Sam'ika

I'm producing (I think producing is the right word for it) an Actual Play Podcast!
Vampire the Masquerade! Mothership! Other stuff!
Anyway, give our trailer a listen and see if we might be your jam!
Episode one is launching soon!

Aside from normal, in a document type notes, I also take game notes by scrawling all over the map in blood.
Original image was 6000 pixels wide, but had to tank the resolution to post (even with cohost plus!)
But! I hope y'all can zoom in enough to read

This is Chapter 3
Read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 here.

The following months saw no progress on the case. Jules assured me that she would’ve updated me if there was anything to be updated on. Between the lack of updates, and the therapy, I had largely processed the events of the murder I had stumbled upon. The nightmares had started getting more and more spread out. The last one had been three and half weeks ago. And I was back to work. Finally. Tess had insisted that I take enough time off to properly make use of the therapy, but she had realized I was getting antsy without something to do. And no divorce cases. That I couldn’t handle just yet. But there was enough white collar bullshit to keep me busy. Investigating potential corporate espionage. That kind of thing. This particular case was running late. It was dark when I drove home, and took the stairs to my floor. I shifted my bag, and flipped the corner of my jacket back. I dug my keys from my pocket. I singled out the apartment key by feel. Second one back, opposite the fob. My stomach growled, and I thought of spaghetti night. Tess would already have everything laid out, and we’d cook it together. Thoughts of pasta fled as my key hit the lock, and the door pushed open. Dead bolt still extended, but the frame around it shattered. I dropped my bag, and drew my gun. A monstrous thing. One that Tess had teased me over for years. Asked me what I was compensating for, as she gave me that look she did with the crooked grin.

“Tess?” I called out into the dark apartment. I flicked the light switch with my free hand. Nothing. Muffled sounds came from the dining room. I pulled my flashlight from my jacket pocket, and clicked it on, stepping into my home. What the fuck. A stranger stood over my wife. One hand around her throat, one hand raised to strike. One clawed hand. The fuck? Both looked at me.

“Jane…help.” My wife said, struggling for breath.

The stranger tossed her aside like she weighed nothing. I pulled the trigger. The roar of the .45-70 cartridge likely woke the whole building. The stranger was fast, and the bullet passed by their head. They were on me in a step. The revolver was a great show of force, but was less useful in extreme close quarters. Whatever. One shot was enough for even the toughest person. I pulled the trigger again as their hand closed around my throat. I felt them jerk at the impact, but their grip didn’t loosen. I pulled the trigger a third time as their mouth wrapped around my neck, and I felt the blood leaving my body. I fell. I didn’t feel the floor as I crashed against it. All I felt was cold. I should be feeling pain, right? Why wasn’t I hurting? Something parted my lips, and I tasted iron and copper.

—*—

The detective stood. She was hungry. Ravenously so. Habit drew a stumbling step towards the kitchen from her. But no. That wasn’t what she craved. Rhythmic pounding throbbed in her mind. Her vision blurred red. She sniffed the air. She smelled something— someone familiar. But it was a fleeting familiarity. Perfume worn by a past lover. Her gaze snapped to the figure on the floor before her. She heard cackling laughter from behind. But the hunger, she was too hungry to care about the sound behind. The figure before her scrambled back and the detective took an unsteady step forward. The figure made noise. Words. A name. Pleading. But the hunger throbbed, pushing thoughts aside. Nothing made sense. There was only the hunger. Warmth. Wet. Screams. Silence.

—*—

I woke to the sound of sirens. I placed a hand on the floor to push myself to my feet, but my hand hit blood before it hit carpet. My head pounded. Worse than any hangover I’ve ever experienced. My line of work was sometimes dangerous, and I’ve been hit in the head before. But this? Hoo boy. When I found that stranger— FUCK. The stranger.

“TESS?” I called into the darkness, mouth feeling like it was full of cotton, worse than the morning after a night of heavy drinking, “TESS? Are you—” My bloody hand flew to my mouth as I stifled a cry, “no…oh fuck, no.” Tess was, well, the shape she was in explained the amount of blood on the—everything. Instinctively I reached a hand out to check for a pulse. My hand stopped half way when my brain caught up to the fact that she had no neck left to get a pulse from.

“Tess, oh fuck. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been— I could have— shit. I could’ve done anything. I should’ve stopped that guy. I tried, Tess. I tried.”

