Diana Rowland - Mark of the Demon

I obliged and followed him, taking in the surroundings in a quick glance as he moved to the far side of the broad oak desk. The office was neat and perfectly styled, much like his person. Dark-blue carpet matched the colors in the Beaulac PD seal, which had been painted on the wall behind his desk. Books were arranged by height. Certificates and plaques on the wall were ordered in perfect harmony with one another. One shelf was devoted to trophies, and the brief glance that I was able to make told me that they were either for athletic events or firearms competitions.

The chief motioned me to sit with the folder in his hand. So I sat, trying to not appear uncertain, even though I definitely felt that way. Chief Morse never called nonranking detectives or patrol officers in. Even if someone was in serious trouble, the chief preferred to have his immediate underlings take care of ugly tasks like discipline or firings.

He leaned back in his chair while I remained sitting stiffly upright. He flipped open the folder, looked at the contents for a second, then made a “hmmf” noise and looked over at me.

“You’re working these murders,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a question at all, but I gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

His frown deepened, though I couldn’t tell if it was a frown of displeasure or of thought. This was the first time I’d spent more than five seconds in the man’s presence, so I didn’t have much experience to draw on.

“I read your initial report on the first case,” he said, voice clipped. “Same symbol on this latest one as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve read up on the previous cases?”

“Yes, sir.” I resisted the urge to fidget.

“So you’re the resident expert.” There was still no clue from his tone as to where he was going with this. He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but he was looking at me as if expecting a response.

I hesitated briefly before answering. I didn’t want to appear cocky, but I probably did know more about the case than anyone else in the department. “I don’t know if expert is the right word, sir,” I finally said, “but I have a strong familiarity with the case.”

Chief Morse set the folder down, expression still unreadable. “Captain Turnham says that you asked for the Symbol Man files not long ago.”

“Yes, sir. I was transferred to Violent Crimes just a few weeks ago, so I figured I’d take a look at some old case files to start getting a feel for it all.”

His lips pressed together and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk and lightly clasping his hands together. “Why the Symbol Man cases?”

“Well, sir,” I said, as I tried to gather my thoughts into something coherent, “it’s not often that any detective gets the chance to work this kind of case, or even see the details of the case. I’ve been a detective for only a couple of years—in Property Crimes—and I thought that by reviewing the files I could learn something about homicide investigations. And that’s pretty much the biggest unsolved case we have, and … Well, I’ve been interested in the case for quite some time.”

His eyes were intent on me, as if expecting me to say more. “I see. So you’re just trying to be a better detective?”

I couldn’t read his tone at all. Very frustrating. “Well, yes, sir. I mean, I really enjoy police work and intend to make a career of it.” I could feel myself getting flustered despite my best efforts at control. “I’m sorry, sir, but have I done something wrong?”

“I saw you out on the scene at the wastewater plant, Detective Gillian,” he said, ignoring my question. “You seem to be pretty meticulous and organized.”

He’d obviously never seen the inside of my kitchen cabinets. “I do my best, sir.”

“What were you doing to the body?”

“Er, what?”

He scowled. “You were squatting by the body and waving your hand over it.” He made a horizontal waving motion with his own hand. “What was that all about? Did you touch the body?”

Shit. He’d seen me trying to feel the arcane resonance. “No, sir, I didn’t touch the body,” I said, thinking furiously. “I, uh, was trying to see some of the cuts better, and there was some glare from the halogens.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Glare. Uh-huh. And Tessa Pazhel is your aunt?”

I just nodded, not wanting to say anything that could make me look like more of an idiot. Glare? That was the best excuse I could come up with?

“She has a rep for being a weird little bird,” he said, “but I’m sure you know that.”

I couldn’t help but bristle at the slight. “Sir, my aunt is—”

He lifted his hand, cutting me off. “I know, I know. I’m out of line maligning your family. I shouldn’t have said that. But I want to make it very clear, Detective Gillian,” his sharp blue eyes stayed on mine, “that I want these murders to stop, I want the bad guy to go to jail, and I don’t want any bizarre shenanigans on scenes. It’s not enough just to solve a case. We have to be able to take it to court as well. You weren’t wearing gloves, and it looked like you touched the body.”

“Yes, sir.” What more could I say? He was right. “I didn’t mean to get so close to the body. I’ll be more careful, sir.”

He looked steadily at me for what seemed like several minutes, though I knew it was probably only a few seconds. I willed calm, maintaining my demeanor as he regarded me only by utilizing my training as a summoner.

Finally he waved a hand at me. “You’re dismissed, Detective. Just keep in mind what I said.”

I stood. “Yes, sir. I will.” I turned quickly and exited. The secretary glanced up as I passed, giving me a small wink and smile that managed to drag my morale back to normal levels. She’d probably overheard quite a few ass-chewings over the years, and I felt a bit better after the silent reassurance.

Returning to my office, I shut the door and sat heavily at my desk. I deserved that , I had to admit. At least he hadn’t pulled me off the cases. I forced myself to take some comfort in that—not easy after being rebuked by the chief. But apparently he still had faith that I could handle it. I just had to be more careful. The last thing I needed was for people to think I was as strange as my aunt. It was besides the point that I was as strange as my aunt, but that didn’t mean I wanted people to think it. Who are you kidding , I thought wryly. They probably already do .

I finally exhaled heavily and spread my hands on the top of my desk. I can handle it. I’ll solve these cases, using every fucking trick in or out of the book . So what if no one had been able to solve the Symbol Man murders the last time he was doing his killing. None of them could see the arcane. That gave me an advantage.

Now I just had to use it.

Leaning back to reach my filing cabinet, I yanked open the middle drawer, then riffled quickly through the files until I came to the thick folder containing the pictures from all the previous murders—Series One, as I was beginning to mentally refer to them. I flipped through the pics quickly. All those bodies had been dumped in places that were traveled infrequently, which meant that they were often not found for days or weeks. The body at the waste-water plant had been found quickly, but the fracture injuries made me think that he’d meant to place the body up on the vat, or somewhere else less visible.

But the victim at the ball field was meant to be found quickly. So why the change?

I worked my way through the pictures, taking note of something else. The Series One victims had been killed in a variety of ways, except for the last two—who’d been strangled. They’d all shown evidence of prolonged torture, but the main feature that had tied those murders together was the symbol. Always the same symbol, though not always in the same place on the body. Sometimes not even in an immediately visible location. Both victims from my cases—Series Two—had been strangled. So, why the change? Could it be a copycat?