Mark of the Demon (13 page)

The park was large, but it wasn’t hard to figure out where to go. About half a dozen police vehicles were clustered on the end farthest from the lake, near the baseball fields. I parked my little Taurus in the first free spot I could find, did a quick makeup check-and-fix in the rearview mirror, then grabbed my notebook and exited my car. I scanned the area quickly, subtly relieved that I didn’t see any sign of Kristoff. At least I’d fallen asleep sitting up, so I wasn’t too wrinkled. I really needed to keep a change of clothes in my office, or at least in my car. I
felt
like I’d slept in my clothes, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I smelled like it too.

I could see Pellini and Boudreaux leaning up against one of the unmarked vehicles. They didn’t look very pleased at being up at this hour, nor did they seem eager to provide their help. Not that I gave a fuck about their help, but I did enjoy a bit of perverse pleasure that they’d been dragged out of bed. Pellini puffed on a cigarette, face drawn in a scowl as he took note of my presence, while Boudreaux remained deeply engrossed in the sports section of the newspaper. I quickly ceased to worry about my appearance. Pellini had quit battling the fat on his midsection many years ago, which meant that his gut had reached the point where it flopped over the top of his belt. He was sporting a Beaulac PD T-shirt that was so worn it looked more like
e ulac P
, and to add to the insult to onlookers, anytime he lifted his cigarette to his mouth the shirt rode up enough to display a couple of inches of pale and hairy stomach fat. Boudreaux didn’t have a weight problem, but his shirt was so wrinkled I suspected it had been balled up at the bottom of his laundry basket for weeks. And I didn’t want to know whether it was the “clean” or the “dirty” basket.

I knew they’d seen me, but neither felt it necessary to acknowledge my presence with any form of greeting.
No help from that quarter. Fine with me
. As least I knew it going in so that I wouldn’t have to worry about being disappointed by them.

There was enough of a chill in the air that I was regretting leaving my jacket in my office. The sun was well above the horizon, but the western sky still stubbornly held on to the dark-purple hues of dawn. Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered sluggishly in the morning breeze, blocking off the entrance to one of the baseball fields. I walked up to the tape, dew scattering off the grass and soaking my shoes.

The officer manning the crime-s cene log was one of my old teammates from when I’d been on the road. Scott Glassman was a self-described “good ol’ boy” from the sticks, with a bit of pudge beginning to show in his midsection and with no desire to ever move over to the detective bureau. Scott was more than content to remain a street cop for the rest of his life. And I had to privately agree that the street was the best place for him. He had a good manner with people, knew
everyone
, and would go quietly nuts if he had to endure the slower pace and the paperwork required in the bureau. He kept his uniform pressed, his head shaved, and his nose clean. I fully expected him to eventually retire with thirty years of service, still a street cop.

Scott sketched a wave to me as I approached. “Another victim for ya, darlin’. Doesn’t look good.” Then he frowned, brows drawing together in concern. “And neither do you. Whatcha been up to?”

“I’ve had a couple of rough nights,” I said as I signed the scene log. “Not much sleep.”

He laughed. “You? You lead such a normal, boring life. What, didja finally drag a man home?”

I blinked at him in brief shock as I wondered how he could possibly
know
, then realized that he was just teasing me. But it was too late. Scott began to laugh even harder. “Oh, my God! You did!”

“I did not!” I struggled to control the guilty-as-charged expression on my face. “C’mon, Scott. You know me. I have No Life. Where’s this body?”

Scott sobered. “Looks like your guy struck again. Same signs of torture, same marks, same symbol. Crime Scene’s just finishing their pics now.” He gestured toward a figure on the ground just past the pitcher’s mound. I could see Jill crouching near the body, snapping pictures.

“Who found the body?” I asked, eyes on Jill and the latest victim.

“Some guy out walking his dog. A preacher.”

Jill stood and walked over to us, giving a shudder as she approached. “Ugh. I’m really disliking this Symbol Man,” she said, rubbing her arms. “That was seriously nasty.” Then she gave me a smile. “Heya, darlin’. Nice way to wake up, eh?”

“Heya, chick. That’s why I love this job. I don’t need to waste money on alarm clocks.”

