The Benthic Zone (Mystery Horror) IC/CLOSED

[Kentucky Fried Land]

OOC

Episode 1 - Amongst the Masses
How the waves ran along the beach. Broken and curled, they crashed amongst the likes of pebbles, marsh elders, black grass, seashells, and sand. The sun was just emerging over fog, beams bursting through smog and murk alike. There was an old man at the dock, that morning. Boots, a raincoat, jeans, the necessities for a man to make way on a boat and make way on a boat this man was to do. He was Cecil S. Lyle; a retired lobster trapper from Maryland who had begun volunteering at the lighthouse after being widowed. Wind blew through his garbled beard as he threw the rope off post and jumped into his boat.

It shook. A shockwave of energy making the vessel bounce about the water in a feverish spasm. The old man settled down in his boat, sinking into the silky, torn seat that sat before the wheel. A few moments more and the boat had started down towards the place; Duxbury Pier Light. Cecil grumbled something as his boat careened over the waves but nothing heard it. Something unimportant. Something frivolous.

His way was not stopped but his heart pounded. The elderly often had fleeting senses of dread; typically, another sense that’s created as you grow older due to the deterioration of your brain. Cecil’s brain had deteriorated. The beginning blows of dementia had attached themselves to his flesh, a vicious rip and tear of his mental state. Did that make him more susceptible? Or did it never even matter? Regardless of any questions behind Cecil’s next thoughts, there was no science behind it. His approach was nothing if not covered in the sense that he’d have a heart attack.

He said something else. Time was scant and his arrival to the lighthouse was the same. He docked his boat and moved onto the rocks, heart swerving with every quiet breath of the ocean. Something was with him. There was a force that swathed him, rattling his ribs in barbed company. In this cold, the sensation was only harsher. Cold, metal steps awaited him inside. He ascended them.

”Gaah! Gaah! Oh my God oh my, Jesus!”

At the top of the lighthouse, leaning against the railing, a woman looked out upon the sea.

She was dead, naked, and entirely hairless.

***

November 10th
7:02 AM
Major Robert J. Pray

He hung his head in shame.

This was his task force. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not anymore. It had been four days, he’d have thought that they’d at least have something to show for things. Alas, the task force had found nothing that hadn’t been gleaned from lab techs or pitieous questionnaires. The task force had been assembled as quickly as possible and just two days prior it had gotten its final member. They were all down in Plymouth now, probably dicking around amongst each other in the offices or eating at some diner, talking over the “case.” Back when he was a detective, things weren’t like that. There were ideals, back then. Things hadn’t become so fucked yet and cops weren’t as apathetic to it all like they are now. That wasn’t to say he didn’t like some of those cops down there in the department; he thought some of them were even good police. But liking them wasn’t enough. He needed to know if he could trust them.

The major knocked on the door, waiting behind stoically. “Come in.” An ancient voice entoned, beckoning him. It was a command he followed, greeted by two men, equally as old as him. The Colonel and his Lieutenant. He smiled at both of them, LTC Bonner appearing to have been trying to have a discussion with the colonel behind his desk. Robert took a seat neat to him, shaking hands with both of them.

The Colonel stared at him from behind his computer. “What’s the problem, major?” He enquired, still full of that commanding spirit even in his casual voice. The major looked at him and explained the problem. Another body that fit the description of the last two murders; the murders his task force had been assigned. The colonel paled and so did his lieutenant. Troubling news, of course.

“Have you called your Captain?” Bonner asked, musing behind a pair of wireframe glasses. “No. I came by to…” Major Pray paused, staring at the wall behind the colonel. He knew what he was about to ask was sure to be unpopular, especially up here, but he needed to do this. It was it always was; he didn’t need people he liked, he needed people he could trust.

“I think we should call the FBI for assistance, sir.”

The LTC looked at Pray puzzlingly. “What? I think we’ve got this handled, Pray.”


“Three bodies, sir, and nothing to show for it. We need assistance on this case. FOX 18 is all over this, CNN and Fox have written articles on it, we can’t wait any longer.”

“Major, with all due respect, your team is perfectly equipped to handle this situation.”

“The task force I was given, you know damn well what they are.”

“Yes and even though they may have some shortcomings, they are perfectly equipped to handle the situation.”

Before Pray could speak again, the colonel started. “I think the FBI is a perfectly reasonable approach. They’re there for a reason and it’s not to just sit around in Boston, looking for brown people.”

“Sir, I’m just saying that the FBI is better equipped to handle counter-terrorism efforts and not serial murders anymore, we are perfect for it, sir.” Bonner once again stated, setting his hands in his lap calmly.

“I’m going to call them. I know the agent in charge up there, he can help.” He pulled out the work phone on his desk, dialing a couple numbers in and holding it to his ear while Pray and Bonner waited patiently.

“This is Colonel Thomas Hayes.”

“Yes.”

“Hello.”

He described the situation on the phone. It was over with quick enough; another phone call dealt with.

“You’ll be sending two agents? Any more?”

“Four? Four would be nice.”

“Thank you, Drew.”

“Yep, see you then. Bye.”

He hung the phone up and addressed one of the men in the room. “Major, you are to inform Captain York that he is to send as many detectives as he sees fit to meet two FBI Agents at the boathouse near Lighthouse Point. Tell him that two other agents will meet him at the district attorney’s office. He’s to accommodate them in any way he can. Show them hotels nearby, ones that have rooms for federal agents. After that, you’ll be reporting into LTC Bonner about everything. Is this understood?”

Pray grinned. Shit eating, of course. “Yes sir.” He stood up, shook both of their hands and saluted with fervor before being relieved from the room. Now it was time to tell York…

***

November 10th
7:05 AM
ASAC Ralph Dobson

“I can send four agents if you need it, Bob. Mmhmm. Of course. We still on for golf on Sunday? Yes? Great, bye.”

SAIC Andrew Foster hung up the phone and looked at Ralph. He looked bored, maybe a little annoyed if anything. “I know, sir.” Dobson responded, holding his hands up defensively while Foster fiddled with a pencil on his desk. “It’s only because I owe him a favor, Ralph. Wouldn’t send so many otherwise.”

“I know sir, trust me, I know.”

“Four agents. Can we spare four agents?”

Dobson didn’t like this. He had heard of the Williams case over the last few days and it was not a good one. Looked dead end; no DNA evidence on any of the victims linking them to the killer, no motive, media presence everywhere, and now a third body had been found? If he was being truthful, he didn’t like the idea of sending any agents into that godforsaken town to deal with this. He didn’t want any of his agents to face scrutiny from the likes of CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News. It was a hellish idea, of course, that the media would tear someone apart for just being unable to deal with a case, but it was true. They had done it before, they would do it again.

“We have to spare four agents.” Dobson said after a short pause.

“Hmm.” His boss leaned back in his chair, spinning it to the side a little ways and gripping his chin. He stared up at the ceiling. “What about that one Polish girl in ViCAP? The one who transferred a little while back.”

“You mean Pryzbylewski, sir.”

“Yes, her. She on anything significant, right now?”

“No sir.”

“Send her to the boathouse, then.”

“Right on it, sir.”

“Her and Del Vecchio.”

“The one from the Brackett case.” It was no question.

“Yes, that one.”

“Yes sir.”

“For the other two, do, hmm. Crawford’s about to retire, send him and Pryor to the DA’s office.”

“And Pryor?” It was a question.

“And Pryor.” It was not.

“Right, and that’s the Plymouth District Attorney’s Office and the boathouse near Lighthouse Point.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They sat there for a few more moments, blinking at one another before Dobson got up and left to inform his agents of their imminent dooms.

***

November 10th
8:11 AM
Detective Captain Andrew York

He entered briefing with a sick look on his face. He was a bigger fellow, fat in his face and his stomach. York worked hard to get where he was, harder than most his age. He remember when he was just starting out, black cops would never make it to captain. Now he was here; a ripe age of 59 and the leader of a full on task force.

If only this case hadn’t been pure shit.

He knew why they assigned him to this case. They had caught him handing out cash, back when he was in Narcotics. So they assigned him here. Now, the FBI was gonna come beading down on him unless he got some results for this damned case. Fucking Pray, fucking Bonner, fucking… fucking brass assholes.

He stepped in front of all the detectives, blinking. “At 0600 hours this morning another body was found that we’ve been assigned. It was sitting on Duxbury Pier Light. The one out in the middle of the ocean. This guy somehow got there, broke in, and dragged the body all the way to the top of the lighthouse. It’s still there.”