The sirens drew closer. I steeled my nerves. There was time for grieving later. I took in my surroundings. Whatever that fuck had done to Tess, he had made a mess of the apartment. I looked down at my own blood soaked clothes. And done a bang up job on their way out to make it look like I did it. I grabbed my revolver off the ground, and holstered it. The cops wouldn’t give me a chance to explain, and no way I’d be able to track down the sick fuck myself from a cell. I wrapped my hand in a plastic bag, and stuffed a handful of clean clothes into the bag I had left by the door, and pulled my go-bag from the closet. I was hardly a prepper, but it never hurt to be cautious. Cops would be coming up the main stairs. I turned right out the door towards the back stairs. Worked out well. The stairs exited on the first floor by the manager’s office. I had to be quick. The cops here were dumb as fuck, but even they could follow the trail of blood I left behind. I tried the handle. Locked. Private Investigator was an above board profession. But the boots on the ground reality was that people like me skirted the law when it suited. The lockpicks from the outside pocket of my bag opened the door easily. That was the hard part. The property owner had given me a deal on rent to set up CCTV on the building. I jiggled the mouse waking up the manager’s computer. I clicked the “add new user” profile I had made when I set up the system, and put in my password. I plugged in a thumb drive, and copied the last six hours of footage. I listened at the door. Silence. Still. I pulled my thumb drive, and logged off. Donning my hat against the downpour, I stepped out the maintenance exit and into the night.

—*—

I walked with no particular destination in mind. There would be an APB out for me by now. I needed shelter. Somewhere to recoup. Plan. My wandering brought me near the river. Well hey now. Tall silhouettes pierced the darkness. The silos. I couldn’t stay there long. Abandoned as they are, they were an urbex dream. But the tunnels below would keep me out of the rain. My flashlight revealed a padlocked trap door. A length of steel was enough to pry open the lock. Seemed dry enough. I carefully made my way down the ladder, closing the trap door behind me. I had no sleeping bag, so I simply sat with my back against a wall, and pulled my jacket tight around me. Having stopped moving, my brain finally had time to catch up with the rest of me and the death, murder, of my wife slammed into my heart like a truck. I choked back a sob. It didn’t feel real. How could she be gone? Another sob wracked my body, and I tried to choke this one back as well, but there was no containing my grief. I wailed into the night, consumed by a sadness more profound than I had ever felt in my life. A sadness coloured by hate and rage. I would find the man who killed my wife. What I’d do to him when I found him? Well. Far as I was concerned, I was already wanted for murder. Might as well make the charge worthwhile.

—*—

The nightmares were the worst they had ever been. A motel sat in a field of black. I had no control over myself. I was drawn to the stairs leading to the second floor. I tried to turn away, but the pull was inexorable. I resisted. Or tried. My hand was drawn to the handle. I tried to scream, but no sound passed my lips. The motel room had more blood than it did when I visited in reality. The walls were practically made of it. It was no longer Mrs. Renfrue tied to the bed, and eviscerated. It was Tess. And she was awake, despite the gaping, empty chest cavity. She looked into, through my eyes. Into my soul.

“You killed me,” she said, her voice coming from seemingly everywhere.

“No.” I told the body of my wife, “I didn’t— I couldn’t— I’d never—”

The rope binding Tess’ hand snapped. Her arm raised, and she pointed an accusatory finger at me, “Murderer.”

The single word cut as deep as any knife. Deeper. A wound on my psyche. “I—” Words failed me. Finally, whatever compulsion had pulled me into the room dropped. I fell to my knees. “I’m sorry,” was all I could muster. The words fell flat. Nothing I could say would atone for what I had done. Tess stood. Her chest cavity spilled blood over my hands.

“Murderer,” she repeated. “Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.”

The chant continued. She continued to bleed. The room slowly filled. On my hands and knees as I was, I was soon up to my elbows in thick red viscera. I sobbed under the weight of her accusations. Unable to stand. The blood passed my shoulders.

“Murderer,” my wife’s chant continued, drowned out and made faint by the blood smothering my ears.

While the sound was drowned, I was not. Death was the easy way out, and I was afforded no such mercy.

