approach, flash their identification, and then take their time making their way inside. He saw them speak briefly with the Chief of Police, and was mildly surprised that the Chief did not immediately escort them inside. He saw the Chief gesture, and the larger of the two men shook his head.

They would come inside on their own time; Holden would get his answers then. He continued his examination of the room, making his way slowly through the crime scene, soaking it all in. Holden was a thorough man and a methodical man, or an infuriatingly slow and deliberate man, depending on the perspective. He had made his way to the bedroom – someone slept there, a man by the looks of it – when the two men came in. They were quiet at first, and Davis was content allowing them to play their hand first. His gut told him who they were, but he waited, taking mental notes and directing his officers to examine and photograph what he found.