Cry Me a Murder (part eight): Mother Knows Beast
#8 of Cry Me a Murder
The corpse of Mr. Tejon -soon to be buried under his official name of Ted Jones, was all over the kitchen floor. Like agent Phelps before him, Ted Jones had been torn to shreds. Deep claw marks ran from his torn throat to his open abdomen that was now spilling its warm contents onto the cold marble floor. The second the stench of exposed intestines reached my nose, the unwelcome memory of two dead MI-16 agents flashed by like snapshots tinted in blood. Agents Burris and Bruckner had looked much like Mr. Tejon after I clawed into them during the case of a murdered games designer [in: Havana or Hell] The main difference was how the head of Mr. Tejon was still attached to his corpse. Agent Bruckner had not been that lucky, in fact I had enjoyed plucking his head off like a ripe cherry from its stalk. Bruckner had threatened me at gunpoint, but even worse, he had threatened my sister Kat. The brutality of Tejon's murder echoed the fury I felt back then, when my sister's life was in danger.
Mr. Tejon had not been killed for being in the wrong kitchen at the wrong time; he had called down the wrath of a demon.
"Three dead in as many days!" Lt. Ramirez was angry and visibly uncomfortable with the case and the stench rising from the Tejon's carcass.
"I'm shutting this place down for the summer," he said. "Tell all remaining hotel guests not to leave town. You are all suspects in a murder case."
"It's too late..." panted Fernando, just returning from the lobby. "They have all left. Ms. Thompson, Mr. Slater, the nurse, the boy... Everyone has gone."
Lt Ramirez looked confused as I burst out laughing. Some detective I had turned out to be. Here I was, asking around and trying to ferret out the identity of the killer, while the solution had been in plain sight all along. There never was one murderer:
Everyone had been working together.
Why the kitchen? I wondered. What was Mr. Tejon doing in the kitchen to get himself murdered? This place was staff-access only, but maybe the murderer had lured him here with the promise of a midday snack? The idea was ridiculous, but Tejon's corpse was on its final journey to the morgue and offered no further clues. I bit my lip and looked at Fernando who was quietly feeding the dishwasher, having nothing better to do.
"Power's back up," he commented matter of fact. I shrugged. Unless electricity could solve the case for me, I could care less.
"How long has it been up?" I asked, mainly to keep the conversation going.
Fernando checked his watch "Couple of hours." I stared at Fernando, shocked. If the power had been up when Tejon was murdered, maybe the kitchen CCTV had recorded it - the only CCTV in the building Fernando hadn't shorted with his amateur electronics. Feverish, I climbed onto a kitchen chair to reach the camera, but to my dismay the lens was covered with some kind of silk cloth. It was too thin and delicate to be a dish cloth and carried a faint scent of lavender.
"It's a handkerchief," noted Fernando. "Looks expensive too."
Maybe it belonged to Mr. Tejon? I wondered. Whoever hung the handkerchief on the camera knew the CCTV would record the murder. But maybe recording the kill was the whole point of using the kitchen. I opened the camera and took out the memory card. Together, Fernando and I watched the surveillance video on his hotel computer.
"This is when the power comes back up," said Fernando as an angry flurry of colored stripes flashed across the monitor. The next thirty minutes showed only a deserted kitchen.
"Fast forward a bit." I yawned and watched hours being compressed into minutes, a white kitchen, slowly reddening by the setting sunlight. Catalina flashing by, carrying a basket, Fernando breaking the monotony by storing a tray of eggs in the fridge. Catalina coming back into the frame, trimming a bouquet of flowers by the sink, Mr. Tejon stumbling into the picture with panic stamped in his face.
"Pause!" I said and Fernando rewound the last few minutes of the recording. Mr. Tejon tried to regain his footing after being pushed into the picture. Mr. Tejon looked at his off camera soon-to-be-murderer, and his mouth moved. Maybe he was pleading for his life or explaining himself?
"Can't you turn the damn volume UP?" I sneered impatiently. Fernando apologized, but the CCTVs were not fitted with microphones. That would have set him back another twenty thousand pesos.
"If I had known someone was going to get murdered in my kitchen, I'd have bought the audio model," excused Fernando.
A hand now reached towards the camera and placed the black silk hankie over the lens.
