He spread the arms along the woven thread backdrop and tied each wrist to a tree to resemble the wings of the moth. The face was chalked in black and white to portray the skull on the moth’s thorax. Every detail is precise to the previous Harbinger crime scenes.
The only anomaly is the antlers affixed to the victim’s head. Unlike Landry, where the antlers were strapped via a leather band, the victim has implants. An extreme measure taken by the offender to modify his higher men into his construct of the Dionysian Mysteries.
This is our first glimpse into what the missing victims have been subjected to for the past five years.
The Harbinger killer removed the antlers from the victim, but not by carving them out of the flesh; he sawed the horns off at the base of the bone.
This particular detail has been what’s kept me here, questioning the intent. Removing the antlers completely would be more authentic to the Harbinger’s desire to depict the moth.
Was it his intent to desecrate the Overman’s higher men? Or was it done purposely to reveal something about the Overman suspect?
The antlers have not been recovered.
While walking in the footsteps of the killer, timing each action he had to take, the blinking light of a firefly catches my notice. “What are you doing out so late,” I whisper to the insect. “Or this early, rather.”
I watch the nocturnal insect bob around one of the barren trees. My gaze drifts down and, as a detail comes into focus, my breath stills.
My mud boots make a squelching sound as I maneuver toward the spotlight and angle the beam on the wrist of the victim. The thread has been wrapped around his wrist several times. But there in the plied twine is a long fiber.
I retrieve a pair of tweezers and pluck the coarse string from the thread. Before I bag it, I use my phone to take pictures. After I’ve labeled the evidence sleeve, I hand it off to one of the task force agents overseeing the crime scene.
It could be nothing more than factory transfer on the skein of yarn. I’m sure just about every ball of yarn out there has different fibers and string from other skeins spooled in the same warehouse.
As my thoughts meander down that path, my wrist flares with an itch, and I circle my fingers around the rope burn. As if on cue to save me from my spiraling thoughts, I spot Devyn making her way up the boardwalk. She’s carrying a cardboard container with two coffee cups.
I remove my gloves and stuff them into my pocket, then hoist myself onto the edge of the weathered planks. I extend a hand to accept a coffee, and she raises the carton out of reach.
“No, ma’am,” she says. “This is not for you. You are cut off from caffeine.”
She’s dressed in black tactical pants and a matching rain jacket with the HRPD logo embroidered on the left breast. Her dark hair is pushed out of the way with a thick headband.
I feign insult with a scowl. “How am I supposed to function without mocha-flavored caffeine?”
“Halen, I know you didn’t leave.” She arches a sculpted eyebrow against her pretty, warm-brown complexion. “You’ve been on this scene for…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I lost count. But I know it’s now been too damn long. You’re leaving to get some sleep.”
“I just need to do one more thing—”
“No. You need rest. Have you even slept once since the attack at the ritual crime scene?”
No rest for the wicked.
The thought comes to me unbidden. I don’t even know who first said it, and I realize Kallum would know. He’d have a whole lecture on the etymology behind it and how the saying altered over the years. He’d somehow layer a veiled sexual innuendo in his lesson, ending on a wink that would make my heart flutter.
And dammit, I despise the part of me that aches with a homesick pang at the thought.
I do need sleep.
At Devyn’s concerned expression, I sigh. “Fine. I’ll head to the hotel for a few hours.”
“Good. Because if your overtired ass touches this scene again, I’m writing you up,” she threatens, eyeing the marsh crime scene lit up by spotlights.
My brows knit together, my smile tight. “Do you have the authority to do that? What exactly is a write-up for a consultant?”
She makes a point of taking a long sip of coffee to ignore my question. Then she uses the steps placed at the side of the boardwalk to enter the scene. “Medical examiner is removing the victim soon anyway, before the storm hits.”
I nod slowly as I breathe in the earthy scent of pending rain.
After Devyn sets her coffees on a table, she grabs her crime-scene kit and begins laying out her impression tools, lining up her brushes in order by size. Then she removes a binder from her pack and hands it to me.
“Look it over and sign,” she says. “I was able to sweet talk Iris into letting you keep your room at the inn. Expenses covered by the HRPD for the next week. Considering all the rooms are now rented out to media parasites, it’s the best offer the department could make.”
“No, this is perfect. Thank you.” I accept the binder and briefly flip through the consulting contract. I would have agreed to work the case for free. But, seeing as how that might come across as a bit obsessive and raise some red flags, I decided it was time to officially go solo.
“I’ll get this back to you soon,” I tell her. “Who do I answer to, by the way?”
Her features draw together. “Well, Detective Emmons has taken a leave of absence.”
“Understandable.” The decapitated victim erected in the center of the crime scene was identified as his younger brother. The one who went missing with the other thirty-two disappeared residents over five years ago, whose dismembered organs and body parts have been appearing in ritualistic crime scenes all over the killing fields.
“So,” Devyn says, resigned, “Detective Riddick is his second in command, and has taken charge of the case until further notice.”
My gaze narrows on her. “You said that so formally.”
Her laugh is clipped. “Yeah, well. You’ll understand when you meet him. The man has absolutely no sense of humor, let’s just say that.”
“Oh, that sounds like a match made in law enforcement heaven for Agent Alister.”
“At least you still have a sense of humor,” she says with a smirk. “Dark though it may be.”
I slip the binder under my arm and drop down from the boardwalk. “See. I’m fine. I really should finish cataloging the removal of the antlers from the victim’s head before the medical examiner arrives.”
“God, you said that way too casually. It’s getting harder to stomach this case. And no,” she says, a hard reprimand. “Go to the inn. Get rested up. I promise, if anything important happens, I will call you, Halen.”
I hesitate only a moment before nodding my agreement. Technically, the Hollow’s Row Police Department now signs my checks, even though I haven’t stopped long enough to negotiate my own pay-rate as an independent consultant.
When I was fired from CrimeTech, I had no further purpose here. Then the news broke of the newest victim of the Harbinger killer being discovered right here in this town.
That changed everything.
Before Devyn heads deeper into the scene, I ask her, “Is there any update on what I gave you?”
As Devyn is a forensic analyst and the closest thing I have to an ally here—and a friend—I entrusted her with the evidence from Kallum’s ritual. The wine bottle. The crown of bone. The robe I was wearing. A self-administered SAEK (sexual assault evidence kit).
The last one I hesitated on. No, Kallum didn’t force himself on me. I was a willing participant. And according to the tox screen run at the hospital, no drugs were found in my system. I wasn’t drugged. But, as I can’t yet logically explain what happened to me during the ritual, I have to question and test everything.
