The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (14 page)

“Mr. Caraway is with me, Commissioner Woods,” the Green Lama explained, stepping out from the shadows, his voice a rumbling whisper. His face was hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes glinting like emeralds. The crowd around Caraway let out an audible gasp and for the first time, Caraway realized just how terrifying the Green Lama could be.

“Oh, Jesus. You,” he said with an annoyed grumble, but kept his hand on his sidearm. “I thought you were still down in D.C. chasing Fifth Columnists. Did you rush back here on my account?”

“Pleasure to see you as well, Commissioner,” the Green Lama replied pleasantly, though Caraway could hear the venom in his friend’s voice.

“Is that the Green Lama?” a woman next to Caraway murmured.

“I thought he was just something the newspapers made up to sell papers,” the man beside her whispered back.

Despite the cold beads of sweat formed at the edge of Woods’ receding hairline. The Commissioner cleared his throat and did his best to stand his ground. “He’s with you?” he asked, tossing a thumb back at Caraway, apprehension tinting his normally reedy voice. “What the hell is he doing with you?”

“He’s my consultant,” the Green Lama replied. Caraway almost burst out laughing.

“Consultant?” Woods balked. “Last I heard it was the other way around. Used to seem like Caraway couldn’t solve anything without you jumping in at the last minute.”

“You’d be surprised, Commissioner,” the Green Lama calmly retorted. “Caraway recently played a vital role in saving the world from the forces of darkness.”

“Yeah, like I’d believe that,” Woods jeered. He paused and frowned in consideration before he finally shook his head. “I’ll let you up, Lama, you might actually be able to help. But Caraway stays here.”

The Green Lama, his eyes glowing a menacing green, stepped closer to Woods. “If you want my help,” he said softly, “then I need Caraway.”

Woods’s upper lip snarled with anger, though his eyes betrayed his fear. “Fine!” he relented. “But if he touches anything, I will take you both in for tampering with evidence. You get me?”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Caraway commented under his breath.

“Understood, Commissioner,” the Green Lama said aloud, shooting Caraway a chastising glare.

Woods gave them a beckoning wave. “Come on, let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, leading the way into the apartment building.

Caraway ducked under the police barricade. “At least, I’ll be doing something good,” he said to Heidelberger.

But Heidelberger only frowned and shook his head. “Trust me, Boss,” he warned, glancing up at the fifth floor window, “there’s nothing good about this call.”

• • •

JETHRO COULD HEAR the murmuring of the crowd several stories below like they were screams, echoing around him, reverberating in the walls. There were no shadows, only darker patches of light. Atoms glowed and quivered, the air moved in the luminescent waves. The veil of reality had been pulled back, revealing the intricacies that keep the world in a delicate balance. And the more he saw, the more he realized that he stood at the center of it. But Jethro pushed these thoughts away and kept his mind on the matter at hand.

Two uniformed officers stood outside the apartment, neither of whom Jethro recognized. Woods gave the officers a brisk nod and they stepped aside, letting the newcomers through. The narrow apartment was in shambles, blood painted across the floors and walls in broad, violent strokes. Inside, two detectives milled about the room while a crime scene photographer set up his camera over a shrouded corpse—which seemed unnaturally flat—in the center of the room. The powerful stench of decaying flesh filled the room, reminding Jethro of R’lyeh.

“My God,” Caraway breathed, covering his nose.

“Blow me and call me Popeye,” the detective Jethro knew as Peter Crevier said with a whistle and a slight Cajun accent. His narrow face was scruffy and unshaven. A long scar ran across his right cheek, a gift from a former lover he used to say, though Jethro knew it was really from a childhood accident. “Look who it is, Jeffrey.”

The other detective, ruddy and bespectacled, a pencil and pad in hand, looked over at Jethro and Caraway from the other side of the apartment with derision. “Lieutenant Caraway and the Green fucking Lama,” Detective Jeffrey Fulton swore with a broad smile beneath a walrus-like mustache. He put his hands on his wide hips and eyed the pair with fascination. “Jesus, I thought you two had eloped and bought a cottage out in Oregon, raising sheep or whatever the hell it is they raise out there.”