"Shit!" I groaned as the picture went dark. "There goes evidence."
"It'll be back," said Fernando. "Just wait for the camera to adjust."
A few seconds later, the aperture expanded to let in more light and the picture faded back in. The colors were dull and the resolution was shot to hell from recording through the cloth, but we could still make out the shape of Mr. Tejon shuffling about. He took two sudden steps back as another character joined him in the frame. It was a creature, one and a half times the size of a human, covered in thick fur and having the head of a large feline -a feline with horns.
"Look," shouted Fernando. "It's a big guy in an animal costume."
"Sure," I agreed, but this was no fursuit. The newcomer was a shapeshifter just like me, and he wanted me to see it and know about it.
"Don't do it," I begged under my breath, but I had already seen the end result first hand. The creature tore into Mr. Tejon with both clawed paws, splitting him open. Tejon clutched at his chest, trying to stop the shower of blood and his intestines from falling out. He leaned heavily against the stove, while the murderer slashed at him, over and over, carving large chunks of meat from Tejon's thin frame. At this point I was happy with the lack of an audio track. The unblinking eye of the camera kept recording after the murderer left, showing only the kitchen with Tejon's mutilated corpse going sharp, then blurry as the camera tried to auto-focus on him through the black veil. Minutes later, Fernando showed up in the picture and let out a silent scream for help.
"I was this close to slamming into a murderer," he said after watching the footage. "That's one huge fella," he noted "much larger than anyone staying with us."
"Oh, he is staying with us, alright," I replied. "And he wants everyone to know."
"Tell me about the stolen statue," I asked.
Inspector Quinn pointed the camera of his phone at a statuette on his desk. The lighting was bad, as was the G3 connection, but the figurine clearly showed a creature that was half human and half lion. The lower half was fully human, while the head was that of a lion.
"The Loewenmensch is one of the oldest carved figures in known existence," Quinn said. "This piece was discovered in 1939, in the Stadel cave in Germany. Normally it's on display in the museum of Ulm."
"But now it's on display on your desk?"
Quinn laughed. "This is the replica they sell from the museum gift shop. It's a resin fake, but Stefanie, the museum director insists the detailing is accurate."
The resin cast made it look cheap. But at a pricetag of $49 you can't complain. I couldn't tell whether the character was male or female. Maybe it was neither, or maybe the artist just didn't give a damn, when he carved it 40.000 years ago. If you're about to get mauled by a lion, you don't stop to inspect if it got danglies between its legs.
"Is this what you look like, when you shift?" Quinn asked.
"Not sure," I replied.
I know what my body looks like when I shift. But I've only seen my face once, reflected in the shiny chrome on a one-armed bandit at the Oakfort spring faire [in: Fallen Angels]. When I shift, my face is vaguely leonine, but the bent metal twisted and distorted my mirror image. But I was quite sure I looked nothing like this guy. The lion statue didn't have horns either.
"That's not me," I concluded. "Not even close. How about yourself?"
"Too human," Quinn replied. "I become full wolf, when I shift. This guy's got human limbs. With the Balam, we may be dealing with a new hybrid species. Or a very old one. One that may originate from our side of the abyss... or from yours."
"Wait a second," I said. "There is no my side of the abyss. I was born and raised right here in Oakfort. I'm a human, and so were my parents. End of story."
"I don't know if I should be showing you this," Quinn said. "But you and I may both be in over our heads on this one."
He reached for something off camera and re-focused his phone on a wrist watch. A simple time keeping device with a octagonal brass casing and a faux leather band dyed green. I recognized it in an instant as the watch agent Bruckner of the MI-16 wore on the day he had been instructed to kill Kat and myself [In: Havana or Hell].
"There is something the MI-16 hasn't told you," Quinn said, and turned the watch over.
"Look at the engraving."
The connection was getting worse by the second. All I could make out was the silver disk on the bottom of the watch. If someone had made an engraving on the base, I for one couldn't tell. The screen resolution was too poor and the dropout was killing the connection.
"They know..." Quinn said in a weak, metallic voice.
Then the connection broke down, and the screen went blank.
"The first word is 'EYE' or maybe 'I'"
Fernando forwarded the CCTV recording a few frames. Mr. Tejon had spoken a few words before the creature tore into him. Five seconds of silent footage, but we had gone over it for hours now, trying to interpret his moving lips.