He paused, staring at the faces. Three detectives to send, three to send…

“The other thing is that there are FBI Agents on there way. I don’t want any of you surprised by it. Colonel Hayes thought it was best if he called in the FBI to assist us, said we weren’t doing good enough. Now, listen, I don’t want them stepping on your toes, but we can’t get rid of them. This is how it is, now.

“I’m sending three of you to the boathouse near Lighthouse Point, you know the one. There, you’re to meet Cecil Lyle, a 76 year old man who found the body. He’ll take you to the lighthouse on a boat.

“Connell, Driesler, Potlatch. The three of you will go to the lighthouse and meet with the FBI there. They should be there right after you guys get there. Now, for the rest of you. Keep following up on your personal investigations. Question anyone notable. Look around for an identity on the Jane Doe, we need something to show the major or else we’re gonna get our budget cut and things won’t go well for any of us.” The briefing went on a while longer; lots of talks about statistics and the upper management.

Whatever the case, things were only just beginning.

[Reverend Norv]

November 10
Headquarters, Troop D, Massachusetts State Police
Middleborough, MA
08:11

Nate Walker liked to be early. It was respectful, he thought. Nate thought of himself as a respectful man.

It wasn't like there was much to do at home. Henry was staying with Alisha during the week. They had agreed that it was better for him. Nate couldn't be around enough, not with the task force. Alisha was still living at the house, for the same reason: less disruption for Henry. Nate had moved into a studio apartment in downtown Middleborough. Closer to the office. He didn't mind. It was nice to be within walking distance of the coffeeshop, the historic buildings. Besides: Nate tried to take weekends off, and then Henry could come over, and they could go fishing or go down to the shed in Weymouth and work on the boat.

Still. In the black New England night, at five in the morning, there wasn't much to do at home. Nate would get up, and sit on the side of his empty bed, and listen for the sound of a woman's breathing or a child's snuffles. He'd turn his head so that his right ear could pick up any noise, the way he had every day since Edna Carver's fireplace poker had smashed out the hearing in his left ear, smashed it right out with the eardrum, back when he was young and didn't know that life could be any other way. He'd sit in the dark, at home, and listen for the things that might make it home. And Nate wouldn't hear anything at all.

So he'd get up and make a pot of green tea and cook eggs and roasted tomatoes and toast on the little electric stove. Nate would drink his tea and eat his eggs and shave and get dressed, and drive to the office in the dark. Because he liked to be early. It was respectful. And Nate Walker was a respectful man.

He sometimes wondered if he was a racist man. He didn't think so. He'd gotten along fine with black and Latino community leaders in New Bedford. But he didn't much like Andrew York. He thought York was bent, and Nate didn't like bent cops. Some guys said that the rumors about York were baseless; that it was jealousy because a black man had made captain in the Massachusetts troopers. Nate figured that might be true, but he also figured that York seemed bent. There was some desperation in a man who could sweat in a New England November.

But maybe that was just racism.

In the briefing room, Nate sat between Tom Frey and Sean Connell. Nate thought that both men had important virtues. But Tom had gotten busted to the task force for turning in an instructor at New Braintree, and Sean had never in his life even whispered about another officer where anyone could hear it. So Nate thought it was a good idea to sit between them.

He was a presence, in his quiet way, was Nate Walker. A tall man, with a kind of undefined workman's muscle. Heavy hands. He was dressed to within an inch of New England caricature: duck boots and corduroy slacks, a sweater vest and a tweed blazer heavy enough to double as a winter coat, checked shirt and knitted wool tie. He looked older than he was. His unruly dark hair was starting to grey at the temples, and he studied his case file through steel-framed reading glasses. He still wore his wedding ring.

Captain York blinked owlishly at the detectives. He started his briefing.

“At 0600 hours this morning another body was found that we’ve been assigned. It was sitting on Duxbury Pier Light. The one out in the middle of the ocean. This guy somehow got there, broke in, and dragged the body all the way to the top of the lighthouse. It’s still there.”

Nate took off his glasses, folded them, put them in an inside pocked of his blazer, pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were fighting off a headache. He knew, by now, what the signs were: the slit throat, ligature marks, absence of body hair. Naked. Looking at the ocean.

He took her up to the top of the lighthouse. Nate felt the cold creep in under his skin. For a better view?

They were too slow. Less than a week between killings. This wasn't a death junkie getting his fix. He has a plan. He's on a timetable.

Nate was grasping in the fog.

“The other thing," York continued, "is that there are FBI Agents on their way. I don’t want any of you surprised by it. Colonel Hayes thought it was best if he called in the FBI to assist us, said we weren’t doing good enough. Now, listen, I don’t want them stepping on your toes, but we can’t get rid of them. This is how it is, now."

Nate was a little surprised about that. But he didn't mind that the FBI was coming down; he had never seen the point in the turf battles that LEOs loved to fight. We could use the help. We aren't doing good enough. We don't need better forensics. We need a profiler. Nate had been murder police for a while. He could see ritual in these murders; intention.

Wasn't there always? It had been ritual when Edna locked him in the crawlspace. Unspoken ritual, but real: a sacrifice to the dark gods inside her own mind.

No.

“I’m sending three of you to the boathouse near Lighthouse Point," York was saying. "You know the one. There, you’re to meet Cecil Lyle, a 76 year old man who found the body. He’ll take you to the lighthouse on a boat. Connell, Driesler, Potlatch. The three of you will go to the lighthouse and meet with the FBI there. They should be there right after you guys get there."

"Now, for the rest of you," the captain continued. "Keep following up on your personal investigations. Question anyone notable. Look around for an identity on the Jane Doe, we need something to show the major or else we’re gonna get our budget cut and things won’t go well for any of us.”

There it was: the coal of anger behind Nate's breastbone. Yeah, that's why we need an ID on the first victim. Not to notify the family; so we don't get our budget cut. The average Massachusetts state trooper made almost a hundred and fifty grand per year. God forbid we risk budget cuts.

Nate put his anger away. He had decided a long time ago not to be an angry man. Anger kills the soul, he told himself. I am not an angry man.

I am not.

Captain York was talking about statistics and departmental politics, and Nate didn't listen, because he didn't want to be angry. After a while, it was over. Sean Connell had to go to the new scene, so Nate turned to Tom Frey instead.

"I think we should try the Williamses again," Nate said. He spoke quietly, this man; he always did, quiet and gentle. "Angela is killed the same day as the Jane Doe, and the same way. It's not unreasonable to think that the guy saw them together, maybe even lifted them together. If the first victim was a prostitute or an addict, Lauren and Byron might be covering up the connection to try to protect their daughter's memory."

Nate's dark eyes were steady on Tom's face: he made just a little too much eye contact, did Nate Walker. Always had. "We should interview the parents separately, see what shakes loose. I'll drive." That wasn't arrogance: Nate knew the roads in Plymouth and Bristol counties better than anyone else on the task force. "Sound good?"

[Recon]

November 10
Sean Connell
Plymouth Harbour, MA
08:47

He knew the way well; he had driven on the same roads just a few days past. It would not have taken ten minutes, except for the morning traffic. When Captain York had given his orders, Sean had known he was going to be driving. Seniority did not sit well with some, but still they would not be complaining when their turn came and what else did he have to show for over twenty years loyal service to the Commonwealth? It wasn’t just seniority, he had his cigarettes in his car, so he would have to go over there, get his stuff before jumping in one of their cars. The hassle, it wasn’t worth it and had you seen how some cops kept their cars? Sean had, discarded papers, coffee cups, takeaway wrappers, even leftover food in some. He didn’t want any part of that. His own car, he kept clean and tidy, well except the glove compartment which he doubted they would be looking in.

The two detectives he knew very little about, clearly he had been in the longest, both of them looked disturbingly young, had they changed the rules and he’d simply not heard about it? Were they recruiting straight out of high school now? Still they were polite enough company. Everyone on the taskforce seemed alright so far, he wondered just for how long that would last. Sean worked his jaw on the nicotine gum as he drove. It was just small talk; he tried to avoid talking about the case. In his experience, such conversations tended to drift rather quickly from the evidence straight to speculation. Instead they went through the same process that everyone did shortly after meeting, try to find some common ground. There were a lot of questions about the academy, dates, units and families and finally do you know this guy? Usually they would. The State Police was like a family and in many cases there were actual families. Feeling each other out, took most of the trip. He even tried to bring the talk around to the Patriots, they were poised to go 8-2 on Sunday with a win over the Titans and that was pretty much a lock. But the Patriots did not catch on and devoid of his favourite topic; Sean just put another piece of gum in his mouth and chewed the rest of the way.

