Hell's Detective

Chapter Two- Murder Most Foul

Abner Ingleseid died on the 5th of March, 2008, in the basement of his house and as far as anyone knew, he had stayed dead since. That was only partly the truth. Like all people who've done nasty things throughout the course of their life, Ingleseid was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to Hell.

Decades past.

He didn't remember all of it. Some days it felt like it had all been a bad dream.

There weren't very many of those days.

When he'd forgotten how to talk, how to scream, forgotten his own name, someone came to him with an offer. Work for Hell and be free.

That was how Abner Ingleseid became Hell's best, and only, detective.

"Apparently, it's of the utmost importance," Krugo was saying as they walked down the alley. "Boss wanted you specifically."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Krugo leered at him, hollow cheekbones wrinkling below his empty sockets. "He pulled me straight out of the pit, and I was having fun, too. I was in the disembowelling ward. You should come and watch sometime. It's hilarious."

Ingleseid ignored him. He often ignored what Krugo said, which only seemed to encourage him.

They stopped at a decrepit apartment block. The door was redecorated with graffiti, slightly ajar. Ingleseid tested it. It wouldn't close. Someone had kicked it in.

"This the place?" he asked.

"I should probably warn you," Krugo said, sounding slightly more excited at the prospect of a crime scene than he strictly speaking should have been, "it's a bit messy."

"When isn't it?" Ingleseid muttered, and trooped up the stairs. They creaked and groaned in pain under his shoes.

The smell was the first thing he noticed. Sour and rotten, like spoiled meat and smoke. Ingleseid covered his mouth, fought the urge to gag.

There were four bodies, although it was difficult to tell that they were actually bodies. Lumpy, stringy remains splattered the walls like a bug on a windshield where two had literally exploded. One was pinned to the wall, arms spread by nails in his wrists. From his neck to his abdomen his belly had been sliced open, grey, rubbery organs spilling out. Dull eyes stared at them unseeingly. The closest one lay almost at their feet and was completely blackened, skin shrivelled and crumbling. The face was unrecognizable, but Ingleseid could still make out the hollow lines of the jaw, the lips stretched into a silent scream.

"So, what are we looking at, Detective?" Krugo asked, stepping over what looked like a piece of intestine, but Ingleseid didn't fancy to taking a better look to make sure.

Ingleseid shook his head, letting the shock, the disgust, the revulsion, all melt away until there was nothing left. They weren't demons anymore, didn't have lives, hobbies, friends. They were just the job. He pointed to the charred remains of the demon at the door. "He was the first to die. He got closer than any of the others, so we can assume he opened the door. Which means they weren't expecting this." He turned. "Killer turns him into a jacket potato, and these two attack. He kills them, but this-" He pointed to the demon hanging from the ceiling. "This is the one he was interested in."

"What was he, then?" Krugo asked. "Witch? Werewolf?"

"A witch didn't do this," he said. "Too disorganized. If you were going to kill a group of demons, why not get them all at once? Do it with the same spell? No, witches are all about planning. This murder was done on instinct."

"So, a werewolf?"

"No." Ingleseid pointed to the disembowelled demon hanging on the wall. "He was tortured. Werewolves devour. They don't torture."