For KW

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We’d received the call fifteen minutes prior, just as we were leaving Alaskan Andy’s. Peters responded to the call and tossed his half-empty coffee into a heaping trash can. He turned to me.

“Alright, man, duty calls. Let’s go.”

“What’s the call?”

“Sounds like a suspected homicide, it’s only a few blocks from here,” Peters replied. “They told us to suit up. It’s messy.”

The drive to the scene was uneventful, but for the patter of rain on the windshield. It had been raining consistently for the last two weeks. Storm drains overflowed, flooding the streets with trash and sewage. This section of town was notorious for high crime rates and the city’s total lack of maintenance. When I first heard what we were headed for, I assumed this would be an open and shut case. Drug and gang related homicides were more common than I care to admit.

We pulled up in front of the Forest Garden Apartments. The door to the lobby was ajar. The aperture allowed the forces of nature entrance.

Peters climbed out and dashed to the lobby. I went to the trunk to get our biohazard kits. So rarely do we use it. Normally, it’s the cleanup crew or the coroner who need them.

I closed the trunk and walked into the lobby. The first thing I noticed was the smell. A mixture of dry and wet rot infiltrated the air, announcing decay. The second thing was the woman. Peters stood before her, notebook in hand, trying his best to decipher her statement.

At one time, the distraught woman had probably been pretty. Years of hard living and poor decisions had weathered her. Her hair was straw thin. I’m sure, had she not been in an emotionally elevated state, her eyes would be more vacant than a bus stop on a forgotten route. The tale she was telling Peters was not unlike many we had heard before.

She was babbling about the tenant on the third floor. Allegedly, she had heard a visitor or visitors come to visit the tenant at a very late hour. She’d heard a commotion, then silence. Later, she’d gone up to check on the tenant and found the scene. She confessed she had not seen any of the suspects. Fear kept her behind closed doors. I can’t say I blamed her.

Peters thanked her for her statement. He told her she would be contacted if further information was needed. It was likely the first time that woman had been lucid in months.

We climbed the stairs, hands upon our side arms. In these scenarios, danger can come from around the corner. Two years prior, the department lost a great officer in a situation like this. Constable Roseland had been called to a breaking and entering in this neighborhood. The department was short on officers that evening, so Roseland had been alone on patrol. When he’d arrived, they jumped him. The autopsy report listed one hundred and seventeen stab wounds. We promised ourselves we would never have that happen again.

As we climbed, we kept our eyes peeled, waiting for a crack head to come flying from the thick shadows. With each step, the wooden stairs groaned and creaked like an old man rising in the morning. We noticed the smell of death. Like a heavy fog, it enveloped the third floor.

And the blood.

There was so much of it. On the floor. The walls. The ceiling. Whoever lost this much could not have made it far. The fact there wasn’t a corpse in the hallway was shocking.

There was only one apartment open on this floor. Dark inside, the doorframe seemed like a maw to hell. The blood trail led there. We stopped to don our masks and gloves. Moving one at a time so we could watch each other’s backs. Making our way to the threshold, Peters’s breathing was heavy.

I flipped on the light.

The images I saw in there will haunt me to my dying day.

The apartment was like a slaughterhouse. I’d thought the hallway was bad, but the apartment was drenched with gore. Looking at the cheap drywall, I was certain much of this mess would seep in. No matter how hard a cleanup crew worked, this would never be sanitary again. Not that it appeared sanitary to begin with.

Beside me,  Peters gagged, fighting the urge to vomit.

“’scuse me,” he said through heavy breaths. He sprinted to the hall. I could hear him loudly emptying the coffee he’d had not twenty minutes prior. It’s better than heaving on an empty stomach.

As Peters took care of uncontrollable business, I examined the scene. Despite the vast amounts of blood everywhere, there was no body. Withdrawing my sidearm, I headed into the next room. It was a kitchen and, while dirty, it was curiously devoid of blood. However, our victim was there. The man lay fully clothed and spread eagle before the fridge. I heard Peters return, and soon he was beside me in the kitchen. Reholstering my weapon, I turned to him.

“Better?” I said.

“For now, I suppose. Have you checked the body?”

I shook my head.

Peters approached the prostrate body. As is procedure, He checked for a pulse. He turned back to me and shook his head. A strange look crossed his face as he gestured me over. He asked me to check to see if I saw what he did. I looked. My own face must have matched Peters’. There was not a drop of blood on this man. No obvious trauma either. When I looked up again, a queer image caught my eye from the bedroom.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Before Peters could reply, I walked into the bedroom, transfixed by what I saw. Painted in blood above the bed was a symbol I had never seen before. It looked like a top view of a human brain. Emphasized at its center was what looked like a cross. Scrawled beneath it was one cryptic word.

Feeder.

I called the scene in.

***

I sat at my desk looking down at a photo of the symbol. The contours of the brain seemed off to me. Mind you, I’d been staring at it for more than an hour. What did it mean? What does any of it mean?