The boathouse looked just as it had when he had rolled up for the first time. Zipping up his coat, he spotted the old man, Mr Lyle waiting for them. So we got here first, he thought with some satisfaction. He didn’t have anything against the Feds, not really, in his experience; they were the same as anywhere else, good and bad. He had worked with them on a few cases, but he had to admit he resented them being here. It was a classic ass covering move, the media were stalking the investigation, and there were no forensics, no easy leads, so call in the FBI, make it look like we are doing something. He had to admit it made sense, if the case was never closed – and it hardly looked like it was going to turn around with how these first few days had gone – at least the FBI would need to shoulder their share of the disappointment. Still what if it went the other way? They would be rushing to the nearest news crew, telling everyone about how they were happy to help out the State Police and save the day, no matter the truth.

What really stuck in his craw was having to come down here and show them around, like he was back at school and getting called up to the front by Mr Irving in Maths, to show his work up on the blackboard. They had ten detectives assigned to this case, so the idea that these federal agents would come up with the magical question, the one which would break the case, Sean could not help but find a little insulting. That they were going to have some “Just one more thing” moment like Colombo used to and solve the case before the evening news, the Colonel had to know how it was going to look, the message he was sending. Clearly he believed his people were not up to the task, even after they had been dealt a poor hand.

Being out here, at the scene, he started to think about the body and how it had been left. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter and smokes. He offered one to the other two and then he offered one to the old guy too; he looked like he needed it. The poor guy was out here minding his own business and so to have that, just dumped on him. If that wasn’t enough, with the body came the media and whatever other folk in the Commonwealth, who thought it would be cool to come out and look at a murder sight, it takes all types, ain't that the truth.

Grasping the cigarette with his lips, he opened his coat and pulled out his notebook from his pocket. He did not need the reminder, he wasn't that old, but he was a careful man. Details matter, so do first impressions. He flicked through the pages until he found this morning’s entry. He had written down the names of his two fellow detectives, Abraham Potlatch and Halberd Driesler, now he would just to have remember which is which. He kept reading, they were expecting two FBI agents, who they were to show around the scene and see if they had any questions for poor Mr Lyle. There was a cell number and below it was the two names,

Agent Del Vecchio.

Vecc-he-o? Maybe, he thought or it could be Vecc-hio like the hio in Ohio.

He looked at the other name; it was just a jumbled mess of letters.

Agent Przbylewski

Prez-bee... forget it, it was too much. He was just going to introduce himself and leave it at that.

He cupped his hands, as he lit his cigarette, taking a drag he looked at the beach, the waves and the lighthouse. All things considered, it didn’t look half bad. Once upon a time he could have taken the kids out somewhere like here to skip stones. Now…what a waste, he thought as he waited for the feds.

[Costa Fierro]

Middleborough, Massachusetts. November 10, 2018. 8:15am:
David walked quickly out into the parking lot behind the State Police building and made his way over to his car. He mulled the latest news his superiors had delivered to him regarding the latest naked women to be found within the vicinity of Plymouth. David had been working on the first case that had been brought to the State Police's attention, a Jane Doe found at Beach Point. There were those in the State Police that were happy to write her off as a prostitute, chalk it up as a "can't be helped" and move onto something that would garner more, and better, publicity. David didn't think that way.

Sleet pattered on the windshield as David closed the door with a thud. He pulled up the centre console lid and produced a notebook containing notes he had taken from potential witnesses, including the couple that had found the body. Comparatively few people lived close to the scene and didn't hear or see anything. It had been similarly cold and miserable when the body was found, Lord knows why they were out walking in that kind of weather. They said something about getting some fresh air but the weather was crap on that day, even by Massachusetts standards. Cold, windy, and a little bit of rain. He vaguely remembered his colleague probing further before he had to answer a call from Samantha. But that was it.

He pulled out of the police station and drove towards Plymouth.

*****

The apartment complex that sat on the corner of Water and Lothrop Street was newly built and slowly filling up with residents, most of whom were students. Two of those students were newly dating Edward Tucker and Joshua Doris, who lived on the top floor of the building closest to Water Street. As David pulled into the parking lot, he felt his phone vibrate. He pulled into a parking space and yanked the phone out of his pocket. It was Samantha.
"Morning," David greeted. "How are the kids?"
"They're fine," Samatha replied, sounding slightly frazzled. "Where are you?"
"Plymouth," David said. "Where are you?"
"At your place," Samantha said after emitting a growling sigh. "You were looking after the kids this weekend, remember?" A pang of remembrance swept through David. Shit. Samantha's shrill voice brought him back.
"For fuck's sake David," she yelled through the phone. "You said you were looking after the kids. Steve and I were supposed to be going to Martha's Vineyard today. I'm still here waiting for you."
"Can't you go somewhere else?" David asked. "I'm kinda busy. You know, potential serial serial killer on the loose here." There was another growling sigh.
"I'll take them to my mothers then," Samantha said. "I'll call again later."
"I look forward to it," David said facetiously. "Give Emily and Jason my love. I miss them."
"I'm sure you do." Samantha then hung up. David sat there in his car. This wasn't going to look good if she decided to review the visitation arrangement. He put the thought out of his mind, grabbed his notebook and pen from the centre console, and braved the outside weather.

*****

The apartment had a neat view over the sea and the long sand spit across the bay. It was modern, warm, and hopefully cheap. As he followed Edward into the living room, he asked about how much the place was.
"Is this part of the investigation?" Edward asked, unsure of what David meant by the question. David assured them.
"No, it's personal," he said. "A house in the woods is nice but it isn't enough sometimes." They both sad down on the sofa, and David could hear the shower going.
"So," David began. "I heard my colleague ask you why you were you were out on the beach when you found the victim. Could you mind filling me in?"
"Oh, um, sure," Edward replied. "We were out for one of our walks, we like to go out there sometimes."
"It wasn't particularly nice that day," David said. "It was cloudy, it was raining, it was cold. You'd think a couple going for a nice walk on the beach would wait until it was sunny at least." Edward shuffled in his seat. David leaned in a bit closer. "You saw something, didn't you? Did you tell my colleague what you saw?"
"I did, but he didn't seem to think anything of it. It wasn't much." Edward said, looking at the floor.
"Every little bit helps," he said. "You never know." Edward nodded.
"I saw...lights. Like vehicle lights."
"How far up the beach?" David asked, jotting down the information in his notebook. "At the start, at the point."
"Midway, like directly opposite us," he said. He stood up and pointed out the window. David stood with him, and he could just make out the outlines of the last series of holiday homes on the eastern shore of the sandspit.
"Could you tell what colour they were?" David asked. "White, red?"
"Red." Edward was definitive. "They were red. There were three of them. I couldn't see much more than that."
"It's better than nothing," David said. "It could be very useful." Edward turned to David.
"Do you think it's related to the other murders?" he asked.
"I can't comment on an ongoing investigation," David replied. "I couldn't tell you if I wanted to." David held out his hand and thanked Edward for his time. He then left the apartment and returned out into the bitter cold.

*****

David spent the next few hours driving around the immediate vicinity of Plymouth, Kingston, South Duxbury, and even his own neck of the woods, Mamoset. He had figured that despite the relatively small student population, there wasn't anything around here that screamed "we sell illegal narcotics". David drove around all the places that quick exchanges would take place. Places with lots of parking spaces. Places with not a lot of cameras. He talked to staff, asking them if they saw the victim. Despite going down more dead ends than he'd care to admit, David was determined in getting something. He eventually got onto dispatch and asked them to find out the owners of the last three houses on Ryder War, and to put feelers out to local PD and sherriffs: anyone caught with illicit narcotics was to speak to him.

[Hastur]

Special Agent Lauren Esther Pryzbylewski.
Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, FBI Boston Office.
November 10, 2018. 0901. - Plymouth Harbor, Massachusetts.

---

The morning traffic out of Boston along the pilgrim highway was lighter than usual for a Saturday morning. Changing what would have no doubt been a two-hour drive through rush hour traffic into an hour as her Sat-Nav guided her towards the Plymouth Harbour. It was a mild enough drive through Neponset and Quincy before a lengthy stretch of nothing but forested sections and turnoffs into winding suburban areas. It provided her an opportunity to think. Think about life and more importantly, the case.

Lauren didn’t like it. She understood it was a dreadful case to be handed over to. She may be new to the department, but she wasn’t naïve.