—*—

I woke for the second time covered in blood. Though this time it faded along with the nightmare. I checked my watch. The fuck? It was almost 20:00? I had broken into the silos around 03:00. Had I slept for seventeen fucking hours? I wiped the tears from my eyes. My therapist would hate me for it, but there was time for grief later. Bottle everything up for now. Get my shit sorted. I thought about the man, his hand around Tess’ throat; get revenge. I’d worry about grieving then. But first things first. I was fucking famished. I thought about my last meal. It was— Fuck. Breakfast the day prior. No wonder I was hungry. I hoisted my bag, and climbed the ladder out of the tunnels. It only creaked a bit. This deep in the industrial district was a food desert. I had ditched my phone long ago, so lacking Google Maps, I pulled the paper map out of my bag. I wasn’t really feeling White Castle, but I was hungry, and it was just across the highway.

The place was as empty as I had hoped. Not a lot of foot traffic around here. The inside was poorly lit, and the floor very clearly hadn’t been mopped in ages. I approached the counter, eying up the menu.

“You look dead,” the teen behind the counter told me.

“Well fuck you very much,” I replied, “it’s been a rough night.” I slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter and ordered the combo. I took the bag and left. Minimizing my time inside would make it harder for the kid to provide a description if anyone asked. There was an empty lot across the road with bush cover from the road. I sat on the curb edging the cracked parking lot, and opened the bag. Peeling back the wrapper, I bit. I gagged. I choked. I stumbled forward and vomited. Oh fuck. The lot was poorly lit, but the amount of blood in my vomit was unmistakable. I tried to wash out my mouth with my drink, but Pepsi was, in fact, not okay, and I threw it up as fast as I could get it down. Fuck. What the fuck was wrong with me? I let out a mirthless laugh. My wife was just murdered in front of me, and now I’m vomiting up blood. Just fucking great. I tossed the remains of the burger into the bag, and crumpled it. Despite the vomit, I was somehow even hungrier now, and the fast food sure as fuck wasn’t cutting it. I glanced at the puddle of blood at my feet, and really needed to figure that out. I rubbed at the back of my neck. Hospital was certainly not an option. Maybe I could hit a walk in clinic in the morning? Until then, I wasn’t going to waste the night. Hoping I wouldn’t keel over from whatever it was that was making me vomit like that, I returned to my hideaway under the silos. Thankfully, I didn’t need wi-fi to review the CCTV I snagged from the apartment, but I would need to charge my laptop somewhere soon. I found the entrance cameras, found my exit, and started scrubbing backwards. Huh. A few people in and out, but no one that looked like the guy that killed Tess. Odd. Was he maybe a resident there? But Tess and I had lived there for years, and we knew most of the other residents. It wasn’t a terribly large building. I shifted on my ass, trying to get more comfortable. I really needed to work on getting a chair down here, or something. I pulled up the footage from a different camera. This one covered the side of the building, and had a better view of the street than it did of the building. There. What was that? Across the street. About twenty minutes before I got home. I had to replay the section several times, and in the end I had to go frame by frame. Two or three frames there showed a human shape crossing the road. I couldn’t see his face, but the clothes matched. That meant, well, this guy would’ve been fast. Inhumanly so. Must’ve been a camera glitch. But with a time and a starting point, I pulled up another camera. From the parking lot pointing towards the building. Again, the guy was only in two or three frames, but there he was. Attached to the side of the building. Clambering up the brickwork. What the fuck? I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. I felt my hunger spike, but I pushed it down. I checked my watch. Shit. Almost dawn. Might as well stay up. Be first through the door at a clinic, and crash after that.

—*—

Well. My sleep schedule was well and truly fucked. I had closed my laptop and shut my eyes for just a moment. And now it was dusk again. And I still hadn’t eaten. Not a great idea to make a habit of going to the same place for food, especially so close to my hiding hole so I crossed the river, and found a taco bell. It was a repeat of the night prior. A single bite emptied my stomach. Or it would’ve if there was anything left in there. Mostly dry heaving when trying to choke back my crunchwrap supreme. There was barely even any blood in it! Small miracles, I guess? But I couldn’t wait until the morning to try for a clinic again. My go bag had one of those shitty old flip phones. No sim card, but didn’t need one of those for 911. When the line connected to the dispatcher, I yelled “OH GOD SHE’S DYING SEND HELP! EMPTY LOT ACROSS FROM TACO BELL 24th AND WESTERN.” I clicked the phone shut, and laid on the ground next to the blood I left there. I shut my eyes and hoped they wouldn’t dispatch more than a single ambulance.