I stood and stretched before I made my way to the window. The rain hadn’t stopped, people went about their days. From here, they looked like insects. I began to wonder if that’s how our perp sees humanity.

The door opened. Peters stepped in, carrying a ream of documents. He wore a confused expression.

“What is it?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.

“This doesn’t make any sense…”

“A lot of this doesn’t make any sense. What’s new to add to it?”

He sighed.

“Well, the autopsy results are back. Our victim died of poisoning. But it isn’t any poison the lab guys have seen.”

“What about the blood everywhere? Did that belong to the victim?”

He shook his head.

“No, and I hate to say this, but the lab says it’s not any known blood type.”

I stared at him, my mind working like a trapeze artist.

“What? That’s not even possible. Did they check their equipment?”

He nodded.

“Four times. They ran those tests four times, and four times they got that result. I have one more odd thing to mention.”

I massaged the bridge of my nose.

“What, did the corpse get up and walk away?”

Peters smirked despite himself.

“Not quite. The morgue found human flesh in the victim’s stomach. Well, mostly human. It matches the blood on the walls.”

“Well, this just gets better by the damn minute, doesn’t it?”

***

The victim’s name was Jorge Posada. He’d emigrated to the city a year and a half ago, with some family members in tow. It seemed to me that Jorge had made some poor decisions in a short period of time. I found myself standing in front of a squat, stucco house. The rain bounced off the brim of my cap.

As I approached the door, I was filled with dread. I have never relished telling anyone that their family members have been murdered, especially under such bizarre circumstances. I sighed and tried my best to compose myself. With a heavy hand, I knocked.

From behind the door, I heard movement. Muffled conversation followed. Soon, the door opened wide, and I was face-to-face with two women. The first, an older woman I took for his mother, saw my badge and scowled. When she read my intentions were not related to race, a cold look of realization broke out. She became unsteady. The younger woman, whom I took for Jorge’s sister, reached out to brace her. The older woman’s resolve broke. Deep racking sobs filled her. The daughter tried to console her broken mother while reconciling her own grief.

“Miss Posada,” I began. “May I come in?”

The two distressed women led me inside and out of the rain.

***

Seated in the small kitchen, my tea steamed in front of me. I had explained a majority of the details to Jorge’s relations. I held back the stranger aspects for the time being. I waited before asking further questions. Distraught minds are not always the most reliable routes of information. I know if it were me in their shoes, it would not be easy for me either. But, still, I needed to mine this ore while it was fresh. I needed to find this sick fuck.

Jorge’s mother blotted her bloodshot eyes with a handkerchief. Unexpectedly, she reached her hand across the table and gripped mine, hard. My eyes gazed at a crucifix on the wall. I felt as though Jesus was watching me. Watching and judging.

“Thank you for your honesty, Detective,” Jorge’s sister, Maria, said. “What else can we help you with? What do you need to know to catch my brother’s killer?”

I withdrew my notepad from my breast pocket. In that time, I thought about how best to approach delicate questions. I knew exactly what I wanted to ask, but phrasing is important.

“Had Jorge been seeing anyone lately? Were there any groups he was a part of? Any known enemies?”

The air in the room changed suddenly. Maria and her mother exchanged taciturn looks. It seemed that I was in for a story. I patiently waited, tapping my pen on the table.

Maria began, “There was a woman. Jorge wouldn’t tell us her name. He told us that he’d met her at some church outing. We’re Catholic, and, at first, we were happy for him. Things changed. When we asked our padre about Jorge, the padre said he had not seen Jorge in weeks. We confronted my brother about it, and he went ballistic. He stormed out. He’d been staying with that woman ever since.”

My mind drifted back to the skeevy apartment complex.

“Would you happen to know where this woman lives?”

Maria frowned. I could nearly read every thought on her constricted face.

“I think it was the old Forest Garden Apartments on twenty-second. I really don’t know how anyone could stay there.”

Nor do I, I thought. Nor do I.

“Well, thank you very much for your time, ladies. Your information has been very helpful. I must be going. If you think of anything else, please call me. The coroner will be in touch.”

I left them my card and found myself back in the rain. Opening my car door, I heard the radio crackle. It sounded like Peters.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“They found another,” Peters said. “Meet me at twenty-two fourteen Emerald Place.”

***

Pulling in front of Emerald Place, I wondered if this scene would be worse. Peters’s car was in front of mine. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. Given the rain, I wasn’t surprised. Emerald Place was nearly as derelict as Forest Garden. I often wondered if the city planned to gentrify this area. They’ve always chosen to raze problems as opposed to deal with deep seated societal issues.

I stepped inside, giving myself respite from the rain. I called out for Peters. A voice responded, but it was not Peters. The lobby held an air of cold oppression. Cautiously, I climbed the stairs, heading in the direction of the voice. Besides the voice, the building seemed entirely devoid of life.