Lauren had heard the incident on the news several times already over the pass few days. A striking story but ultimately a tragic one. The savage slaying of a valedictorian high school pupil was significant news, made bigger because they associated it to a previous homicide with an “occult” signature. It was a rare collection of events that no doubt rocked Plymouth County to its roots. And now they were staring towards the authorities to deal with it. But with a third body with the same MO showing up, they had nothing to give. Out of time and options, they had requested the FBI to assist. A valid play for those in deep shit. It bought them time. Unfortunately, that meant that the investigation now encompassed her and three other agents. All eyes were on them. The media and the public waiting for an answer to their troubles. Or for them to stumble. For a “dead end” case, it had real severe repercussions if they did not produce something substantial. It was an enormous burden of pressure.

It made her uneasy, scared. The attention. and her case and her own shortcomings.

She had been in ViCAP for what? Five, Six months? She had only worked the New England robbery case with Pryor beforehand. She had done good work on that one, but she didn’t feel qualified enough for this. Not yet, at least. It felt like she was being thrust to the wolves, and she wasn’t positive if she could deal with that in the long run. VCAC had already taken its toll. The soul-destroying work of that department had left her a stressed out wreck following the McVay and Potts case. And as just as she was getting back on her feet she gets put on this. Lauren felt like a powder keg with an already singed fuse that was running perilously close to detonating. Maybe quitting was the best option. But a certain stubbornness lead her forward. Lauren had to maintain her cool. What else would she do? She couldn’t quit. She couldn't waste eight years of hard work. She couldn’t fail now. She'd have to rough her way through it. Just like everybody else on the case.

The FBI wasn’t committing their best. That was for sure. She knew they considered the four of them expendable.

Damn office politics.

"Turn left at the next junction."

She’d been to the coastal town of Plymouth before, passing through it during her work. But she had never stayed there for any longer than half an hour. The common holiday location seemed like a nice enough place, almost homely to a person who had lived in the denser areas of Boston her entire life. She glanced at the blend of Georgian suburban neighbourhoods and the small mom and pop operated store fronts. A depressing air dominated the car as she drove her way to the murder scene. Pulling into the road that lead to the harbour, finding a parking spot as she came to a standstill, car facing outwards to the ocean. Out of all the places the killer had to leave behind a body. It had to be in the Duxbury pier lighthouse. Out in the centre of the water.

She felt a low pulse in the pocket of her coat. A text on her work phone.

Lauren reached into her pocket, receiving it the device. Taking a quick glance at the illuminated screen.

“Won‘t make it to the lighthouse. Personal Stuff. You’ll have to handle it on your own.” - del Vecchio

“Fuckin’ A.” She spat, eyes fluttering in irritation as she wiped her face with her free hand. Annoyed that she was about to look like a moron in presence of three state detectives. Out of all the times this could happen. It had to happen now. Now she had to do the crime scene investigation by herself with a bunch of state cops, without the backup of a more experienced wingman. She’d have to tread carefully.

She wanted a cigarette.

Regardless, she pressed on. Couldn’t leave them hanging. Taking a lengthy sigh, she popped some spare mint gum in her mouth and climbed out of the car. Breathing in the salt water air as she recovered her kitbag and FBI wind breaker from the boot. Huffing her gear over to the detectives, who weren't that hard to find. The three of them had been eyeing her up as they waited when she drove in. She dressed informally as did most FBI agents who were working in the field. Wearing a set of jeans, a long-sleeved grey button up shirt, and LEO work boots. Having her FBI wind breaker wrapped round her to protect her from nippy November wind, and her gold FBI shield lay on her chest, held there by a long necklace.

“Special Agent Lauren Pryzbylewski.” She stated, eyes squinting as she introduced herself to the most senior looking of the band. Offering out a handshake before extending it to the other two, her jaw moving rhythmically as she chewed on the gum.

”Sean Connell.” The senior detective stated. Returning the handshake. "Thanks for coming out. Any help you can offer we’ll take, galdly".

“It’s simply me for the moment, Special Agent Del Vecchio couldn’t make it.” She expressed, her gaze fixed to the floor as she withdrew her hands back into her windbreaker pockets. “Listen, I would’ve preferred it if we’d all could have met under better circumstances, but I don‘t think I‘d be here otherwise, so..” She paused rather stiffly, sniffling as she took momentary glances at each of them before proceeding onto the further pressing affair. The murder. Directing her line of questioning to the most senior looking detective.

“So the vic was discovered out in the lighthouse right?” By the lighthouse keeper? You guys talked to him at all yet?” Lauren asked, listening to the senior detective as he replied.

“Out there a few hours ago. She was posed in some way, up against the railings.” Sean explained, before continuing onto the second question, pointing towards the lighthouse keeper who was standing idle by a ship. No doubt expecting to take them all away to the lighthouse. Pryzbylewski sighed at the sight, she didn’t like bodies of water after a particular event in her life, and it was something she’d like to avoid.

“He’s Cecil Lyle, 76 and a widower, he volunteers here, poor guy looks like he’s just had the shock of his life.” Sean replied, pointing out the situation. Lauren simply nodded in agreement. The old gentleman probably had been through a number. A lighthouse in the midst of the sea was perhaps the last place he’d ever expect to see a body. Hell, it was the last place she‘d expect one.

“Just the responding units. We’ve introduced ourselves but that’s it. I thought we should go through it all together, he doesn’t need to relive this again and again.”

[Arkhastok]

November 10
Plymouth Harbour, MA
09:05
Halberd knew that his case was especially unique. With little leads or evidence towards any suspects, any normal detective would question their involvement in the case. But not detective Driesler. He was the last person you’d expect to drop such a case.

Upon arrival to the car, he barely knew the names of the other detectives which he had just met. Potlatch and Connel, he recalled as he attempted to match name with face. Connel had already arranged himself to drive, using “Seniority” as a reason in which Halberd was bitter towards. It was apparent to him that this “seniority” reason was just a method for Connel to look down on his more inexperienced colleagues. But he did not protest. What good will it do?

During the car ride, Halberd did not engage in much conversation actively. Instead, he preferred only to reply to what Connel had started to say. Strangely, most of it was small talk and unrelated to the case which he had found somewhat strange considering this case was the most mysterious he had experienced in a while. No topics of interest managed to catch on with the three detectives, ultimately resulting in silence until arrival. Halberd had not much to do for the remainder of the travel, and simply watched at the consistent chewing of gum from Connel.

The boathouse eventually came into view, and not long after Cecil Lyle had too. “Detective Halberd Driesler” he introduced as he reached out his hand for a handshake towards the old man. What a shame, having to experience something like this at such an old age. It had appeared to him however that the old man was not as interested in the younger detectives than he was with the Senior Detective Connel. Fair enough, he thought bitterly. More experience, the better would be his reason.

Not long after, another figure emerged. It was obvious who it was. Halberd thought of Pryzbylewski highly enough, but also as a symbol that the higher-ups thought the detectives weren’t good enough for the job. Regardless, a friendly cooperative attitude was always the way to go for things like these. Listening to the conversation between Pryzbylewski and Connel, he did not interfere much. There was nothing much to say about the case, so there was nothing much to say in general. Instead, he focused on the crashing waves of the sea, a serene yet violent sight.

The only other detective not engaging in much conversation was Potlatch. Halberd figured that maybe getting closer to colleagues at the same level of “hierarchy” in the department was more appropriate. ”So, what do you think? About the case, and who we’re working with?”

[Sudbrazil]

Detectives James Adrian Bowen and Victor Alexander Constantinovich
District Attorney's office, Plymouth ~ 10th November of 2018, 08:00

As the briefing ended Bowen wrote down the details of the third victim on his notepad, another one to add to the count in this bore of a case. The others began to get their bearings and ready up to exit and go off in their own part of the investigation, some already joined up with their partners, for his part Bowen had his own partner as he looked behind his seat to Alexander, who was taking notes of his own. The two got along fine despite the fact they hadn’t even known each other for more than a week in this mess of a task force.

“Those two college students haven’t been seen for questioning. It's been a few days since they found the Williams body, we ought to pay them a visit don’t you think?” Bowen said with a very uninterested look to say the least.

Constantinovich nodded. The whole thing had been a mess, a textbook trainwreck of an investigation. Almost no clues yet, and they were still setting up their offices. At least the feds had sent a few agents their way. Hopefully they would be more helpful than troublesome.

“To be fair, we should have done this ages ago,” replied the Slav as he sifted through his papers, “Say, do you have some ink? My pen is running dry.”

Bowen got up from his seat, at first making no apparent care for Victor's question, until opening his jacket and getting out a blue pen then setting it right on his table. “Always carry an extra buddy. Let’s get going, I’ll drive.” The detective began to make his way out, seemingly expecting his colleague to be behind him.

