Prey In The Dark
Chapter the 2nd: What goes around…
The pictures were strewn haphazardly across the ancient metal desk. Someone in the building probably remembered what the original color of the paint had been, but no one could think of who that might be. Moonlight struggled through the dirt and grime encrusting the narrow windows set high in the wall, a pale and wan glow in the dark room. Erin pushed back the errant strand of hair that insisted on escaping her severe bun and rubbed her tired eyes. Harsh white light from the gooseneck lamp on the far corner of the desk glared back at her from the glossy surfaces of the pictures. Black and white newspaper file photos mixed with fuzzy, color Polaroids and the occasional professional-grade picture. She slowly shuffled them around on the desktop like a gypsy fortune-teller, not really looking at them, almost feeling her way to some kind of pattern amidst the scattered images. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the long-fingered hand extend from the shadows to land heavily across her shoulder.
She managed not to scream, but the photographs flew wildly over the top of the desk, some whipping out of the circle of light and disappearing in the darkness as she reached for a gun that wasn’t there.
“Erin, go home already.”
“For the love of God, Terry Paul! Don’t DO that!” She reached up irritably and slapped his hand away.
“Partner mine, you aren’t going to find anything in the next hour you haven’t found in the previous six” her partner said, bending over to pick up some of the scattered pictures. “Not that you’re likely to get much sleep after staring at this lot. “You have a helluva taste in bedtime stories” he said, fanning several of them and grimacing slightly at the mutilated bodies mixed with wildlife photography of wolf kills and close-ups of different breeds of wolves. “You have a phobia about technology or what? The digital archives are a hell of a lot easier to search and organize.”
“I’m just old-fashioned that way” she said scooping the pictures into a small pile and sorting them by size.
“I’ll say. I don’t think I’ve ever been down here. I don’t think anyone has been down here since maybe Tommy Edison.”
“Smartass” she replied without heat. “Sometimes the old ways are best.”
“Some time after the industrial revolution would be nice.”
“You ever see a wolf up close Terry?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Most people think of them like big dogs that can run really fast. They don’t have anything for comparison.” She pulled out three pictures and laid them side by side on the pitted surface of the desk. One showed the carcass of some large, antlered animal. Bones gleamed whitely amidst the bloody remains and tatters of fur. In another two wolves flanked an elk while a third lunged at its hind leg, teeth bared and inches away from its target. The third was of three wolves curled up together, white snow falling thickly around them, startlingly yellow eyes sparkling in their grey faces. “But after you’ve locked eyes with one you’ll never, ever, think of them as a dog again. Not if you have any sense.”
“You’re the expert” Terry said quietly, gathering up the last of the lost photographs to add to Erin’s stack.
“A dog can be trained to attack but, unless it has gone feral, a dog still sees humans as dominant. When a wolf looks in your eyes, well, nobody told them that you’re supposed to be the top of the food chain.”
“Erin, seriously, you need to get some rest. Get away from this. Come back tomorrow and we’ll look together to see what we find.”
“No need, my dear Watson. I already found what I was looking for.”
“ What? Why didn’t you say so in the first place!”
“I was sure before I came down here,” she continued, ignoring his glare, “but you know what it’s like changing Friendly Phil’s mind.”
“That’s no way to talk about our beloved boss.”
A very unladylike snort threatened the stability of the stacks of pictures. “He’s very enamored of his theory of wolves trained by someone to destroy the evidence of their crimes. It’s mysterious, lurid and virtually guarantees plenty of TV interviews and newspaper coverage. It also completely ignores reality.”
“It is an election year.”
“So cynical, so young. You’re not supposed to steal my lines like that.”
“I do what I can. For crying out loud, Erin, get to the damn point!”
Erin picked up the several of the photos from the top of the stack and riffled quickly through them, tossing one down to land next to the three shining in the lamp’s light.
“There” she said, pointing to the picture of a nude female, the torso gashed open and grey intestines spilled out. Like a macabre Venus di Milo, the arms had been ripped off at the shoulders, the legs folded and bloody but still attached. The face was fixed in a terror-filled rictus; eyes wide open, mouth stretched in a pain-filled, unending, scream.
“The first victim. Denise Trent” he said, voice carefully without inflection. “So?”
“And in each of these” she said, two more pictures falling on the desk.
“Deirdre McCall and Fiona Sharell. I say again, so?”
“The legs, city boy. Wolves hamstring their prey. They attack from behind and bring down fleeing prey by cutting their legs out from under them. They go for the soft underbelly. None of these girls was pulled apart by wolves. Not trained, untrained, or possessed by evil spirits!” She pulled her bag out from between the bent metal legs of her chair and pulled out a manila folder, splaying it open and stabbing her fingernail at the autopsy report.
“Look at the measurements and the probable sequence. No animal has jaws like that. No wolf would leave the throat untouched.”
“Thanks for sharing those reports, partner. Jeezus Erin, how the hell am I supposed to back you up?”
“None of the girls was raped” she continued in a monotone, ignoring his outraged protest, “and there’s no indication that they had anything worth stealing. A diamond ring, a pearl necklace, two gold watches and assorted jewelry were all left at the scene of the attacks.”
“So whatinhell is the motive? Why rip those girls apart?”
“Whoever did this, and I think there are more than one of them, did it for the oldest reason in the world.”
“But the girls weren’t sexually molested, they weren’t rich and there’s no evidence of a jilted lover.”
“No, this wasn’t done for sex or money or revenge”.
“A serial killer, then. A sociopath or psychotic.”
“Serial killers almost always work alone. They always have a logical, to them anyway, rationale for their actions. They’re anything but random. Sociopaths don’t work in groups. They would see each other as victims just as easily as they do everyone else.” She drew in a deep breath of the musty air and let it out slowly. “No, it isn’t any of that.” Her voice trailed off and stopped. Terry waited, but she didn’t continue. Finally, he started to repeat the question just as she sighed and stood up.
“They just want to.” She seemed to sag slightly but then straightened up with urgency in her voice. “They got away with it and now they think they’ve got the perfect scheme. They like making everyone look like fools.” She pushed the pictures over to one side and put the autopsy reports back inside her bag. “Just because they want to” she repeated, reaching for the lamp.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m tired.”
Author: D. D. Wolf | Category: D. D. Wolf, Horror, Mystery | Comments(0) October 2010