Jill laughed, then peered into my face. “You look … different. Are you okay?”

I shrugged with a casualness I didn’t feel. “I’ve been busy. Not much sleep. Working, you know.”

Jill shook her head. “No, that’s not it. You look different. I can’t explain it.” She gave a wicked grin, blue eyes flashing. “Did you finally get laid?”

“Oh, come
on
! Why is everyone saying I look like I got laid?” I glowered at Jill and Scott.

Jill smiled and shrugged. “Dunno, darlin’. Maybe it’s the ‘freshly fucked’ hair thing you have going on.”

I laughed and shoved my hand through my hair in a futile attempt to make it lie flat. “No, that’s called falling-asleep-at-desk.”

She set her hands on her hips and glared at me. “You are so incredibly pathetic. Would it kill you to ease up on the work and go out and have fun?”

“Why, yes, I
am
pathetic,” I said, with a grin that I didn’t quite feel.
Yeah, I’m pathetic enough to have a one-night stand with a demon. Pathetic and desperate. I’m even having weird-ass dreams about him at my desk
. “And I can’t exactly slack off on work when it’s my first crack at a homicide investigation,” I reminded her.

“Okay. I’ll let you slide for now.” Then she leveled a sharp look at me. “But as soon as this case is wrapped up, I am going to drag your pathetic ass out drinking.”

A warm flush filled me, as if I’d downed a slug of hot brandy on a cold day. “Deal,” I said, smiling. “Now show me what we have.”

Jill made a face and headed back toward the body. I followed, mentally bracing myself for what I would see.

I had seen bodies. Natural deaths, suicides, homicides, motor-vehicle accidents. Enough years in police work and you get to see more than your share of death. No matter how many times I’d seen the horror of what one human could do to another, I was always shocked at the result. But this was worse than anything I’d ever seen. Even worse than the woman from three nights ago.
Victim number two, or maybe number fifteen—however you want to count it. And the killer’s already stepping it up
. Usually it was months between bodies being found. Now it was days.

It was a male victim this time, with a stick-thin frame that spoke of some sort of drug addiction, perhaps in his twenties though it was difficult to be sure. He had dark greasy hair and a scraggly beard and mustache that looked like they hadn’t been trimmed in months, and for a bizarre instant I thought that he was my intruder from the other night, until I remembered that he’d had stubble, not a full beard.

But the pattern of injuries drew my attention quickly. The Symbol Man had changed his technique from the previous victim. Instead of perfect and precise lines carved into the flesh by blade, this victim had been
burned
in the same sort of pattern. All I could think was that the killer had merely turned the blade over and heated it, using the thin edge to lay hundreds of agonizing brands up and down the victim’s body.
A thousand times more painful
, I thought. There were even perfect patternings of burns seared onto his genitals. I’d seen similar signs of this sort of ritual torture in the pictures of previous victims, but it was far different to see for myself.

I shivered at the mere thought of how agonizing it had to be for this victim.
It’s a wonder he didn’t die of shock. And how long did all this take? How long was he tormented before being finished off?
And a disturbing realization:
The Symbol Man had this guy and the other girl at the same time. He just finished with her sooner
.

Now that I knew to look for it, I could see that this man had the same deep cuts at his elbows and ankles as the other victim, and the symbol was there as well, burned perfectly into the skin just above his pubic area. A pattern that was oddly beautiful and at the same time disturbing, the symbol was an intricate writhing of circular forms that hinted of teeth and claws, twisting in on itself and defying identification. It looked vaguely Celtic but with shades of Egyptian or perhaps Oriental flavor. My frustration coiled more tightly. Damn, but I wished I knew what that was! This same symbol was on every victim, though not always in the same place. I just
knew
it was something arcane. I’d shown pictures to Aunt Tessa and had spent countless days poring through every book and scroll in my aunt’s library, but while Tessa agreed with my conviction that the symbol was arcane, nowhere could we find what it meant or to what it could possibly refer.

I took note of the deep ligature marks on his throat, red and purple flesh squeezing up between the deep grooves, as well as the petechial hemorrhaging that indicated strangulation, just like on the other body. And this victim had the arcane smudges too. I frowned and crouched. The body flickered with sigils barely visible to my othersight. Just traces, like smeared fingerprints, but they would be there only if the murderer was using the deaths as some part of a ritual.

