Lowell, MA

June 19th 2013

08:48

Father Joseph rested his elbows on the hard, mattress as he kneeled at the foot of his single bed, sitting on an old red rug in the corner of the room. His looked up at the cross that hung over the yellowed wallpaper and kissed his finger and touched it to his head and chest. He slipped his bare feet into a pair of well-worn sandals and took his bible before leaving his apartment. He stood on the platform awaiting the same train he had caught every day for the past twenty years, the thick summer air baring down on his shoulders like a hand pressing him into the air. A young boy glanced at him as he stepped off the and Father Joseph flashed him a soft smile before stepping aboard the train heading towards North Station. He took his seat next to the door, looking out of the window and opened his bible to Romans 6:23 where he passed his finger over a short passage he had underlined. He mouthed the words to himself, as the train stopped and a young girl entered the carriage, sitting opposite him. He closed his bible and looked up at her.

“Beautiful day today,” he said, smiling.

“Yeah,” she replied.

“Going into work are you?”

He rested the bible on his lap and clasped his hands together.

“Meeting a friend.”

“Ah.”

He smiled at her before looking back down at his bible where his eyes remained until he arrived at his stop on the train. He stepped out into the Boston heat and walked the short walk from the station to his Church, dabbing a white handkerchief on his forehead to mop up the sweat. Father Joseph never entered via his office. He instead preferred to unlock the main door and enter the way his perishers do. The ornate, oak door clicked open the door using all his might to push it open, his bible held under his arm. He turned back around and opened the latch on the lock leaving the door slightly open behind him and turned back to look down the aisle where he saw her. A young girl, hanged by the neck from the beam that ran across the roof near the alter, naked, bruised and dead. His bible fell to the floor at his feet.

Queens, NY

June 20th 2013

13:01

Carver searched for something he could use to block out the single shaft of light that shot across the room through a crack in the blackout blinds he had covering his windows. Eventually he resigned to using a black marker pen to colour the window in and, which only served to darken the colour of the light. He stood back from his bed and took a box off his desk and rested it precariously on the windowsill just in front of the crack blocking out enough of the light for him to return to sleep. That was until his phone buzzed on his bedside table. He sighed and sat up in his bed taking his phone and unlocking it to read his notification. “BODY FOUND IN BOSTON CHURCH, FBI ON THE SCENE” read the headline of a Boston Journal article. He sighed again and set his phone aside burying his head in his pillow and trying to get back to sleep. His phone buzzed again and Carver muttered something under his breath before picking it up and looking at a message on the screen.

CSM99: Body in Church.

CSM99 is typing…

He turned and rested his feet on the floor sitting on the side of the bed.

CSM99: I think its him again.

Carver stood up from his bed grabbing a small bottle of sertraline pills that rested on the table next to his bed and sat on the stool by his desk. Every point of entry for light was blocked, covered or broken and wallpaper had began to fray and yellow around the edges and in the corners. The only thing holding the paper onto the wall were the copious newspaper cuttings and photographs he had pinned in place. A drip in the corner had gradually rotted through the only piece of carpet in the room leaving only rough, wooden floorboards in place. He flipped open his laptop and typed the headline into the search engine leading to the Boston Reporter piece.

Police were called to the grisly scene of a murder at Old Saints Church in the early hours of this morning where the body of a sixteen year old girl, as of yet unnamed, was discovered. The Boston Reporter has learned that the FBI are on the scene and maybe taking over the investigation in connection to an earlier case outside of Boston. As of yet no statement has been made by the Boston Police Department.

KidA: Why is it connected? I’m looking at the article on the BR now.

CSM99 is typing.

CSM99: My sources are telling me that she was strangled.

KidA: Lots of murder victims are strangled, what makes you think this is him?

CSM99: Sources also say her genitals were mutilated.

KidA: Could be a sexual crime, doesn’t mean it’s him.

CSM99: I’m looking at the police report and it’s telling me that it looks like a small, pointed metallic object was inserted into the vagina.

KidA: Did they find anything?

CSM99: No.

KidA: Do they have any suspects?

CSM99: Police report doesn’t say yet, still early days. They’re not talking about him though.

KidA: Maybe they’ve ruled him out.

CSM99: Or maybe they haven’t thought of him.

CSM99: You should talk to them.

KidA: They won’t listen to me.

CSM99: They might have no choice.

CSM99: Speak to her and she’ll tell you I’m right.

KidA: Does she know about the body?

CSM99: Probably not. Talk to her.

KidA is typing…

KidA: Drop off copies of the files in the usual place and I’ll take a look.

CSM99: Let me know if you need anything.

CSM99: Peace.

CSM99 is offline.