—*—

Props to the EMS. They showed up quick. I cracked my eyes open and watched through my eyelashes as the passenger paramedic leapt from the Ambulance before it had fully stopped. She raced over. I felt her press fingers to my neck.

She whirled, and yelled “MAC! No pulse, grab the AED!”

The fuck? I was awake. I had a pulse. I definitely had a pulse. The paramedic grabbed my shirt and ripped it open. I drew my gun, and pressed the barrel under her ribs, “at least buy a girl dinner first, before you go ripping my shirt off.” The Paramedic screamed. I grabbed her vest to keep her from running off, as her partner, Mac apparently, rounded the ambulance and slid to a halt as he saw my gun, “you!” I called, “stop. Drop your radio. Don’t call out.” I pressed the barrel of the gun a little deeper as I turned back to the first Paramedic, “you too.”

“Don’t hurt us— Please.”

“Not going to. Just can’t go to the hospital.”

Mac spoke, “so you’re holding us up because, what? The hospital won’t take your insurance?”

“Sure. Amongst other reasons. Point is. I need help. I’m desperate here.”

The Paramedic who still had hands on the two sides of my shirt took in a deep breath, “how can we help?”

Mac started, “Fuck thi—”

“Mac. Stop. We help people. She said she wouldn’t hurt us.”

I read the Paramedic’s name badge, “Heather. Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Just keep your word, okay?”

I nodded. “I’m in rough shape.”

Mac muttered from his seat on the ambulance’s bumper, “you look fucking dead.”

I glowered, but Heather spoke before I could comment, “bedside manner aside, Mac is right. I’ve never seen someone looking like you and still talking. You haven’t taken a breath since you poked me with your gun, you know.”

Suddenly aware of my breathing I made a conscious effort to perform the action, “I haven’t eaten in three days. Can’t keep anything down. No food. No water. Anything.”

“Three days?” She frowned, thinking, “Mac, grab some saline. We need to re-hydrate her.”

Muttered complaints aside, Mac obliged.

“Miss?” Heather asked.

The paramedic’s pulse was visible through the skin of her neck. It thundered in my ears. I could smell it. Her blood. I was hungry. Famished.

“Miss?” she asked again, with a hint of urgency.

I realized I had zoned out, “what?”

“You’re staring.”

I shook my head to clear it. “Sorry.”

Mac passed Heather a small syringe, and set a cooler next to her. He flipped the lid open, and my head snapped to look into the container. Mac pulled a bag of clear fluid from the cooler. Something inside me stirred. As in my nightmare, I had no control as my hand flew into the cooler and pulled free something red. I raised it to my mouth, and I bit. I tasted plastic. At first. What followed was the sweetest nectar I had ever tasted. The liquid slid down my throat. My hunger was, well, not sated. But I was no longer famished. I pulled more red from the bag.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Heather shouted and she fell back, scrambling to get away from me.

“JESUS CHRIST,” Mac echoed Heather’s sentiment.

Suddenly I realized what it was I was doing. I—What? I had drained a bag of blood. And I liked it. Loved it. I— The look of horror both Heather and Mac gave me was— it cut. They were scared. Of me. I could be intimidating when the situation called for it. But they saw a monster. I scrambled to my feet. Took a step to run away. Paused. I grabbed the cooler and ran.

—*—

Back in my hiding hole. I shuddered. What the fuck was happening to me? I stared at the floor. The three empty blood bags. I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop myself from drinking the bags. Tearing them open. Licking every last drop from the bag. By and large, I had quit alcohol cold turkey. Which wasn’t to say I had never had cravings for it. I had them frequently, but save the odd temporary slip I had control of those cravings through force of will. The cravings I felt for blood made those pale in comparison. I sat with my back against the wall. The now empty cooler sat open on the floor against the far wall where I had thrown it. I was scared. I hadn’t been able to stop myself. I wasn’t scared of much, but losing control was at the forefront of my fears. Shit, I once drove 30 some hours because a commercial flight meant putting control in the hands of some stranger pilot. Now I was losing control of my own mind. I thought of Tess. I spoke aloud to the darkness, “Love. I’ll find the guy that killed you. I swear. I just— I need to get a grip first.” I paused, “I miss you.” I hoped wherever Tess was, if there was an afterlife, I hoped she heard me. I hoped she understood.

