The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told (2 page)

“You can depend on me,” said Ms. Fate.

Our next port of call was the Nightside’s one and only autopsy room. We do have a CSI, but it only has four people in it. And only one Coroner; Dr. West. Short, stocky fellow with a smiling face and flat straw-yellow hair. I wouldn’t leave him alone with the body of anyone I cared about, but he’s good enough at his job.

By the time Ms. Fate and I got there, Dr. West already has the werewolf’s body laid out in his slab. He was washing the naked body with great thoroughness and crooning a song to it as we entered. He looked round unhurriedly, and waggled the fingers of one podgy hand at us.

“Come in, come in! So nice to have visitors. So nice! Of course, I’m never alone down here, but I do miss good conversation. Take a look at this.”

He put down his wet sponge, picked up a long surgical instrument, and started poking around inside the body’s massive wound. Ms. Fate and I moved closer, while still maintaining a respectful distance. Dr. West tended to get over-excited with a scalpel in his hand, and we didn’t want to get spattered.

Dr. West thrust both his hands into the cavity and started rooting around with quite unnecessary enthusiasm. “The heart is missing,” he said cheerfully. “Also, the liver. Yes. Yes . . . Not cut out, torn out . . . Made a real mess of this poor fellow’s insides; hard to be sure of anything else . . . Not sure what to put down as actual cause of death; blood loss, trauma, shock . . . Heart attack? Yes. That covers it. So; another victim for our current serial killer. Number six . . . how very industrious. Oh yes. Haven’t even got a name for your chart, have we, boy? Just another John Doe . . . But not to worry; I’ve got a nice little locker waiting for you, nice and cosy, next to your fellow victims.”

“You have got to stop talking to the corpses like that,” I said sternly. “One of these days someone will catch you at it.”

Dr. West stuck out his tongue at me. “Let them. See if I care. See if they can get anyone else to do this job.”

“How long have you been Coroner, Dr. West?” said Ms. Fate, tactfully changing the subject.

“Oh, years and years, my dear. I was made Coroner the same year Samuel here was made Detective. Oh yes, we go way back, Samuel and I. All because of that nasty Shock-Headed Peter . . . The Authorities decided that such a successful serial killer was bad for business, and therefore Something Must Be Done. It’s all about popular perception, you see . . . There are many things in the Nightside far more dangerous than any human killer could ever hope to be, but the Authorities, bless their grey little hearts, wanted visitors to feel safe, so . . .”

He stopped and looked at me sourly. “You’d never believe he and I were the same age, would you? How do you do it, Samuel?”

“Healthy eating,” I said. “And lots of vitamins.”

“Why haven’t you called in Walker?” Ms. Fate said suddenly. “He speaks for the Authorities, with a Voice everyone has to obey; and I’ve heard it said he once made a corpse sit up on a slab and answer his questions.”

“Oh he did, he did,” said Dr. West, pulling his hands out of the body with a nasty sucking sound. “I was there at the time, and very edifying it was too. But unfortunately, all six of our victims had their tongues torn out. After our killer had taken the bits and pieces he wanted. Which suggests our killer had reason to be afraid of Walker.”

“Hell,” I said. “Everyone’s got good reason to be afraid of Walker.”

Dr. West shrugged, threw aside his scalpel and slipped off his latex gloves with a deliberate flourish, as though to make clear he’d done all that could reasonably be expected of him.

Ms. Fate stared into the open wound again. “Our killer really does like his work, doesn’t he?”

“He’s got an appetite for it,” I said solemnly.

“Oh please,” said Ms. Fate.

I moved in beside her, staring down into the cavity. “Took the heart out first, then the liver. Our killer must believe they hold the secret of the werewolf’s abilities. If he is a shape-changer now, he’d be that much harder to take down.”

Ms. Fate looked at me thoughtfully, and then turned to Dr. West. “Do you still have all the victims’ clothes and belongings?”

“Of course, my dear, of course! Individually bagged and tagged. Help yourself.”

She opened every bag, and checked every piece of torn and blood-soaked clothing. It’s always good to see a real professional at work. Eventually she ran out of things to check and test, and turned back to me.

“Six victims. Different ages, sexes, occupations. Nothing at all to connect them. Unless you know something, Detective.”

“There’s nothing in the files,” I said.

“So how were the victims chosen? Why these six people?”

“Maybe the people don’t matter,” I said. “Just their abilities.”

“Run me through them again,” she said. “Names and abilities, in order, from the beginning.”

“First victim was the godling Demetrius Heracles,” I said patiently. “Then the farseer, Barbara Moore. The teleporter, Cainy du Brec. The immortal Count Magnus, though I doubt very much that was his real name. The chat show host, Adrian Woss, and finally the werewolf, Christopher Russell.”