A blue ballpoint would have to do, at least until he got back home. Thanking his colleague, Constantinovich took his coat as well as his holster. He probably wouldn't need the latter, but as the Westerners said: 'better safe than sorry’. He struggled to put it on as he left, but nevertheless managed to tuck the leather pouch into place, concealed under a wool vest. The heavy polymer & metal weight felt reassuring on him, as it had saved him many times.

The pair made their way out of the briefing room and eventually out of the building to the parking lot, over which loomed a messy herd of gray clouds. The two walked through the backside parking lot until arriving to the white Bowen's Nissan Sentra. He got his keys out and unlocked the car with them. With no delay the two got in, Bowen on the driving seat and Victor on the passenger seat. Bowen started the car and just as quick, they were on their way to Curry College. As they rolled on the tar, the driver striked up some small talk, perhaps not in the most subtle of ways. “So what lie did your superior tell you when you got sent to this bullshit, huh?”

Alexander smiled. “The old dedushka came into the office and asked if I had heard of the Williams case. Told me there was a spot for me in it if I wanted. Hadn't I jumped at it, the old bastard would have probably sent me here anyway.” The Russian sighed and gazed through the window as the landscape passed by in a blur, trying to think of ways to continue the small talk. “But such is life in the force. All the bureaucracy and power struggles are beyond my understanding. As far as I'm concerned, I'm here to do the hauling and get paid by the end of the month.”

Bowen kept focus on the road while hearing Alexander’s chatter, at the end he simply chuckled. “Well I guess you’re right on one thing in regardless if we actually solve this, we get payed.”

The detective kept driving, as he made a turn he then continued “I got sent here apparently because of my ‘long record of expertise in homicide related cases,’ pfft, yeah right. I’ll tell you the only reason I got moved from narcotics to homicide was simply because the captain didn’t want me taking his job. That old senile old man just couldn’t let go.” James shook his head in disbelief, crooking his teeth in displeasure of the whole thing.

“Are you sure we are in America? It seems that my father's plane just took him to an anglophone corner of the Soviet Union! The murders, the senile old men in power.” He would have continued with a Russian joke, had he not feared for his colleague's attention to the road.

For his part Bowen simply gave a small smile at the boast of the Soviet Union, “Yeah… heh, sometimes you think everything is different here but its all the same shit only in a different language.”


Both detectives kept the small talk for a bit until eventually arriving to the student housing complex near the Curry College. Bowen drove the car to a decent parking spot right in front of the complex. Getting a folder from the glove compartment in front of Alexander, opening up to reveal the file reports on the two students.

“Lets see… Edward Tucker and Josh Doris, college freshmen, not very interesting lives” Bowen said as he skimmed through the files, he then quickly passed it to Alexander who read it with care unlike his partner.

Bowen got his notepad and pen ready and into his jacket as he took a long breath, Alexander still reading through the files. “Yeah we should’ve done this sooner…” Bowen said with a annoyance.

“Better late than never,” Victor answered as he opened his car door. The two detectives walked across the street and into the housing complex, a big and gray concrete apartment building, set at the edges of the campus for the college students. There really wasn't anything special special about it. If it weren't for its residents, it probably would've been just another blur in their memories. At the lobby, a middle aged lady with glasses and an old fashion haircut cutting her nails waited behind her desk.

“Massachusetts State Police madam” Bowen said as he got his badge out and showed it only for a fraction of a second before putting it back onto his belt. The lady kept fixing her nails, only slightly glancing at them. He looked at his colleague for a second before continuing, “Where can we find Edward Tucker and Josh Doris?”

The ageing receptionist let out a puff of annoyance, setting down her pedicure instruments to type on the computer right in front of her. Her hands were surprisingly swift, and within the blink of an eye she found it.

“Room 204 on the second floor.” She said with an uninterested almost lambasting tone.

“Right, let's get going Alexander.” Both detectives bowed as they went their way, through the halls and up the elevator. Finally arriving to the room of the two students both detectives stood right in front of the red door, a peephole right at the front. The Bostonian knocked several times on it, producing a strong hearable for anyone that was within. They awaited for someone to open.

The door opened after but a moment, a young fellow with wet hair staring at them from behind it. His eyes squinted, one hand still on the door. “Hello?”

Repeating the same gesture with his badge as before Adrian introduced himself and his partner. “Detective Bowen, Massachusetts State Police, this is my partner detective Constantinovich.” Bowen’s eyes peaked a bit into the student’s room, a bit messy and unorganized like any dumb and young student’s woud. “May we come in, sir?”

The boy eyed him and his partner up, before shutting the door. A shift of metal could be heard from inside, before it came open again, revealing the rest of their apartment. Stacks of papers piled up on an ancient nightstand which flanked a black futon serving as the living room’s set piece. Past that and the TV, sat a small kitchen filled to the brim with messy dishes and bags of unopened groceries, against a balcony that overlooked the sea. There was one other room in the apartment, but the door was closed.

“Yes, come on in.” The boy seemed puzzled, allowing the detectives inside. His eyes showed a sense of bewilderment, as did the other boy who was sitting on the futon. “I’m Joshua Doris, that’s Eddie… Edward Tucker.” He pointed towards the resting student, whose gaze was away from the TV and now fully on Bowen and Alexander. “I’m sorry, there was just a detective here. You have more questions?”

Adrian raised an eyebrow at the comment, rather confused to say the least as he and Alexander looked at each other with the same puzzlement.

“What detective?” Bowen asked with a rushed voice, his heart now pumping at the sudden news.

Eddie looked at the two, raising an eyebrow. “Detective David Wright. He had a badge. Is… he a detective? He came in asking about how much the place cost, you think he made a forgery?”

“Pisdetz,” muttered Constantinovich as he facepalmed, “We have the coordination of an Iraqi battlegroup.”

Bowen began to rub his eyes in frustration, Alexander’s comment making a truthful yet painful point about this clusterfuck of a task force. “We’re gonna have to settle this later with Wright. For now let's just focus on what we can find right now.” Bowen turned to the two students, his face had switched from a calm and professional look to a more frustrated one.

“We just have some questions relating to the body you found on November 5th. D-don’t worry about Wright, he’s a real cop, just, not a very focused one by the looks of things.” Bowen was trying to keep a professional appearance despite the obvious anger welling up within him.

“Okay then.” Eddie said, Josh sitting down next to him. The boys seemed relaxed, now with the idea of a home invasion quelled. Eddie crossed his legs and looked at them both. “He didn’t ask much. Just got up in my face, started accusing me of shit. I didn’t like him that much. I told him about the lights I saw, that’s it. If you’ve got anything else, I’m sure you do, shoot.”

“What lights did you see?” Bowen asked with interest, taking out his notepad from his jacket as well as his pen.

“Two white lights out on the water. A red light floating above those, a little smaller. After a few seconds the lights turned off. I told Josh about it and we went to go check it out in the morning, found the girl…” He grimaced, expression changing to one of guilt. “I should have gone out there that night.” Josh didn’t say a word in response, only avoiding eye contact with those in the room.

“If you did check it out, you could have ended like her,” said Constantinovich, “Any idea of their source? Did you hear any car engines?”

“No, it was out on the water. I’m guessing it was a boat or something.” He answered, still a bit winded from remorse.
Writing down the details on his notepad Bowen asked a question of his own, “What were the two of you doing there that day if you don’t mind me asking?”

“There was a party nearby. Lots of people there. We left early, because we were drunk, walked past and saw those lights off in the distance. Drove back the next morning when we weren’t hungover.” He finished the tale, now looking both detectives in the eyes.

Adrian nodded his head at the account, looking at both Josh and Edward with eyes of suspicion. He knew these kids likely didn’t have anything to do with the murder of this girl, but something told him they were hiding something.


“Tell me more of this party. There must’ve been a lot of drinking by the tale of it.” Bowen said with a casual almost nonchalant tone, calmer now than when first finding out about Wright’s previous presence here.

“It was just a party. November 4th. We didn’t stay long, things were getting creepy. Told one guy to stop messing with a girl, but that happens at every party I go to. Nothing really much else to it.” He winced, pushing his tongue into his cheek. Lost in thought.

Bowen immediately detected some holding back. His mind was a bit more focused on that “one guy” bothering the one lady. “Can you tell us the location of this party? As well as a name or description of this ‘guy’ bothering the girl.”

“You know where Poverty Point is? Around there. In one of the houses nearby, can’t remember the exact address. And I dunno. He was just some frat shithead. Black hair, beard. He was like twenty or something.”

Bowen was slightly annoyed by the lack of a specific address as well as the lack of any other features of the suspect. “Try to focus, a more detailed description would help us a lot, as well as a more accurate location.”