This is Chapter 2, read Chapter 1 here

The morning brought a hangover and a deep depression. I had seen a lot in my line of work. Wasn't even my first murder scene. It didn't happen often, but sometimes the CPD contracted out. My friendship with Jules usually meant that I got offered those gigs. Point is, I'm no stranger to seeing blood and bodies. But— the image of Mrs. Renfrue split open and hollowed out slammed unbidden into my mind. That was a degree of brutality beyond anything I could have imagined.
Tess woke to my stirring, “mornin’ Jane. How’re you feeling?”
I tasted cotton in my mouth from the whiskey. Shit. Hadn’t ever been 100 percent sober. More than half of the twelve steps being about god had kept me away from AA, but Tess had been worried about me. I had all but stopped drinking for her. A glass of wine with dinner, you know? But last night? After what I had seen? “I feel like shit.” I let out a heavy sigh. “Can you dump the rest of the bottle? Don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself if I get my hands on it.” Tess nodded, and squeezed my shoulder. She walked to the kitchen. I sat on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. I tried to get the blood out of my head, but the more I tried, the more the image stuck. Fuck. Using my toe, I flipped over my pants and leaned over to pull my notebook out of the pocket. I flipped over the victim’s services card Juliet had given me. But I wasn’t the victim here. Mrs. Renfrue was. Did I really deserve to use this? I flipped the card over a few more times.
Tess came back into the room, “What’s that?”
I passed her the card, “Victim’s services counseling. Jules gave it to me.”
“Gonna call them?”
“I wasn’t the victim.”
“Jane, you downed half a bottle of whiskey last night.”
“Shit. Half?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed heavily, “I’ll call them later. Coffee first.”
“Already brewing, hun.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.” She kissed my forehead, “taking a few days off, I hope?”
I kicked my feet back up onto the bed and laid back, “definitely. I need—” I took in a deep breath, “I need a hot minute to process that shit.”
Tess placed the card on the bedside table next to my cell, “I can’t imagine what it was like to see that. I’m guessing you left out some of the details when you told me about it?”
I nodded. “That was— that was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t think it’s fully set in yet. I—” my phone dinged, cutting me off. I glanced over, “It’s from Jules.”
Tess moved to sit next to me, “what’s it say?”
I quickly scanned the message, “Shit.”
“Bad news?”
“Yeah. I thought they’d catch the guy no problem. Clean photos, plate. Bently’s aren’t exactly a common sight on the road. Turns out the plate came up registered to a dead guy. Address leads to a PO box. Straight up fucking dead end. Fuck.” Technically Juliet wasn’t supposed to be sharing case details with me, but enough years of friendship meant she was willing to bend the policy for me from time to time.
“Shit.”
I smiled at Tess, and bumped my shoulder into hers, “swearing now? I am a bad influence!”
“I’m trying to be supportive!”
“I know. Just teasing. Coping.”
Tess squeezed my hand, “We’ll get through this. Together.”
“Together.”

