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“That’s it,” said Ripley. “You can send him home.”
Ella kept a brave face in light of the disappointment. Tyler wasn’t their man. An hour ago, she’d been all but convinced, and now it was back to square one. She maintained her composure, not wanting her aggravation to rub off on the rest of the team.
“Alright. I’m sorry ladies. If it’s any consolation, I thought we had our man.”
Another figure suddenly appeared at the door beside Cromwell, face as pale as mountain snow. “Chief,” the officer said, grabbing his arm. “Get over here quick.”
The commotion drew the attention of everyone in earshot, including the two agents. Ella glanced out of their office window at the far end of the precinct to see two officers holding a young boy by either arm. Black leather coat, messy hair, acne for days. Too young and weak to be a murderer, she thought. Probably been arrested for drug possession.
Cromwell crossed the precinct before calling back to the agents. “Ripley, Dark, out here now.”
Or not.
Ella jumped out of her chair and closed in. The young boy looked confused, shocked, even terrified. Beside him, one of the officers held a folded-up piece of paper between his fingertips.
“Tell us what you told the other cop,” the officer said.
“Some guy paid me to give you this letter,” uttered the young boy.
The officer passed it to Ella. She unfolded it.
A handwritten note.
Fear and adrenaline in one surge.
She scanned the words, some of them barely legible.
“Who? Who paid you?” Cromwell asked.
“I dunno. He had a hood up. And a face mask. I couldn’t see him.”
“Where was this?” Ella snapped. “Outside the precinct? Where?”
“No. About a mile away. Hicksberg. In the town.”
“Height? Weight? Voice? Identifiable marks? What was he wearing?”
The boy looked like he’d just been asked to unveil the secrets of the universe. “I don’t know!” he cried. “Normal height, normal size. Spoke like a guy. He was wearing a black coat.”
“Useless,” Cromwell said.
Ella took a closer look at the contents. As she reached the end of the page, it wasn’t the declarations of murder that stood out, it was two simple letters.
T.C.
***
Ella, Ripley, and Cromwell stood around the desk, all focused on the piece of paper between them. Ella had read the contents ten times over and still couldn’t fathom their meaning.
“This sounds like the ramblings of a lunatic. The kind of crap that used to come out of Charles Manson’s mouth.”
Ella took it in again, replaying the words on a loop.
God so commanded, and left that command. Sole daughter of his voice; the rest we live. Law to ourselves, our reason is our law. Detectives, who can deny having experienced moments when, had you owned the power, you would have gladly destroyed the world and every living creature on it in your anger and despondency, like a thwarted, disgruntled child? In retrospect, when the blood has cooled or circumstances brightened, you may self-flatteringly asseverate, ‘Oh, but I didn’t really mean it.’ Nonsense! Had the world-extinguishing button been under your thumb at that particular moment of inspired rage or evil brilliance, you would have pushed it with grateful exhilaration, even joy. The Götterdämmerung Syndrome.
Can there be any objective doubt, in those of you wisely conversant with the wiles and ways of human nature and man’s infinite capacity to rationalize every atrocity there is, that the main psychological reason why most people do not pray to the Prince of Darkness, had they robust spirit to do so, is that it would be tantamount to worshipping themselves, thus confirming a nature they would piously deny?
These murders you seek to judge are not as they seem. While armchair sleuths and terminally online fools may label them as unsolved, any professional in the Game of Death should know better. Each body is a piece of a larger puzzle, the zero-sum of their parts. Instead, we are destined to walk these corpses to Cotard’s Garden and rejoice.