“Spike.” The word had immediately shot across Victor's mind and out of his mouth. He wondered if his colleague though the same. “Was the party public or been friends?” he asked, “That could help us a lot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying my best. Josh, you remember?” Josh didn’t say anything, just nodding at Alexander’s next words. “Yeah, spike. Some guy from Pike frat, from Quincy College, he was holding it. ‘Pike is Spike.’ It was a public party, but they mostly let girls in. Typical fucking Pike party.” Josh finished, crossing his arms. He looked angry.

Eddie looked at him, nodding his head in quiet detachment. “Yeah… sorry, I don’t think we should talk about that anymore.” His attention was on the detectives. “Look, I can try and check through my text logs for an address, but as far as I know it was word or mouth. I can’t remember.”

Within his mind Bowen agreed on Alexander’s assessment, but he had kept quiet in an effort to focus better on the two students. It was hard to really deduce Josh, very quiet and reserved and only talking till now. At least the admittance of spike in the party was something, after all the girl had been found with high amounts of narcotics within her. He wrote down the last few details, closing his notepad he looked at Alexander and then back at the two kids, “Very well. In case you do find anything here’s my card.” The detective got his wallet out and handed a business card to Edward, his mobile and office phones imprinted on it.

“I think that is all we have for the day. We’ll be back in case of anything else.” Bowen set his notepad back into his jacket, giving Alexander a head nod to move out. “Thank you very much mister Tucker, mister Doris. You’ve been very helpful, try to stay away from any more spike parties.” The detective walked towards the door, not even waiting for either of the students to walk them out, he expected Alexander to be behind him, though he didn’t wait to see. After shaking their hands, Victor left. He caught up to Bowen, who was already strolling down the hall.

“Eh, James, what is the Pike Fraternity? I'm not familiar with the name.”

Bowen got out a Marlboro cigarette box from his jacket inner pocket, he opened it to take out a cigar, he then remembered they were in an apartment complex and perhaps smoking now wasn’t a good idea. He then turned his attention to his partner.

“In my time in narcotics I heard of some college fraternities that lure girls to parties and drug them. Usually putting roofies or molly in their drinks. By the sound of it this Pike frat seems to be doing just that.” Bowen rubbed his hand onto his chin, thinking.

“We got a location, we have a possible suspect, and a possible victim. It could be nothing, it could be everything. I say we start making our way there before the smoke settles or Wright manages to fuck it up like he almost did here.” Bowen began walking down the hall towards the elevator, he turned his head to Constantinovich, motioning him to get a move on.

[Imperial Idaho]

Plymouth Harbor, Massachusetts, United States

Potlatch was uncertain what to think. From the start it seemed like a case that could make or break a career. Or if not break a career, at least keep it down, seeing as how most everyone on this case were not of note or otherwise detectives under the radar. He'd have to see if it was the same for the FBI team that got sent. The FBI's motives were unclear from the first place. They got called in so they had to do something he supposed, however if the case got solved Potlatch thought it likely that they'd swoop in and take all the credit from the State Police. And if they don't solve it they probably lost few resources, depending on who they sent. Potlatch understand that with a case like this and with the FBI involved the only way he'd get his name in the papers as a state cop would be by playing hardball and being rather pro-active about every lead.

Regardless of the nonsensical inter-departmental politics involved with it, there was a case to solve. A case requires a crime scene, and that crime scene was were Potlatch found himself heading to with two other Detectives, unfamiliar to him. He was good enough with remembering names though, Connel and Driesler were the two. Driesler remained largely Idle on the car ride there, responding occasionally, but otherwise doing the same Abraham was. Potlatch was a bit more active about conversing with Connel, who seemed to be less interested in the case than they did, or at least more interested in conversing than jumping to conclusions. The car was largely silent on the trip over though.

They'd arrived at the boathouse after some time, a small and isolated place with the lighthouse a ways away. Connel offered him a cigarette, which he denied, not being a smoking man himself. They waited for a short time before the FBI Agents, or rather Agent, they were to meet arrived. Seeing as how the Agents names were Francis and Lauren and this agent was a woman, he assumed this was Agent Lauren Pryzbylewski. The trio of state detectives moved over the meet the solitary woman, who introduced herself as Pryzbylewski. Abraham shook her hand and introduced himself as Detective Potlatch. She would turn her focus towards the obviously more experienced Connel.

Francis was revealed to have been caught up in personal matters, and so would not be present for some time. Driesler was relatively silent again, before eventually speaking up to Potlatch.

"So, what do you think? About the case, and who we’re working with?"

"I'm not sure about all this. FBI might be be trying to save some face about being involved in this at all, but i'm not too sure. Otherwise it's a poor situation in general, doubt we'll get too much out of what we have now."

[Cylarn]

NOV 10
8:11 AM
Detective Sergeant Thomas Frey


A third body.

Tom felt tension in the air. A third body - a third identical scene as twice before - had erased any doubts that a serial killer was active in Plymouth. He took note of Captain York, the stubborn old boy that was now facing a foe that hit harder than any mad-dog perp; bureaucracy. His charge was the unit where the State Police dropped the ones it didn't need; detectives who the brass in Framingham felt needed a dead-end case to snuff out the few remaining embers of their career. York looked tired, the appearance of a man after a twelver. And the day was only just starting.

The "hick," as Bonner had - off-the-record - referred to Tom, sat with his arms crossed, gaze locked to York as he gave his briefing. The air in the room was cool, and compared to the temperature outside, Tom found his combination of a beige wool overcoat, navy blue suit and black tie, and leather dress shoes to be quite comfortable in a time where he would have appreciated the heat being intensified. He hardly wore a suit during his tenure with the Gang Unit; raid shirts, blue jeans, and "tactical" boots were high fashion when they were working cases in the city.

He didn't like it much. Not much freedom of movement in a bully coat and suit. He couldn't simply reach for his weapon, but it wasn't like his current case would require it. Tom was accustomed to danger, to the adrenaline and thrill that kept him moving. The briefing was a purgatory, the unit was a purgatory, and above all, this case was a purgatory.

His partner, on the other hand, was ready to act. Nate was a local Plymouth fellow and veteran, to Tom's knowledge. Their paths had crossed a few times, primarily by way of in-service training. A dependable cop, although known to be heavy-handed with abusers. Tom had few objections to raise about his partner.

I think we should try the Williamses again...same day...same way...covering up the connection to protect...

Understandable, in that regard.

Tom locked eyes with Nate as he stood to his feet. Focused, ready to move on. Nate wanted to interview the parents separately - and to drive. Tom gave a chuckle, and a thumbs-up.

"Probably best if you do, Nate."

He walked towards the exit and held the door for Nate as the pair of detectives exited the building.

"What've we got on Angela's routine for the day of her murder?" Tom asked as they passed out of the building.

[Recon]

November 10
Sean Connell
Plymouth Harbour, MA
09:09

Sean stepped down onto the boat, it was unstable bobbing up and down in the water. His hand grasped for the side to steady himself, after getting his balance, he made his way up to the captain’s seat and took his place near it. Maybe the old guy would be more comfortable when he was focusing on a familiar task. He zipped up his coat further, the ocean spray and the wind was going to make this unpleasant. As the old man cast off, Sean busied himself with his Dictaphone. When they were all aboard and Lyle had taken his place, Sean let the man start off before beginning his questions,

“Do you mind if I record this? It saves me from writing it all down”.

"I don't mind. You can turn it on."

Sean switched on the Dictaphone, he would likely be listening to this over and over again in the future and the audio recording would be an invaluable tool. Not just for the accurate recall of everything that was said, but also for triggering memories of the day. He just hoped their words would not be lost on the waves and the wind.

“So how long have you been volunteering at the Lighthouse?”

"I started last summer, after my wife passed away. It was, it was July I think."

“Oh I`m sorry to hear about that”.

Sean tried not to think of his own wife. It was difficult, he was sure; she had once owned a "Project Bug Light" T-shirt with the little lighthouse on it, the shirt was probably gone now, but there would be a picture of it somewhere.

Sean got back to the questions,

“There used to be a big problem with vandalism out here, anything like that happened recently?”

"No, not since I've been here. I've been keeping them away in the day, there's a man named Howie who watches at night, but I don't know his full name."

“That’s good”, Sean made a note of the other man’s name.

“How was the weather out here last night?”

"I think it was a little stormy. I can't remember”.

Sean nodded; he would have to get that checked.

“And before this morning, when was the last time you had visited the lighthouse?”

"I come here once a week or so. Last time I came was November 4th."

If there was a regular routine, the killer might have chosen last night for poor Mr Lyle’s benefit.

“When you arrived this morning, did you notice anything different? Anything out of the ordinary?”