—*—

I met Juliet at our regular diner. She had already ordered both of us coffee, and she had already ruined hers with an inhuman amount of cream and sugar.
"You've been drinking," she told me without preamble.
"Fell off the bandwagon that night. I needed— well. You spent more time on the scene than I did. Shits fucked. Tried to forget."
"I gave you the number for the counselor."
"Tried em. Gave up after 70 minutes on hold."
Juliet didn't say anything, but the scowl suggested she thought I should've stayed on hold.
"C'mon, Jules. You know I'm not good at talking about my feelings. Especially to a stranger. I just need to do something. Anything. I'm a doer, not a talker."
Juliet placed a protective hand over the briefcase beside her, "not while you're drinking. It's not a healthy coping mechanism."
"Okay one, Jim Beam doesn't put me on hold for an hour and a half."
"Seventy minutes."
"Close enough. Two, Tess dumped the bottle the morning after. Little slip. Moment of weakness. I'm fine. Nothing harder than fizzy orange juice since."
"We'll see." Juliet pulled out her phone, sent a text, placed it on the table and folded her hands next to it. She did not break eye contact with me.
"Did you just text my wife to see if I'm lying?"
Her phone dinged, and she read the message, "yes." She pulled a manilla folder from her bag and slid it across the table, "You're done with these by the time we're done coffee, and they go back to the precinct with me."
I nodded. Not the first time she had shown me case files. Same drill every time. And we both drank a lot of coffee, so the threat of time was hollow. My breath caught as I flipped the folder open. Crime scene photos. Except this time I knew the smells associated with the images. I took a sip of coffee to cover my grimace. Jules already thought I was relapsing, and I could see her watching me like a hawk. The first few photos were wide shots, getting as much of the room as possible, and working out to a 360° view when laid out. My stomach turned, rebelling against the coffee as I relived the moment I found Mrs. Renfrue’s body. My mind supplying a vivid assumption of the horrors I did not witness. I studied the photos. Part of the deal with Jules was no copies, and no notes until after. Obviously, I couldn't be a part of the real investigation, but Juliet knew I needed this. To prove to myself there really wasn't anything I could've done. The next set of photos were close ups of the injuries. The jagged edges of the hole that had been opened up in the woman. I looked up at Jules, "autopsy show anything weird about this?"
Juliet glanced down at the photo I was looking at, "weird how?"
"It's—jagged. Torn. Like ripped paper. Buddy used a knife, these would be a lot smoother."
"Yeah. That came up, but it was dismissed as not feasible."
"Oh?"
"Evidence indicated the chest cavity was opened by hand."
"The fuck?"
"Right. Not feasible. Official report says unknown tool."
I let out a low whistle, and filed the information away to note down after Jules took her report back. There hadn't been any tools in the room, and I saw the guy go in. He hadn't brought anything big with him in or out. The next photo was familiar. I had been there, and the image had been at the forefront of my nightmares over the last week. Organs. Pinned to the wall. I leaned in to take in the details I had missed. Glanced at the next photo. A close up of the heart, and the nail through its center. "Hammer? Did anyone in adjacent rooms hear anything?"
"No. Side rooms were empty. Place is kind of a shit hole."
I grunted acknowledgment and flipped back to the wide shot of the organ display. There was something I was missing here. Serial killers sometimes took trophies. Displayed their victims. But this— there was something about it. It was deliberate. Purposeful. It wasn't a display. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a magnifying glass.
Juliet snorted a laugh, "Okay, Sherlock Holmes."
I displayed the middle finger of my free hand, and grinned wide. We both laughed. It felt good to be back to the banter. I felt more myself. The most me I had been since the murder pushed me inward. Inspecting the blood trails under each pinned organ, I frowned. There was definitely an order to it. I grabbed my sharpie, and pulling the cap free I glanced up at Jules for permission.
"No." She said, flatly.
"Fine." I said, ripping a page from my notebook. I quickly sketched out the scene, organs represented by incomplete circles with a small number next to each. The ink bled through onto the table. "Look," I said, tracing a line from one circle to the next."
Jules frowned, and held up my paper, "what is it?"
I shrugged, "dunno. May be nothing. Coincidence is an option, but it looks like a rune."
"Like, that Norse stuff?"
"Yup!"
"Which one?"
I used my pen to tap the paper, "this one!"
"Keep sassing me, and I'll take my case files and leave."
"All right! All right! Jokes aside, I legitimately don't know. Something I'll be looking up after we're done here. Maybe the murderer was into some occult shit?"
"Maybe. But at best that just helps the psych types build a profile. That kind of stuff doesn't actually do anything. Let me know what you find, okay? Regardless of usefulness. I want this guy caught as much as you."
I gave a salute that would've netted me 50 push ups had I been Army, "10-4, good buddy!"
"Has anyone ever told you you're far too chipper at the worst times? There's photos of organs under your coffee. Move that, please."
"Hey! I have two coping methods. Inappropriate humour, and drinking. Since I'm not allowed one, you get the other."
"You also cope by sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. That's three."