I think he says "I am?"
"No, the lips don't form an 'M'"
"I have you?... I hate you?... I have to?"
Forward a few frames.
"It's an ooo-eee sound he makes there."
"Huey...Louie?"
"It's not an 'L'"
"I hate you, Huey?"
"Maybe Huey is the name of the murderer?"
"After that he says... Mary Poppins?"
"Fernando nodded enthusiastically. I'll bet you, Mary Poppins is a secret code."
I slumped back in the chair and rubbed my eyes. It was past midnight and we had been going over the same five seconds worth of footage for hours.
"Screw you, Huey!" I slurred, many shots of fine Mescal coursing through my veins. We needed someone who could read lips, someone deaf or professional, or professionally deaf. I've played with many tone-deaf musicians, but none of them could read lips, or lip reeds for that matter; we were stuck with five seconds of useless visemes.
"Just let it go." Fernando yawned and patted my shoulder. "I'll pull the curtains and pour us another Mesqal. "A man-sized one."
Something stirred in my mind by the mentioning of the word curtains, and a crazy idea began to take form; an idea so batshit I had to laugh out loud and Fernando wondered if I had lost it completely, but now I knew where to find an expert in lip-reading. I took out Phelps's cell phone and dialed a number from the memory log: the one number that had been awaiting his call for days.
"Apex Curtains," said the female voice at the other end. "How may I help you?"
"Hello mother?" I replied. "This is Agent Phelps speaking."
Morning. I needed a smoke, I needed coffee, I needed a drink, I needed to puke.
My stomach cramped up from last night's good Mesqal and bad judgment. I'd been so eager to solve the case I'd made a phone call to my closest enemy - the MI-16, and I had invited them to join me here at the hotel to interpret five seconds of video footage of a man pouring his guts out, before they were torn into pieces by a demon. Last night I'd been over-confident, and now buyer's remorse kicked in. Caveat Emptor.
Fernando had all but carried me back into bed the night before. Because I was too drunk to walk and too tired to make any sense.
I checked my watch; in three hours, an agent by the name of "Dakota" would arrive by helicopter to put us out of our misery. Dakota as in "D", the fourth letter of the alphabet and the fourth MI-16 agent I'd met in person. But also "D" as in "Death". Three agents before him had died screaming by my own hand or paw - and the MI-16 knew. They knew I was dangerous, too dangerous to piss off, and too dangerous to let live. Most private investigators carry a gun, a pistol, or a can of mace. Anything to protect themselves. But I never carry a piece. I wouldn't even know how to fire one in case the agent decided my person was the case to close down. Was I only fooling myself? As much as liked to daydream about it, I was never any real investigator, I was only a guy with a Gibson who stumbled into trouble, and the only case I knew how to close was a guitar case. I'm half demon or half insane, take your pick. I dumped the contents of my suitcase on the bed, deciding on a change of clothes. if agent Dakota made a sudden move and I had to change into demon-form, I wanted to wear a suit that ripped in a second or less, something that wouldn't constrict my movements. And nothing tears better than clothes from Jay-mart, although you won't read that fact on their billboards. With two hours and forty five minutes to go, I decided on a pair of colorful Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt with an airbrushed drawing of a Maui sunset and dancing hula girls.
Agent Dakota arrived at noon sharp in a two seater helicopter, both sides decorated with an oversized locust holding a sign up that read "Varrick's Crop Dusting Service, Est. 1973". Bruckner, Burris, Samza: the previous MI-16 agents I had met were all trained killers and I expected Dakota to be no different. I wondered if I had made a mistake in inviting him up for a meeting. What if I was on their kill list and I had only invited my own hitman? Fernando cast me a disapproving look when he saw my clothes. He wore his finest suit, pressed for the occasion, and he giggled like an schoolboy about to meet some sports hero. He'd shaved and trimmed his moustache and polished that one pair of shoes he saved for special events. "Are you sure this is the proper attire for meeting with Military Intelligence?" He whispered as the chopper touched ground.
I nodded, I was sure.
"Don't worry," I whispered back.
"I'll change if I need to."
The moment agent Dakota stepped out of the helicopter, I regretted not listening to Fernando's advice. Dakota was a short, pretty woman in her late thirties with brown, curly hair and a cute smile. She was hot, but she wasn't packing heat.