"I... no, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. I had a... strange feeling but I don't know. I think it's my old mind."

Sean was finished at least for now, the poor guy. He switched off the Dictaphone and slipped it into his pocket.

“That’s all for now. Thanks for doing this”.

He made his way unsteadily back down the boat. Taking his seat, he took his notepad out of his pocket, doing his best to shield it from the conditions. He quickly wrote out a list of topics for further investigation,

- Look into Lyle and Howie, it was unlikely they would be involved if this Howie was as old as Lyle, but they could be connected in some way. Howie would have to be questioned too.
- Check with the Marine Unit and the Coast Guard, what boats had been reported stolen or missing recently.
- Check with the Coast Guard for the weather and sea conditions around Plymouth for last night and this morning.
- Check whether the Duxbury Pier Lighthouse had been involved in other cases, suicides, murders or bodies washing up on the coast. Why this location?
- It was a long shot, but the local residents would have to be canvassed. Perhaps someone saw a boat or a light out by the lighthouse last night. It could narrow down the timeframe.

Putting the notebook away, he listened to the others conversation. It was hard to get a read on them so far. The FBI Agent had turned up alone. Both Driesler and Potlatch were quiet or perhaps they were simply observant, it was too soon to tell. No one looked like they wanted to be here, he could sympathise with that. When there was a break in the conversation he asked,

“Why here?” He asked.

“He had to come out here last night or early this morning, he must have had access to a boat. He takes the girl out in the darkness and brings her up the staircase, all the way to the top to pose her for some reason, in these conditions. That's a lot of effort for just dumping a body”.

[Beiarusia]

Sabrina Nithko
November 10th


Of those gathered that morning in the conference room the young woman was perhaps the most out of place. Unlike the men, the veterans with many years to their names, some with careers as long as she'd been alive, Sabrina Nithko was hardly a detective. A novice. Inexperienced. An officer for three short years and a homicide detective for less than one. Not that her short career was one of doubt. Sabrina was intelligent and had performed well-enough as an officer, and, in time, could maybe prove herself capable of the promotion forced upon her by an overbearing uncle.

However, the young woman lacked motivation.

Sabrina Nithko was bored and fiddling with a yellow #2 pencil, absentminded and seemingly lost in thought as they, the detectives of the task force, awaited Captain York. She didn't converse with the others but would respond if spoken to. Polite and simple. Distant. Neither did she question her assignment.

The captain arrived with news of another murder. Another woman. That made three total. Dead in a lighthouse away from shore. FBI, too, was to be involved henceforward, not that Sabrina cared, being more intrigued by the location of the body than whatever assistance they were to be receiving. A serial killer (or killers) with enough mystery in their misdeeds to best any crime novel. A lighthouse. There was the barest hint of motivation if for all the wrong reasons. To sate a morbid curiosity. The murders had interested her from the beginning, strange as they were, but now they had her full attention. She wanted to know. Why? How? This was something more than just a sick thrill or release; a tantalizing narrative written by a deranged mind. She needed to know.

a story written by a derabged mind with an ending she coukld

Why? How? This was something more than just a sick thrill. She needed to know.

"I'm sending three of you to the boathouse near Lighthouse Point," the captain explained. Sabrina was not chosen. "Connell, Driesler, Potlatch. The three of you will go to the lighthouse and meet with the FBI there. Now, for the rest of you, keep following up on your personal investigations."

She was perhaps a tad bit disappointed. Not that she complained or made her feelings obvious, but Sabrina was intrigued by the oddness of the most recent killing. She had participated thus far in the investigation but only now did she feel a sincere interest. Not that she had much choice in the matter. The captain had decided and she wasn't about to question the man. Would be futile to do so. No, she'd do as directed and assist the more experienced detectives.

Sabrina was not paying much attention upon heading out the building's exit, preoccupied in her imaginings of how a body could be dumped atop a lighthouse, and quite literally bumped into Detectives Frey and Walker. She apologized, polite and soft-spoken, jacket professionally undone, and looked to the men with an almost quizzical gaze. Both were from different departments, and Sabrina knew nothing of the two aside from their names. Too new to have made connections outside her own precinct.

They seemed well enough.

"Do you mind if I accompany you?" she asked, wanting to be more involved than she had been the previous few days. Detective Walker had mentioned the Williams, the parents of the second victim, that much she had heard, and although not quite the lighthouse it was something on which to focus.

Novice or not Sabrina could be useful.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

November 10
Det. Elizabeth Cooke
Middleborough, Massachusetts PD HQ
8.15 AM

Elizabeth arrived at the Massachusetts PD's HQ. it was a bit of a late morning for her. Generally speaking, she usually arrived earlier. Not in the late times of 8 AM. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that she just took a moment of shovelling dirty money into her basement under her house. As a matter of fact, she hid it between the banks and the physical looks of money inside her basement. Perhaps that's too much of an information.

Elizabeth didn't take too long of her time to moved from the parking lot to inside of the PD. It's been just a year since her transfer to the state PD, and now she's already part of Task Force for the Williams Case. Already the other detectives on their way to the Harbor. Considering that not everyone is going to be sent out, she decided to wait in the selected office for the Task Force.

[Arkhastok]

November 10
Plymouth Harbour, MA
09:12

After listening into the conversation between Detective Connell and Lyle, Driesler speculated on how the murder was performed and why such a location was used to hide a body. No, not hide. Show. Show a body. It was obvious the killer most likely wasn’t interested in hiding the body at all. And it wasn’t just some regular body dumping as well, it’s like it was specifically tailored for someone to discover. The thoughts didn’t send chills up Driesler’s spine, however he only had hoped that the scene was minimal in blood. Too much, and he would probably have to take a short break to vomit outside which isn’t pleasant at all.

“The killer wants their own signature. They want us to know who they are and what kind of person’s we’re messing with. They’re not dumping a body, they’re showing it to all the world for us to see. In harsh conditions and in the early hours of the day, they went through all the effort to make their mark again because they know that they have our attention. The location of the murder was most likely organised before, but we don’t know that for sure.”

Driesler felt his speculations were reasonable, however he was anxious to the responses of Connel and Potlatch. Lyle had seemed disturbed about Driesler’s comments. It was as if the killer deliberately wanted to shock him.

Driesler added another question into the interview, hoping not to traumatise the old man. “Do you know of any people that regularly come here, or have came recently to look around the area in a scouting fashion, Mr. Lyle?”

[Hastur]

Special Agent Lauren Esther Pryzbylewski.
Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, FBI Boston Office.
November 10, 2018. - Plymouth Harbor, Massachusetts.

---

Pryzbylewski accompanied the detectives down the docks. Swallowing her anxieties as she stepped off from the stable ground into the wobbling, narrow and crammed commercial fishing ship occupied by Cecil. Following Sean and the owner into the cold front crew quarters of the boat as it pulled out from the pier, being battered by the ocean as it headed off into the unpredictable water towards its destination. The isolated and solitary lighthouse stuck the water’s heart. A peculiar location for a homicide to take place.

The ride away was uncomfortable. Her fists clenched the guard rail tight, her face grew pale as a sense of uneasiness battered her. A genuine feeling of light dizziness won over as she sought to hold herself stable, and more importantly, calm. She didn’t like the ocean, or any substantial body of water. It caused her strain, prompting her of something she never wished to hear echoed in her head. She listened into the conversation between the detective and the Cecil to keep her mind focused. Chewing on her gum as she kept a close eye on the boats captain as they questioned him.

Sean ran him through the usual gauntlet, and he answered them. Lauren taking mental observations of what was being revealed. The lighthouse keeper had started last summer following his partner’s passing and was one of two keepers that worked there. Comes once a week. It allowed a concerning window for entry with the perpetrator. Although nothing could be theorized about the crime until she observed and examined the body.

“Mr Lyle.” Lauren piped up as she moved closer to the man, steadying herself on the wood wall, keeping her hand pressed against it as she removed her notepad, taking down notes as she asked questions. “How would one gain access to the lighthouse?”

“I got a key. Door stays locked all day. The door is a little hard to open. It’s all rusted and shit.”

Lauren’s eye squinted. Considering what was said, she‘d have to investigate for damage on the lock. See if it had meddled with. Otherwise, it meant that access to the building would be limited. Someone would require the means to get in. It helped to narrow the avenues of investigation down.

“When you showed up this morning, was the lighthouse door locked?” she enquired, maintaining her course of questioning on the interview. “Who else has access to the key? You mentioned Howie, does he have his own?”

“Yeah. It was locked.” He answered. She considered it for a second. It probably meant that whoever came here had used a key, or had taken the time to pick the lock back into a closed position. A difficult task, but a do-able one. One that would take time.