—*—

After Juliet left with her case file, I had stayed in the diner frantically scrawling my findings and musings in my notebook. A whole lot of guesswork, but hey! I wasn't the cops. I could take blind leaps without consequences. Guy drove a Bently. That meant money, and rich people were all kinds of fucked up. The murder itself notwithstanding. But while the cops had to stay grounded, I could investigate the occult angle. Which isn't to say I bought into any of that shit myself. But if I was right about the rune, this guy sure did, and that might be the means of tracking him down. Only problem is that occult bullshit means there's a lot of bullshit to sift through. I closed the tab with the eighth 'occult iconography' pdf that yielded no results. A bunch were close, but not exactly. More were fiction cut fresh from whole cloth. I referenced my drawing to see if there was any way I could connect the dots differently, but it was what it was. Jules had shared the name of the dead guy that the car was registered to. I tried to pull up a few local obituaries. Damn. Only site I could find without a paywall didn't go far enough back to include the date of death. I filled my mug. The server had long since given up standard procedures and left the carafe on the table so I could serve myself. I leaned back against the bench, and blew on my coffee to cool it enough for a sip while I stared at the Google home page on my laptop, and pondered my next step. My next step that should've been my first step if I wasn't a fucking idiot. Chicago Public Library to the rescue. They had ancient copies of the Chicago Examiner in easily accessible pdf's. I side eyed the server and tried to gauge how long they'd let me take up the booth. The sour look I got in return was my answer. I left cash on the table for both mine and Juliet's food and coffee, part of the deal, and a sizable tip. I had overstayed my welcome.

—*—

Back in the comfort of home, I browsed the local paper circa 1908. Tess sat next to me, engrossed in a book. I wasn't even sure what I was looking for. Obituaries, but a connection between the murder, and a guy registered to a Bently dead since the early 1900's was not even tenuous, it was nonsensical. But still, browse on I did. Unfortunately, I couldn't search for keywords in this format, so I was stuck reading, or rather skimming whole issues. Too bad I wasn't on anyone's payroll for this. I was already several hours in, and it would've been nice to expense this time to someone other than myself. Oh well. The obituaries were usually near the back, so I was scrolling fast when a headline caught my eye, and I chuckled.
Tess looked up from her book, "Hmm?"
"Just this headline," I zoomed in for her. "Thought it was apt given my recent backslide. 'Drunkards cured secretly,'" the headline read.
"What is it?"
I skimmed the ad, "a golden remedy to cure drunkenness. Maybe I should give it a shot? Think Dr. Haines is still working out of the Glenn building?"
"When is this paper from?"
I grinned, "1908."
Tess laughed. I loved her laugh. It was delicate. A soft laugh, like bells. "I have my doubts the good doctor is still up and kicking, but it would be neat to send in that voucher and see what happens."
I pressed print, "done!" Retrieving the page from the printer, I froze. I had been so focused on the ad I had completely missed the main story on the page, 'HENRY SMITH SPRINGS AS FROM GRAVE TO ATTACK MEMORY OF WEBSTER GUERIN.' Henry Smith. That was the name of the guy who the Bently was registered to. It couldn't be.
Tess saw my expression change, "Jane? Are you okay?"
I didn't respond. Couldn't. I was pulled into the story that dominated the page. Blackmail and suicide. The key character witness back from the dead. I read those words over and over. About how the defence was able to 'PRODUCE MAN SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.' I knew medical science had progressed by leaps and bounds since 1908 and being mistakenly declared dead was a possibility, but this guy had apparently been dead months before his dramatic reappearance. Maybe he faked it and was just laying low? But—the image of the rune flashed in my mind. The possibilities of the occult smashed through my skepticism, and sent my mind spinning. Tess stood, and walked over to see what had captured my attention. I showed her the page, “It’s him.”
“Smith is a pretty common name, though.”
“Fair. But look here,” I pointed out the line where the author of the article mentioned that obituaries had been published a few months prior, “if his obit has a picture—” I trailed off, realizing what I was suggesting.
“Jane—” Tess started, concern touching her voice.
I spoke before she could finish, “He’d be well over a hundred. I know. I—I just got caught up in the rabbit hole.” I set the page on the counter, “god, I want a drink. I thought poking around the case would help.”
“If that’s not working, maybe we can try something else.”
“Like what?”
“Therapy?”
I let out a heavy sigh, “I would, but I can’t sit still for a billion hours on hold.”
“We don’t have to use the ones Jules gave us. We can try to find someone else.”
I paused, “are you sure? Not sure insurance will cover that, and therapists are expensive. I haven’t had a paying case in a week.”
“Love, we’ve had a joint bank account for years. Let me help you.”
I pressed my forehead against hers. Felt her warmth. I whispered, “I married way out of my league. I love you.”
Tess leaned up to press her lips against mine, “I’m not out of your league. You’re the only person I want in mine. Now, let's see about doing what we can to help you.”
I nodded. God, I was lucky to have her. Thoughts of the undead haberdasher were pushed from my mind.