"I'm Agent Dakota," she said. "You may call me Evelyn."
"Evelyn Dakota? Is that your real name?
"Of course not."
We walked ten paces away from the helicopter before shaking hands. With slack pants and a short business jacket, Dakota looked like an estate agent, sooner than a secret one.
"I believed all MI-16 agents were tough military types hauling AK-47s around," I joked.
"-and I believed the man who've killed three our agents would be a better dresser," Dakota snapped back. I let go of her hand and tried to ignore Fernando snickering behind my back.
Evelyn Dakota remained quiet while we watched the CCTV footage together, but now and then she told us to pause the video. For a woman with such a cute smile, she sure didn't know how to say please.
"The murderer wears an animal costume," she noted. "That's a new one." She pressed play again. Despite her professional style and cool attitude, she seemed clueless to the true nature of demon-kin and believed we were dealing with a costumed killer. If she didn't know about otherkin, I was pretty sure the MI-16 as an organization didn't know either. This relieved me to no small degree.
"He uses some kind of sharp instrument, disguised as claws." She leaned forward, her nose almost touching the screen and studied the pixelated murder without blinking or flinching as the screaming Tejon was torn into ribbons. "Do you know if the victim had ties to the Yakuza?"
"We... don't know much about the victim; only that he was a marriage councillor."
"Marriage councillor, uh-huh?" Dakota stopped the video, scribbled a few comments in her notebook in a style of shorthand I didn't recognize. She put the pen down and looked at me for a long time.
"Why did you ask me to come here, Mr. Kent? This case doesn't present a national threat?"
"That costumed freak killed your agent Phelps, and I wanted you to know that I'm not to blame - not this time, anyway."
"We'll take that into consideration, during the next review of your status" was her only reply as she closed her briefcase.
Fernando broke the awkward silence by reaching over and rewinding the recording to the few seconds where Tejon spoke. "We have a small bet going, Daniel and I. Does he say
"I hate you, Huey."
Or
"I'll take a bullet."
Dakota sighed and rolled her eyes. She rewound the video to the few seconds of Tejon's final words.
"In that bit the victim says: I have to do it -or I HAD to..." Dakota said. "Probably I had, otherwise most people say I gotta".
"Do WHAT?" Wondered Fernando.
"Sabotage Chris' wheelchair," I said. "Tejon warned me against the boy, claimed he was dangerous. Tejon also left the scene when we helped nurse Richards get out of the stuck elevator. Tejon knew Chris would be alone for a while, and being one of the few people who could get close to the boy, he loosened the handles to his wheelchair. Tejon was a professional, and an accident always looks better than flat out murder."
"Okay, so who's Mary Poppins?" Chirped Fernando. He was clearly enjoying the official company of a secret agent. "IS she one of yours?"
"The victim says I had to STOP him; NOT Mary Poppins." Dakota rose to her feet and offered a parting handshake. "It's an interesting case, but a trivial one. I suggest you leave it to the local police force."
"But you knew all of this," I argued. "I told you guys over the phone. So why did you decide to come?"
"Domestic violence cases like this propose no threat to national security." She said bluntly "- but YOU just might, Mr. Kent."
"Tell your people to step down," I said. "You were the people who put Phelps on the case, so the death of Mr. Tell must have some interest to your organization. But with Phelps out of the game, I'm the one guy who can close the case
-but only if the MI-16 stays off my back."
Agent Dakota paused in the door. She eyed me up and down, judging me by appearance and remaining unimpressed. "You really believe you can do better than us?" There was a slight ironic twist to her smile.
"I've already beaten you at your own game twice before, remember?" I replied and Dakota took a step back. "Maybe it's time you and I start looking in the same direction."
"Wait here," she ordered and left the office. Through the window we watched her talk with someone on her mobile phone. She returned some ten minutes later, wiping a single drop of sweat off her forehead with a damp baby wipe.
"Alright," she said. "Work with us on this one, and we may lower your current standing to level three."
"One last question, before you go" I said. "I'm at level four, going on five. Where does that put me?"
Agent Dakota marched down the lobby, her footsteps on the marble floor echoed off the walls. She replied without turning around.
"Level five is when we target you for immediate termination."