Fear Her Wrath II: Crucible of Glass

Chapter 36

It took the police almost 24 hours to find the empty apartment that Deadstream had used for the killing. Turns out there are a lot of abandoned apartments in the Fen with boarded up windows and rotting floorboards, but this particular one was in a nondescript brownstone on the north end of Brand Hill—part of a block of houses that had been condemned eight years ago but never torn down. The girl's body was still there, and so was the recording equipment. Actually, the only things missing were the camera, the laptop, the killer's tools, and the killer himself. The police file on the suspect was infuriatingly vague: African-American male, aged between 15 and 45, about 5'9", 140 pounds, black hair, no other distinguishing features.

"There are about 12,000 people in the Fen who match that approximate description," Ellie helpfully informed me. That was way too many to start another spreadsheet.

I skipped my usual climb up the fire escape using my new grappling gun. I would never admit this to Simon, but Emery really was just as good as she thought she was. I mean, I preferred my armorer being someone who obviously cared about me, but on a purely practical level, Emery Rubinstein was an upgrade. The line secured itself easily to the wall of the apartment building, allowing me climb up to the fourth floor completely undetected. Actually, I gave the three officers who were working the scene with Corrigan quite a scare when I ducked under the crime scene tape and announced my presence by clearing my throat.

"Sergeant," said one of them, staring at me with something between wonder and fear.

Corrigan was examining some marks on the floorboards and didn't look up. Detective Sloane, who seemed to be wandering the crime scene at his leisure, stepped in.

"Wait outside, rookie," he said gruffly. "And the rest of you. We'll, uh, let you know when we need ya."

The young officer's eyes flickered between us, then he did as he was told, pushing past me as he slipped out into the hallway. The other two officers left their evidence bags on the floor and closed the door behind them as they left. Corrigan was still kneeling, tracing the marks in the wood with her index finger.

"Somebody in the commissioner's office must really hate you," I said, leaning over her shoulder.

She let out a long hiss of breath through her nose.

"Actually, this falls right into my usual wheelhouse. The victim was underage, and I don't think I'm being too presumptive when I say this is a creepy sexual thing for the killer. And thanks to you, I'm now Marbrose PD's go-to person for freak activity. That's three for three."

She paused and glanced up at me.

"Speaking of which, I haven't seen you around for a while."

I shifted my weight uncomfortably, making the floorboards creak.

"Would you believe 'kidnapped against my will by an all-powerful extra-dimensional entity to take part in a cosmic tournament to the death on a faraway planet?'"

I wouldn't have ordinarily been cracking jokes in the middle of a crime scene, but everything about this place creeped me out, and bad jokes were my dealing with it. My police contact obviously understood.

"Your friend used the words 'parental phone embargo,' which I'm guessing means grounded," said Corrigan slyly. "Rumor around the station was you were dead after what happened at the Midnight Rider."

She fixed her eyes on me with that "not angry, just disappointed" look that always made me feel like I was her troublesome daughter who wouldn't stop making bad choices.

"Don't ever do that again, by the way. Especially without telling me. I'd never forgive myself if you got killed doing something dumb and I could have stopped it."

"Y-yes, ma'am," I stammered, my face flushing beneath my mask. "There goes my story about fighting the seven-foot-tall blue-skinned alien gladiator," I added under my breath.

Corrigan didn't smile, but her face relaxed, so I knew my well-earned scolding was over. It was time for business.

"So... what've we got?"

"They already took the body away," said Corrigan, instinctively feeling for a cigarette in her coat pockets as she straightened up. "The coroner should have the specifics in a few hours—not that I'm expecting any surprises. We're just bagging and tagging all the weird equipment the killer left behind. If this wasn't a murder scene, it'd be an audiophile's paradise. It's all vintage and hi-fidelity. I've already checked with all the music stores in town. Not only have none of them sold any of this stuff, they didn't even know where you could buy it."

"Yeah, they ain't kiddin,'" said Detective Sloane. "Check this one out, kid. 1934 Margulis RM-66"

He pointed a stubby finger at one of the microphones. It looked like an oblong Art Deco cage made of chrome and steel mesh, and it reminded me of the microphones nightclub singers in movies were always pressing their lips to. Sloane went on with the history lesson.

"Sinatra recorded on one of these. And Tommy Dorsey. Man, they don't make 'em like they used to. I'm tellin' ya, Sarah, the sound quality on these things..."

"Was perfect for capturing the slow death of a 12-year-old girl," said Corrigan, her face hard. "Help yourself once it's in evidence, Laurence. But I'm not touching it."

Sloane glanced over at me like we were fellow sufferers from Corrigan's unreasonable seriousness over the murder of a child. Mainly to look like I was doing something, I took out my phone and started taking pictures of the crime scene. It was eerily tidy—almost spotless, apart from the blood. He really had left no clues. That somehow made it even creepier.

"Okay," I said, snapping a closeup of one of the vintage microphones. "So, just because Deadstream didn't buy this stuff down the road doesn't mean he didn't buy it anywhere. Maybe he's... super rich, and these are from his personal collection."

Detective Sloane scoffed.

"Ya tellin' me some rich guy could be off in Havana surrounded by beautiful women, and instead he's here snuffin' little kids for fun?"

"It's happened before," said Corrigan, squatting down to study the chair where the victim had been tied. "But that would make this too easy. Worst case scenario would be he's a nobody—not so much as a parking ticket on his record. And that's what it's looking like right now."

She gave a frustrated sigh.

"So we've got nothing?"

"Situation normal, kid," said Sloane, who was studying the ceiling with his hands in his pockets. "Not unless you can trace any of this stuff."

He nudged Sergeant Corrigan and offered his restless coworker a cigarette, which she declined after hesitating slightly. I continued to wander the crime scene with my phone, going through the motions of collecting evidence as I tried to make sense of it all in my head. A nobody. There were a lot of those in Marbrose City. I'd learned the hard way that profiling the criminal in the absence of any solid evidence wouldn't get me very far. I needed a different approach.

"Wait," I said abruptly. "So, let's think about this another way: who would have heaps of old-fashioned recording equipment just lying around? Where could he find this stuff if he didn't buy it?"

"Find it?" asked Sloane incredulously. "Kid, this stuff is vintage. Top quality. You're not just gonna find it out in the dumpster."

But the lightbulb had already gone off. I turned to Corrigan.

"I... have an idea. Maybe it's nothing. It may or may not involve a little breaking and entering. I need to call someone for help."

Sloane raised his eyebrows, but Corrigan's lips curled into the smallest of smiles.

"Good luck," she said. "I need to go talk to this girl's parents. See what they know. Let's stay in touch. And try not to get grounded again."

"Tell Audrey's parents the Nightwrath is on the case," I said fiercely. "And we're gonna find this freak."