Carver looked at the chat history on his computer before pouring two pills into the palm of his hand and swallowing them with a cold cup of Starbucks left on the side of his bed. He coughed before standing up and walking towards the bathroom. Carver watched his own reflection with pity before turning to his phone and searching for her Facebook profile.

You have been blocked by this user.

He set his phone down on the side and started the shower running, waiting, with his hand under the weak stream of water, for it to warm up.

“Shit,” he muttered, shaking the water off his hand to the side before turning the cold shower off. A tired and haggard reflection looked back at him as he left the bathroom and threw on a sweatshirt and joggers before leaving his apartment.

He pulled the hood up over his head and took a pair of sunglasses out of the front pocket to save his eyes from the brightness of the New York City sunshine. The streets were their usual selves, paved with chewing gum, dog mess and the homeless, all things that Carver preferred to avoid if at all possible, which is why he chose to walk down alleyway’s and side streets until he reached Grand Central Station. He slipped off the main road down towards a maintenance door which had been left propped open using a small stone. Carver lifted the stone and pulled the cord on his sweater, drawing the hood closed as much as possible as if to conceal his face. He slowly closed the door, taking care to make sure the latch didn’t close or make a sound and walked down the maintenance corridor. On the left he saw the small cleaning cart filled with an array of industrial cleaning products. Without hesitation he pushed the cart around the corner towards the disabled toilets before locking the door behind him.

Carver stood with his ear pressed up to the door listening for any sound outside. Two muffled voices faded into silence and he turned back to the cart. He took down his hood and composed himself for a moment before reaching his hand into the trash until he felt the folder at the very bottom. He ran his hands through his thick, brown hair and coughed into his palm before resting the file on the cart and looking inside.

Body appeared to have severe lacerations to the inner thighs and genitals consistent with a small metal object of around two inches having been inserted into the opening of the vagina.

He ran his finger over the highlighted passage before closing the file and folding it into the pocket at the front of his sweater. He pushed the cart back into place in the corridor and left the building through the same door he entered. Carver glanced down at his phone looking at the contact number for an Emma Langston. His thumb hovered over the number before he locked his phone and buried it in his pocket, setting off down the alleyway back towards his apartment.

CSM99: You get the file?

KidA: Yeah.

CSM99: Thoughts?

KidA is typing…

KidA: Copycat?

CSM99: The details of the cases were never made public.

CSM99: Why won’t you believe it’s the same guy?

KidA: Because I hoped that he was dead.

CSM99 went offline.

Carver felt the weight of his own head in his hands as he sat at his desk looking down at the police report. He glanced up towards a newspaper clipping pinned to the wall to the left of his desk that depicted a young girl looking back at him. He took his phone and brought up her number pressing ‘call’ after a moment’s hesitation.

“Hello,” answered a voice, delicate and unmistakably female.

A smile threatened to creep across his face.

“Hey Em,” he replied.

“What do you need?”

“Need?”

“You haven’t spoken to me for twenty years, if you’re calling me you must need something,” she continued, her soft voice almost a whisper.

“I think,” he began, “I think he might be back.”

“I hope you’re not serious Jim.”

“The last thing I wanted to do was bring you back into this but I think, it’s him.”

She paused, taking a breath.

“Em?”

“Jim, I don’t do this anymore, I can’t do this anymore,” she began, breathless, “we need to move on with our lives.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Yeah.”

Carver coughed into his palm once more looking down at his hand.

“Still smoking?” she asked.

“I gave up. It always seems to catch up with you when you’ve given up.”

“It does,” she said, “look Jim, do yourself a favour and tell the police what you know and then leave it be, nothing good will come from getting back into this.”

“I’ll see you soon Em.”

He hung up the phone and threw it onto his desk before holding his hand to his mouth again and coughing into his palm once more.

KidA: Langston is out.

CSM99 is typing…

CSM99: Then get her back in.

CSM99: We need her.

He shifted on his knees at the foot of his bed, the wooden floor boards scratching at the skin of his feet, reaching underneath for a small box. He pulled out an old shoebox whose lid had been taped down and whose edges had become frayed and torn. He peeled back the tape and removed the lid revealing a small ring box. He stood from his knees holding the box in his hand before turning to look at the picture of the girl on his wall.

KidA: Do you know where she works?

The girl in the photo had red hair.

CSM99: Harvard. She teaches Psychology and Criminology.

Freckled cheeks.

KidA: What are her office hours?

Green eyes.

CSM99: She’s there now.

And a beautiful smile. He took the photo and placed it into the brown file alongside the police report before folding it into his pocket. He looked down at the ring box in his hand, tightening his grip around its red velvet contours and leaving the apartment.

CSM99: Are you back in?

KidA is typing…

KidA: I’ve never been out.

Next Chapter: Chapter Two - "In"