“This whole business reminds me unpleasantly of Shock- Headed Peter,” Ms. Fate said slowly. “Not the MO, but the sheer ruthlessness of the murders. Are you sure he hasn’t escaped?”

“Positive,” I said. “No-one escapes from Shadow Deep.”

She shook her masked head, her heavy cloak rustling loudly. “I’d still feel happier if we checked. Can you get us in?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m the Detective.”

So we went down into Shadow Deep, all the way down to the darkest place in the Nightside, sunk far below in the cold bedrock. Constructed . . . no one knows how long ago, to hold the most vicious, evil and dangerous criminals ever stupid enough to prey on the Nightside. The ones we can’t, for one reason or another, just execute and be done with. The only way down is by the official transport circle, maintained and operated by three witches from a small room over a really rough bar called The Jolly Cripple
.
If the people who drank in the bar knew what went on in the room above their heads . . . they’d probably drink a hell of a lot more.

“Why here?” said Ms. Fate, as we ascended the gloomy back stairs. “Secrecy?”

“Partly, I suppose,” I said. “More likely because it’s cheap.”

The three witches were the traditional bent-over hags in tattered cloaks, all clawed hands and hooked noses. The great circle on the floor had been marked in chalk mixed with sulphur and semen. You don’t want to know how I found out. Ms. Fate glowered at the three witches.

“You can stop that cackling right now. You don’t have to put on an act; we’re not tourists.”

“Well pardon us for taking pride in our work,” said one of the witches, straightening up immediately. “We are professionals, after all. And image is everything, these days. You don’t think these warts just happened, do you?”

I gave her my best hard look, and she got the transport operation underway. The three witches did the business with a minimum of chanting and incense, and down Ms. Fate and I went down, to Shadow Deep.

It was dark when we arrived. Completely dark, with not a ghost of a light anywhere. I only knew Ms. Fate was there with me because I could hear her breathing at my side. Footsteps approached, slow and heavy, until finally a pair of night vision goggles were thrust into my hand. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and from the muffled squeak beside me, so did Ms. Fate. I slipped the goggles on, and Shadow Deep appeared around me, all dull green images and fuzzy shadows.

It’s always dark in Shadow Deep.

We were standing in an ancient circular stone chamber, with a low roof, curving walls and just the one exit, leading onto a stone tunnel. Standing before us was one of the prison staff; a rough clay golem with simple pre-programmed routines. It had no eyes on its smooth face, because it didn’t need to see. It turned abruptly and started off down the tunnel, and Ms. Fate and I hurried after it. The tunnel branched almost immediately, and branched again, and as we moved from tunnel to identical tunnel, I soon lost all track of where I was.

We came at last to the Governor’s office, and the golem raised an oversized hand and knocked once on the door. A cheery voice called out for us to enter, and the door swung open before us. A blinding light spilled out, and Ms. Fate and I clawed off our goggles as we stumbled into the office. The door shut itself behind us.

I looked around the Governor’s office with watering eyes. It wasn’t particularly big, but it had all the comforts. The Governor came out from behind his desk to greet us, a big blocky man with a big friendly smile that didn’t touch his eyes at all. He seemed happy to see us, but then, he was probably happy to see anyone. Shadow Deep doesn’t get many visitors.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said, taking our goggles and shaking my hand and Ms. Fate’s with great gusto. “The great Detective and the famous vigilante; such an honour! Do sit down, make yourselves at home. That’s right! Make yourselves comfortable! Can I offer you a drink, cigars . . . ?”

“No,” I said.

“Ah, Detective,” said the Governor, sitting down again behind his desk. “It’s always business with you, isn’t it?”

“Ms. Fate is concerned that one of your inmates might have escaped,” I said.

“What? Oh no; no, quite impossible!” The Governor turned his full attention and what he likes to think of as his charming smile on Ms. Fate. “No one ever escapes from here. Never, never. It’s always dark in Shadow Deep, you see. Light doesn’t work here, outside my office. Not any kind of light, scientific or magical. Not even a match . . . Even if a prisoner could get out of his cell, which he can’t, there’s no way he could find his way through the maze of tunnels to the transfer site. Even a teleporter can’t get out of here, because there’s no way of knowing how far down we are!”

“Tell her how it works,” I said. “Tell her what happens to the scum I bring here.”

The Governor blinked rapidly, and tried another ingratiating smile. “Yes, well, the prisoner is put into his cell by one of the golems, and the door is then nailed shut. And sealed forever with pre-prepared, very powerful magics. Once in, a prisoner never leaves his cell. The golems pass food and water through a slot in the door. And that’s it.”

“What about . . . ?” said Ms. Fate.

“There’s a grille in the floor.”

“Oh, ick.”

“Quite,” said the Governor. “You must understand, our prisoners are not here to reform, or repent. Only the very worst individuals ever end up here, and they stay here till they die. However long that takes. No reprieves, and no time off for good behaviour.”