“Cram it, Fulton,” Caraway growled. “Why don’t you get useful and tell us what happened here?”

Fulton glanced skeptically over at Woods. “You all right with this, Commish? I know how much you love these two.”

“Tell ’em,” Woods answered with a concessionary wave. “Who knows, they might surprise us.”

Fulton sighed and pointed to the draped body on the floor with his chewed up pencil. “One woman, early thirties. Named Beatrice Roman,” he began, mispronouncing her name. “Neighbors called us when they started smelling something funny this morning; and, as you can tell, it smells real funny.”

“Looks real ‘funny,’ too,” Crevier added. “Whatever sicko did this really enjoyed himself.”

“May we see the body, Mr. Crevier?” Jethro asked evenly.

“What’s left of it…” Crevier said as he knelt down and reached for the sheet. He paused and looked up at Jethro, his watery eyes revealing the fear beneath the bravado. “You sure you wanna see this? This ain’t some gangland gun and run, this is some serious shit.”

Jethro nodded solemnly. “Please, Detective.”

Crevier shrugged his eyebrows. “Seth needs to take the photos anyways,” he said faintly as he pulled back the shroud.

“Not that I exactly want to,” the red-haired photographer muttered.

Caraway instinctually turned away, swearing under his breath. But Jethro’s gaze never left the mutilated corpse. When he had heard the call over the police airwaves he had assumed the worst, but this went beyond his expectations. He had seen the body of a man shot through the heart, the fingers of both hands sawed off to hide the identity of his killer; traversed an entire ship thrown into madness; watched a woman’s throat sliced open by her former lover; but, this…

The woman’s body—Beatrice, Jethro reminded himself, that was her name, Beatrice—was torn in half from head to stomach. Her brain had been scooped out of her shattered skull, while her eyes stared off vacantly in opposite directions. Her organs, what little remained, were shredded into pieces, her spine visible beneath. Teeth marks lined most of her flesh. Spots of black ooze pooled with the drying blood.

Jethro’s jaw clenched. He could have saved her, he told himself. What good was the ability to hear a pin drop several miles away when he couldn’t even hear the screams of dying woman?
Do the gifts of the gods go useless in the matters of man?

“Commissioner, did any of your men happen to spill a quart of oil while investigating the scene?” Jethro asked as he knelt down beside the body.

“This isn’t amateur hour,” Woods spat, his anger muted by the sight of the corpse.

Jethro eyed the man with hidden contempt. “The black substance mixed with the victim’s blood,” he replied calmly, pointing to the obsidian droplets. “They were here when the body was discovered, yes?”

Crevier replied with a nod. “Spots of it here and there, yeah. The patrol officer who discovered the body mentioned it when he put the call in, but we didn’t think nothing of it…” He trailed off as he glanced over the body again. His eyebrows shot up in restrained disbelief. “But it looks like there’s more of it now, huh?”

Fulton leaned forward and peered at the corpse, thoughtfully rocking his mustache back and forth. “Wouldja look at that… Sprouting out like mold. Reminds me of the stuff you find in the corner of the shower.”

“Anyone mind telling me what the hell happened to her?” Caraway interrupted, nearly shouting. “I mean, Jesus Christ, look at her. We’re talking about her like she was some dog that got hit by a truck.”

“She was eaten alive, John,” Jethro said grimly after several moments of silence.

Caraway scowled and swore under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as if he had been struck hard in the gut.

“Yeah, but by what?” Fulton asked sardonically. “That’s the thousand dollar question. Pete’s got ten on a bear. I’m down for a really big dog. Probably a Rottweiler; those things can bite.”

Jethro tilted his head to get a better look at the bite marks and frowned. “Tell me, Mr. Fulton, was Beatrice married?”