Reaching the landing of the second floor, the voice had grown stronger. I glanced at the wall nearest me. There was that symbol again. The blood dripped in thin lines. I approached the only open apartment. This was where the voice emanated from. The door was not fully open, so I nudged it further. I called out for Peters. There was still no response.

Withdrawing my pistol, I went in. The interior was dark. I reached for the light switch. Flipping it, nothing happened, but my hand came away wet and sticky.

I finally understood that the voice was the radio. It was no broadcast I had heard before.

“You’re listening to WXXT, if it bleeds it’s from Leeds. Tonight, we hear the tale of a girl called Rangel…”

As I tried to gather my bearings, I heard something behind me move. I swiveled, but wasn’t quick enough. Something hit me so hard the world blinked away.

***

I entereda pitch black room. The floor felt like damp concrete, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. I couldn’t tell where I was, but in the darkness, I heard water dripping.

I tried to stand, but my legs quickly crumpled. I suppose that hit to the head did more damage than I initially thought. Flashes of color came and went behind my closed lids as I tried to steady myself.

Somewhere beyond my confines, voices penetrated. It sounded like the topic was intense. Listening closely, I was certain I recognized one of those voices. A muted light entered the room. A figure silhouetted the doorway. My eyes struggled to adjust to this new addition. When they’d focused, I recognized the person. My jaw dropped.

It was Peters. He wore a simple white robe and sandals. Upon his head was a crown of thorns. Blood trickled down into his eyes. He smiled at me. It was far from a pleasant smile.

“Peters? What’s going on? Where are we?”

He crossed to me, that unsettling smile never leaving his face.

“Why brother, you’ve been chosen.”

“Chosen?” I asked. “Chosen for what?”

I was still on my knees. Strength had not returned to me. He ran a hand through my hair.

“You’ve been chosen to join a very select group. This is an honor for you.”

My brain burned with this litany of cryptic answers. I thought I truly knew Peters. Clearly, my instincts failed me. In a moment of self defeat, I wondered where else my instincts failed. People always show you the face you want to see.

“What the fuck is this? Get me out of here. Peters, we’ve been partners for five years. What happened to you?”

He did not reply, instead, he turned back to the door. I looked and saw a small group of people. Two men, a woman, and a very tall person whose sex I could not place. They advanced inward. The woman was at the forefront. Despite her minuscule height, she commanded the respect of the men. Her mahogany eyes glistened in the dim light. A sinister smile crossed her lips. Fear coursed through my body.

She stepped up to Peters, placing her hand upon his shoulder. I noticed the tallest member of the congregation lingered in the darkness.

“Thank you, Brother Peters,” she said, her lilting voice dripping with menace. Her eyes locked onto mine. The undeniable power they held, I could not break from.

“As Brother Peters has said, you’ve been chosen to join us. It is indeed a great honor. If you survive.”

My mind refused to function properly.

“Who are you?” was all I could muster.

She laughed. It was melodious, contagious, and horrific all the same. I had to fight my instinct to join in. What sort of power do these people hold?

“We, my slow friend, are the Brotherhood of the Feeder. For the Messiah has risen again. It was pure happenstance that I found him in the first place. When I looked into his eyes, I knew he had returned. I knew his message must be spread. I knew the time had come.”

These people are insane.

“Who is he?”

The tall thing in the back crept forward. Its gait was not at all human. It appeared like an animal used to walking on all fours, standing on its hind legs for the first time. It was before me, and its hood was down.

I fought to suppress the scream that crept forth from my gut.

This thing was not human. Towering over me, there was no way anyone could mistake it for human. Its head was ovoid and hairless. An unnaturally wide mouth spread from cheek to cheek. When its mouth opened, triple rows of teeth shone in the dim light. Its eyes were like none I’d ever seen. Their color I could not place. Their shape was far closer to feline than human. Insanity was beginning to sound like a better option than bearing witness to what I was seeing.

“And you dear brother,” the woman continued, “have been chosen to join us. If you survive the transubstantiation, that is.”

She produced a ceremonial dagger from beneath her billowing robe and handed it to the thing. Without hesitation, it took the dagger and sliced a sizable chunk of flesh from its arm. Blood spurted in great gouts across my face. I felt dizzy and swayed from my kneeling position. Peters caught me. He held my arms behind my back as another of this brotherhood approached me. This one held my mouth open as the woman placed the thing’s flesh in my mouth. The taste was like rot and faith. I gagged. This, the priestess would not allow.

“Eat and eat it all. Do not be afraid of the holy flesh.”

Forcibly, I chewed and swallowed. I fainted, sick with what I had just done.

***

I awakened on the cold stone floor. My mouth tasted acidic, but I was alive. I wondered if any of it had really happened. I looked down at my uniform. Still crisp and clean. I stood. My legs had lost their uncertainty. I left the basement and strolled into the sunlight of the day. Peters stood by his car. He smiled at me, and I returned it. I felt like a new man…

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