“Ben! Rowan!” He greeted us again as he drew closer and thrust out his gloved hand. “Sorry I called you guys out in this mess, but I gotta tell ya’, I’m sure glad you’re here.”
“Hello, Carl.” I shook his hand heartily. “Good to see you too, though I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Carl.” Ben followed suit, shaking his hand as we continued walking. “So, whaddaya have here?”
Carl reached up to press his hat back down as a prickly sideways surge of wind sought to rip it from his head. He proceeded to fill us in as we headed briskly for the negligible shelter of the picnic pavilion.
“Near as the coroner can tell from what’s left, it looks like we’re dealin’ with a female. Looks to be about five-six, five-seven and pretty well developed, so we’re most likely talkin’ adult. She was secured with chains and a padlock to what appears might have been a piece of a telephone pole.”
The acrid stink of burnt flesh mingled with the putrid smells of urine, feces, and vomit to form a sickeningly malodorous potpourri. Every step closer to the scene intensified the stench by yet another factor.
“We didn’t get a call on this till a couple’a hours ago,” Carl said, still continuing with his rundown. “But judgin’ from the pile of ashes and the amount of damage to the body, we’re guessin’ she was torched sometime after midnight. Probably real early this morning.”
“I suppose it’d be too much to hope for a witness,” Ben spat the rhetorical comment as we rounded a wide stone pillar and came face to face with the unbridled horror.
Shriveled black patches of skin and cooked flesh were drawn tight over the gnarled skeleton held partially erect in the fire pit. The jaw of the charred skull locked open in a silent, agonized scream, hideously baring blackened teeth where the softer, unsupported flesh had been completely seared away. Surprisingly, more than enough of the torso remained intact to show with relative certainty that the corpse was in fact that of a woman.
“Jeezus…” Ben exclaimed, unable to pry his stare from the disfigured remains.
“Coroner wanted to take her on in,” Carl offered, “but I wanted to wait until you got here.”
Though an autopsy was yet to be performed, I knew that she had been alive when the fire was ignited around her. In my mind, I could see the flames licking up her body, first blistering her skin and then consuming it with an appetite unmatched by a starving animal. The fire enveloped her, searing her nose as she fought not to breathe, only to then be sucked deep into her lungs when she could no longer hold her breath. She wanted to cry out. To scream. But she couldn’t. She had been gagged.
The barrier had eventually burned away, but by then it was too late. I could sense without a doubt that she had been aware of her fate to the very end.
Color and light began to drain from the scene around me in a glittering whirlpool, and I knew I was being pulled into a place I didn’t dare go. Without even trying I was about to channel her last moments on this physical plane. Consciously, I knew that without a solid anchor to pull me back, this was one I could not survive.
Steeling myself against the onslaught of desperate emotions and excruciating unearthly pain, I latched myself onto the nearest thing I could find.
“Rowan!” Ben yelped, finally breaking his stare as I grasped his arm and stumbled forward. He took hold of my shoulders and steadied me before I could plunge face first onto the concrete.
Standing on the opposite side, Carl came to my aid as well. “Hey, Row, are you all right?”
“Thanks…” I muttered to them both as I shakily regained my balance. “Sorry about that.”
“You were goin’ all Twilight Zone, weren’t ya’?” Ben asked. I’m sure that having witnessed similar episodes before he knew the signs all too well.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “But I think I caught it in time.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Carl interjected in his usual fatherly tone.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I hate ta’ ask,” Ben queried in an apologetic tone, “but ya’ didn’t happen to see the asshole who did it when you went… Well, went wherever it is ya’ go when ya’ do that.”
“No. I wish I had.”
The flesh rending pain that had started as a simple itch on my forearm was eating at me with a vengeance. I could feel my eyes watering as I fought to suppress tears.
“Did you find a Bible anywhere on the scene?” I queried Detective Deckert while attempting to ignore the torment.
“No. No Bible.” He shook his head. “But funny you should mention that.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Carl ventured and extended his arm, pointing toward the corpse. “The real reason I called was the symbols.”
My eyes followed his finger down to the stone base of the fire pit. There, skillfully drawn in matte black spray-paint, was the Christian symbol that had become painfully familiar over the past few hours. The Monogram of Christ.
“Fuck me,” Ben muttered.
“Excuse me?” Carl looked at him curiously.
Ben shook his head. “Sorry… Just that we got one just like it carved into a dead call-girl in the city morgue.”
“You found Christ’s Monogram at another murder scene?” Carl asked incredulously.
Ben cocked his head to the side and gave Deckert a sideways look. “You know what it is?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen it before.” Carl nodded. “Not a lot, but I remember it from church when I was a kid.”
“You said symbols,” I interjected the question between stabs of blinding pain. “Plural.”
“Yeah,” Deckert answered with a nod. “The other one is layin’ on the ledge of the fire pit. It’s one of those Pentacle necklaces. That’s kinda why I wanted to get your opinion.”
By now I could take no more. It felt as if someone were driving a white-hot blade mercilessly into my flesh.
“I told ya’ you shoulda had the doc look at that, white man,” Ben chided, noticing my attention to the appendage.
“Somethin’ wrong with your arm?” Carl asked, genuine concern wrinkling his face.
“I don’t know. It started itching when we were at the morgue,” I grimaced against another bolt of pain as I answered. “Now it’s killing me.”
I peeled off the glove and unzipped my coat. The cold no longer mattered at this point. I had to see what could possibly be exacting such pain upon my arm. I knew that I hadn’t injured it, and there had been nothing wrong until Ben had taken me to the morgue. I couldn’t imagine that I had touched something and not noticed doing it. Besides, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt.
Carefully I slid my throbbing arm from the thick coat. It had begun to feel sticky and wet, and upon seeing it the answer became obvious. Blood had soaked through the fabric of my shirt along the forearm and matted it to my skin.
“Shit, man, you’re bleeding!” Ben intoned.
Unbuttoning the cuff and gingerly rolling up the sleeve, I revealed the source of the crimson flow. My flesh was bruised purple and black, looking for all the world as if I had been beaten. Off-centered, in the mass of dark contusions, blood oozed freely. Carved deeply into my skin was a circle, decorated with hash marks along the side arcs and encompassing a large letter X that was bisected by a large letter P.
Carl Deckert was the first to break the silence as he softly muttered under his breath, “Holy Jesus, Mary Mother of God.”
Even with the intense pain radiating up my arm, I still felt that Ben’s reaction was overkill. Despite my reservations, I had been instantly hustled into a county police cruiser and taken to the nearest emergency room. Inescapable, as well, were the full benefits of a warbling siren and rapidly flickering light bar. When all was said and done, the trip to and from the local medical center had taken less time than the treatment itself. Of course, as if I didn’t have enough to think about, the lengthiest portion of my stay in the E.R. was the period spent trying to convince the doctor of two basic things. One, that, no, I did not purposely carve the design into my own arm. And two, no, I did not need a psychological consultation because, I repeat, I did not purposely carve the design into my own arm. Since I knew they wouldn’t believe the truth, and I had been unable to concoct a convincing lie, I was unable to give them a reasonable explanation for the injury. In the interest of time, and my own sanity, I was finally forced to assure them that I would seek help for what they had deemed to be an “unhealthy proclivity toward self-mutilation.”