It
had
to be a summoning. Everything fit, especially the way the timing of the three-year break fit with the convergence of the spheres. But why use blood magic and death magic for a summoning, unless it was for a demon who couldn’t be bargained with? One with whom agreeable terms could not be set? But what demon could be worth all of this trouble and mayhem? None of it made any sense to me.

I clenched my jaw in frustration. If I could just figure out some way for my aunt to see these smudges, surely we’d be able to decipher them—or at least more so than I was able to do on my own. Unfortunately, there wasn’t even enough left of the arcane traces and sigils to sketch. I scrubbed my hand over my face and sighed. I really needed my aunt to actually look at the body.

Too bad I had no idea how to manage that. I was vaguely aware of Jill shifting behind me, but I continued to focus on the traces and smudges, gathering as much impression from them as I could. They were fading even as I studied them. Beyond frustrating.

I finally stood, knees creaking after being forced into a crouch for so long. “All right, I guess we can call the coroner.” I turned and walked back the way I’d come in. “I assume the rest of the area has been swept?”

“Nothing,” Jill replied. “I mean, the usual cigarette butts and trash, but nothing else. It’s a ball field, so there are a ton of footprints all over. But no tire tracks or drag marks on the field itself.”

I looked around at the field and its placement in reference to the road and driveways. “It would have been pretty easy to carry the body over here. He doesn’t look like he weighs all that much.”

“Yeah. Skinny little fuck,” she agreed. “Probably a homeless crackhead.”

“Maybe this one will actually have a criminal record, so we stand a chance of identifying him.”

“I’ll take prints when the coroner gets here and run them as soon as I get back to the office.”

I smiled, grateful. “You rock.”

Jill laughed. “Yes, I do.”

A whistle caught my attention, and I looked up to see my captain standing on the other side of the crime-scene tape, motioning me over. Jill made a rude noise beside me.

“God forbid he should actually enter a crime scene,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

I suppressed a groan. I respected his reasons for not entering scenes. I really did. But, unfortunately, Captain Turnham still wanted to know what was going on beyond the tape, and he had developed a rather aggravating habit of whistling to his detectives and motioning them over every few minutes so he could find out what they’d come up with.

Not even six in the morning and he was already showered, shaved, and dressed in clothes that held more starch than I had ever worn in my entire life. “Morning, Gillian,” he said when I reached him. “What do you have?”

“Morning, Captain. It fits the pattern of all the others. Shitload of torture—burned in a zillion little lines.” I shuddered. “It’d look really cool if it wasn’t so nasty.”

“Symbol on the body?”

“Right above the pubic bone. And cause of death is probably going to be ligature strangulation.”

He nodded, face impassive. “I pulled Boudreaux and Pellini from their other cases for the day to canvass for witnesses, but I’m working on getting you some permanent help.”

“I met Agent Kristoff yesterday during the autopsy on the other victim.” Some sourness must have crept into my tone, because my captain gave a dry laugh.

“He didn’t light your fire?”

“He barely spoke to me.”

“You know how some of those Feds are. He isn’t even officially assigned yet. He called me after the body was found at the wastewater plant and asked for the file.”

“Well, that’s strange,” I said, frowning. Hadn’t Kristoff said that he’d been assigned to a task force?

The captain gave a half shrug. “Actually, not really. He’s on another task force that focuses on ritual murders and cult things. He’s probably evaluating the case to see if it falls under their sort of thing.”

“Oh, jeez.” I groaned. “Is he the kind who’s going to insist that it’s satanic rituals?”

Captain Turnham’s mouth twitched slightly. “I’m well aware of how you feel about that.”

“Sorry, Captain, it’s just that it gets a little old having the ‘satanic’ label slapped onto everything—especially when the people don’t have a fucking clue about satanism. It’s almost as bad as when they start screaming about witchcraft.”

He lifted an eyebrow at me. “Your aunt’s been ranting again?”

“Yeesh, you should hear her whenever she gets wind of that sort of thing. She’s considered an expert on the occult and paranormal, you know.”