“Uh… yeah…” Fulton scratched his jaw, reading over his notepad. “According to her neighbors, his name is George. At least that’s what I think they were saying. They all talk with a thick accent, I can barely understand two words… But, they told me he had been missing for the last few weeks. She had a kid, too, Hector, though he’s gone missing as well.”

Jethro nodded thoughtfully. “Unless the husband has an airtight alibi, more likely than not, he’s the one who…” Jethro paused, struggling to say the words. “He’s the one who did this,” he finished, gesturing at Beatrice’s corpse.

“How the hell you figure that?” Caraway asked quietly, refusing to believe it.

“Look at the bite marks.” Jethro pointed to a wound on the woman’s stomach. “These weren’t the teeth of an animal… Here are the impressions of incisors, canines, and premolars. By the size and dullness of the impression, it would be a man in his late thirties, one who eats coarse foods and doesn’t brush frequently; and based on our surroundings, I doubt they had the money to afford finer foods. Additionally, look at Beatrice’s hand here, the bruising around her wrist.” He splayed his own hand in the air for emphasis. “Four fingers and a thumb. She was grabbed, violently, and pulled down.”

“So, you’re saying the husband… literally ate his wife ’cause they couldn’t afford a nice Oysters Rockefeller, then stole the kid?” Crevier sounded sick.

“Detective Crevier, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t be here,” Jethro said calmly, looking over the mutilated corpse once again. He stood up and looked to Fulton. “Tell me, how long did the neighbors say Beatrice was missing?”

“They didn’t. The old lady downstairs said she was home last night,” Fulton answered. “Stressed, but otherwise safe and sound.”

Jethro shook his head. No, it couldn’t be possible. “Then why is the body exhibiting a week’s worth of decay?”

“How the hell is that possible?” Caraway asked, but Jethro only gave him a silent look that spoke volumes. He didn’t know.

“It may have something to do with the black liquid,” Jethro said. Not for the first time, he was reminded of the man who had attacked Jean. He needed to study the black ooze. He looked over to Woods. “Commissioner, with your permission?”

Woods shook his head. “I don’t care who you are, Lama, you’re
not
messing with my crime scene.”

Jethro looked over at Caraway, who nodded in silent understanding. “Completely understandable, Commissioner,” Jethro said, standing up. “If you don’t mind, Caraway and I will look over the rest of the apartment and let your men get back to work.”

Woods eyed Jethro and Caraway suspiciously before he gave them a subtle conciliatory nod. “But don’t touch anything, you get me? I don’t care who you are, Lama, but if I find anything out of place I’ll have
both
your hides.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see him
try
,” Caraway grumbled to Jethro.

Jethro allowed himself a somber smile as they moved away from the corpse. Despite the circumstances, he was glad to be working with Caraway once again. The
click, snap, FLASH!
of the camera began singing a morbid song.

“Own up, Lama,” Caraway continued. “Why am I here? Sick as this thing is, this sorta stuff should be a walk in the park for you.”

Jethro shook his head. “There is something wrong here, John; deeper and more perverse. It is something Jean told me,” he admitted as they moved through the apartment. “A man attacked her, his eyes bleeding black; the black substance on the victim’s body is similar to what she described. I can’t help but feel they’re connected.” Jethro peered into a small pile of broken wood, a cacophony of dark mahogany, light birch and peeling lime green. His heart stopped cold. His mouth went dry and he blinked several times before he was able to speak. “John…” he managed. “John, could you come over here?”

Caraway stepped over and froze at the sight. “Holy Jesus…”

“You guys find something?” Crevier asked as he, Fulton, and Woods rushed up beside them. His heels squeaked against the wooden floor as he came to a dead stop. “Oh… God…“ he sobbed.

Despite the wet gurgling sound of Woods behind them, silence echoed through the room, as if the world had shut down, the air sucked out into space. Caraway looked over at Jethro, hoping for an answer, but Jethro only closed his eyes and fought back tears. There was nothing to say.

At their feet, in a pool of blood mixed with black, was the partially devoured body of a young child, its face split open, its eyes starring off in opposite directions.

Chapter 6:
The Lost Ones