He greens in the face and bolts for the door.
I stifle a snort into my thermos. “Fucking cherry.”
“Lower the hackles, Bourbon,” says Detective Shane Scull as he lingers behind the deceased. He’s a Type-A brute in peak physical and mental shape for a man in his sixties, with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut,alpha complex, and amber eyes like a lion. I roll my eyes and he exhales another curt breath. “Do yourself a favor, and ignore them.”
I try, but then someone grumbles, “Must’ve skipped his own pep talk this morning.”
“He’s positively feral,” another sneers.
“Think he missed his annual rabies shot?”
The rookies snigger like hyenas, and my scowl deepens. If only disrespect incurred a death sentence. I’d wrap their hides around every copy ofCrime and Punishmentsitting in my Etsy queue just to spite the insolent pricks.
Sadly, I’m no murderer.
Iam,however, a petty motherfucker.
Taking a long pull of my bold black brew, I draw the white sheet down the cadaver’s pelvis to reveal the shredded meat that was once the sorry sap’s cock and balls.
There goes another runner, dry heaving out the room.
I flip the sheet past the man’s thighs. They each sport the same variety of slits as those made by a lame on a fresh loaf of baked bread.
Just like that, Scull and I are the only living souls left inside the house.
Thank every angel above.
“Every time, Bourbon,” he grouses as I hide my satisfied smirk with another drag of coffee. “You run them out everysingletime.”
“They’re irritating,” I snap, rummaging through my pack for a medical mask to staunch the stench of rotting meat, “and judgmental.”
“They’rerookies.They’re meant to be irritating and judgmental.You,on the other hand,ought to be their patient and pleasant mentor, teaching them how they will be working with coroners once the training wheels are off. Not chasing them away every chance you get.”
“Not my fault they can’t handle a little gore.”
“It’s not the gore.”It’s you,he doesn’t say.You’re the problem.
It definitelyisme.
Can I really be blamed? The living are such shit company.
Swallowing my pride, I click my penlight on and flash it over the body. The man was murdered in his living room. He’s restrained by a pair of pink feather handcuffs. Lacy black panties hang from his mouth. A pentagram circles him, drawn in his own blood.
There is no other evidence. As always, the killer was efficient in cleaning up and leaving only their calling card behind.
Over the years, I’ve had my theories. They’ve ranged from a lone serial killer to a fully organized cult. Both are prevalent in Salem. Especially given the city’s dark and bloody history.
“Care to introduce us,mon ami?”
Crossing his thick arms over his broad chest, Scull supplies, “This is Dr. Sebastian Bonaparte. Age thirty-seven. Professor of occult studies at St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts. The academy alerted local authorities when he didn’t show up for work three days in a row. City cameras were scrubbed, along with those on the property. Unsurprisingly, there were no witnesses. There have been at least a dozen stalking claims and sexual assault charges filed over the past year, all dropped shortly after the reports came in. Since Sebastian’s disappearance, the dean found historical email evidence of him blackmailing his targeted students to keep them quiet.”
“Why wasn’t there ever a formal investigation?”
He shrugs. “Between the streak of withdrawn complaints and lack of sufficient evidence to pursue any case, the higher ups chalked the accusations to girls crying wolf.”
“Their mothers should’ve swallowed their batches,” I snicker, pointing my penlight at the sick fuck that definitely didn’t die slow enough. “Haven’t they heard the wolf is real in the end?”
“For Christ’s sake, Bourbon,” Scull hisses, rubbing his temple. “It’s Monday, it reeks in here, and we’re awake before the fucking birds. Could you just keep your opinions to yourself for once and fill in the blanks for me?”