“Howie’s got the key, and the people who own the lighthouse too, but they don‘t ever come down here.”

Three batches of keys at-least. She’d have to establish their locations and who might have a connection to them.  It was a possible start at least. Something to go off of. She’d have to turn up further about the owners and Howie too.

“Thank you, Mr Lyle. That’s all I have for now.” She concluded. Heading outside to she became progressively claustrophobic inside the constrained crew cabins. Drawing in a gasp of the salt-saturated air as moved out into the open rear of the boat, clinging to the rails tight again.

“Why here?” Sean asked.

It was a good question. A solid one. The lighthouse was a too isolated to fit the normal criteria. The body wasn’t hidden nor was it dumped in a place with easy access, unlike the beach. Lauren’s eyes fluttered as she pondered it, being hit with another bout of dizziness as the cold wind and ocean spray hit her. The other detective gave that the killer wants his own signature. That they did it to show what they were capable of. She had her doubts however. It might have been true, but she had seen nothing else other than the locations that showed to such a thing. She knew to be careful about speculation without evidence. That was one of the first things they told her at the academy.

“The location probably has significance to whoever it involves.” Lauren added. “The difficulty of getting the girl out here, alive or deceased, tells us that. They wanted them here for a reason. However, we can‘t speculate on anything else whoever until we see the body and find more evidence.”

[Costa Fierro]

Mamoset, Massachusetts. November 10, 2018. 9:15pm.
The sounds and sights of the penultimate NASCAR round filled the living room of the house surrounded by woods not far from the Massachusetts coast. It was a fairly typical evening, with a cold wind roaring through the trees. Not much of the rain and sleet was coming down onto the roof the house, but he could hear the wind. It gave him mixed feelings. It reminded him of the times he'd spend up in the northwest of the state, and occasionally in Maine, going on hunting trips. It also reminded him that few people had managed to master the perfect weather proof tent.

He looked over to the sofa to his left and expected to see his daughter there. She wasn't. She was probably back up in Worcester with his former mother-in-law, Carol. God he hated that woman. She never liked him, he never liked her. He remembered the sneer she had on her face every day after the cases went before the courts, how she encouraged her daughter to lie about him in order to get the best outcome. She had skeletons in her closet that she didn't know he knew about. One of the perks of being a state trooper.

David's phone buzzed. He looked over at it on the table next to the chair. The screen flashed up with a government number. David picked it up and flicked the icon across to answer it.
"Excellent, I'll be right out."

*****

David saw the flashing lights of the state trooper from a good distance away, and pulled up behind the trooper's police interceptor. He pulled out his notebook and a flashlight, before getting out of the vehicle. The trooper got out of their vehicle and approached the detective. They introduced themselves as Trooper Sam Harper, and informed David of the arrest.
"His name is Donald Parker, 22 years old, a local," Trooper Harper said. "Dispatch says he has previous records for assault and has served jail time. Also seems to have ties with the Aryan Brotherhood. His parents live in Maryland, but we haven't been able to contact them at this stage."
"A Neo-Nazi?" David asked with a bit of a smirk. "And here I thought this was a family friendly area."

David walked over to the police interceptor, and Trooper Harper pulled the rear door open. David squatted down next to the man sitting in the rear of the vehicle. He handed the Trooper the flashlight and told him to switch it on and hold it over him so he could see.
"Good evening Donald," David said. "My name is Detective David Wright with the Massachusetts State Police. I hear you've been caught with something you shouldn't have."
"What's it to you?" Donald retorted.
"It just so happens that someone was found murdered with methamphetamine in their system. Same drug that you have in possession. Now I'm not going to accuse you with anything like that, but it's a small area. Not many people are out here dealing hard drugs like meth. So here's what you are going to do for me, Donald. You're going to tell me where you got it from, who you got it from, and when. I'll cut you a deal. Currently you're looking at five years, maybe four at a pinch. I could get you two, maybe even twelve months, tops, if you tell me what I need to know. Seeing as the other option is being someone's prison bitch, you'll want to start cooperating. So, tell me who you got it from. Clothes, face, every little detail you can remember. Right down to the pimples."
"Asshole." Donald growled.
"I can be more than just an asshole if you don't fuck around with me," David retorted. "Tell me what I need to know."
"I got my stuff from some guy called Cochran," Donald said. "There's a house outside of town where we met, I get it there." David jotted down these details.
"Gonna need more, Donald," David said. "What did he look like?"
"He wore a black hoodie, jeans," Donald said. "Got some tattooes."
"Come on Donald," David said. "I need more. What does he look like?"
"I already told you, he wore black jeans, had tattooes," Donald said. "He...he wears some gloves. He's white, clean shaven."
"What about the tattooes?" David asked. "Any details on them?"
"I couldn't really see them," Donald replied. "I don't know anything else about him." David quickly jotted the information down. David then changed tack.
"Where is the house? Outside of town isn't going to cut it. What road is it on, what street. Is it suburban, is it out in the middle of fucking nowhere?"
"It's in the woods," Donald said. "There's a place off Old Sandwhich Road. On the right. The house is at the end." David scribbled furiously on his notepad. It did raise an eyebrow, as it wasn't that far from where he lived.
"How often is he there? What days do you pick up?" David's interrogation was now ramping up.
"He's the one that makes meetups," Donald replied. "I only ever see him whenever I text him and he texts me back." David said if he had a number and Donald began listing numbers. David wrote them down in his notebook. He continued with his questioning.
"Does Cochran have a car?" David asked. "Do you arrive before or after he gets there?"
"I arrive after," Donald replied. "I don't see if he has a car. As far as I know he either lives there, or walks there."
"Does Cochran sell anything else besides methamphetamine?" David asked.
"He only sells me meth," Donald replied. "I ask for it. He gives it, I pay him." David reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photo of the Jane Doe.
"Do you know her?" David asked. Donald shook his head.
"No, I don't know her," Donald said. "Doesn't run in my circles, at least. She probably ran with some of those biker fucks, in one of those bars."
"And where can I find these "biker fucks"?" David asked. "They hang out in bars, right? Which ones?"
"Oceanside Ladies Club and Joe's Bar." Donald said. "That's all I know."
"Anyone specific?" David asked. 'Waitresses, customers?"
"Ask around," Donald replied. "You'll run into someone eventually." David didn't bother to jott the last bit down. He stood up and spoke.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Parker," David said. "I'll pass my regards onto your lawyer."

David returned to his car and got inside. He pulled up the car's onboard computer and typed in Cochran, searching through criminal records and driver's licences. Nothing. Cochran either must be a nickname, or he's one very clean drug dealer.

[Reverend Norv]

November 10
Headquarters, Troop D, Massachusetts State Police
Middleborough, MA
08:15

Tom met Nate's gaze. Most people did. Tom held it. Most people didn't do that. The other man chuckled and flashed a thumbs-up. "Probably best if you do, Nate."

That meant drive. Nate was grateful. Some cops got very defensive about riding shotgun. Nate had never understood that.

Tom held the station door for Nate. It was a respectful act. A polite one. Quietly pointed in its understatement: I am a decent man. Nate recognized himself in Tom's courtesy, and he smiled, a little ruefully.

No sooner had Nate stepped through the door than someone walked into his shoulder. Nate blinked and looked down and saw Sabrina Nithko. He didn't know much about Sabrina. She was young, not long in plainclothes, quiet. Nate knew that was probably just a new detective's nerves; that was the simplest explanation. But he didn't believe it.

"Do you mind if I accompany you?" Sabrina asked. She hadn't made much progress on her own the last few days, Nate recalled. The detective smiled: a gentle smile.

"Not at all. Let's hit the road."

There was plenty of leg room in Nate's Explorer. There was also an acceptable level of clutter: enough to show that he spent a lot of time behind the wheel, but not so much that anyone would think of mice or roaches. Files, transcripts, photos, spare pens in various colors. A bunch of old cardboard coffee cups. Nate drove the speed limit, careful with his turn signals. He took Plympton Street out to the Forty-Four, past the Congregationalist church. Out the windows, swampy green forest and centuries-old farmhouses rolled by in the grey November morning. In Nate's rearview, Sabrina fidgeted. Nate noted that, and wondered.

Tom had asked what the detectives knew about Angela Williams' last day. Nate thought back, let the hum of his wheels loosen his memory. "Not much," he replied. "Parents say she spent a lot of time at school or out with friends. Full ride to Quincy College next year. But she took to staying out later. On the fifth, she comes home in the morning after staying out all night. The parents call her out, she storms out, goes to class. Later in the day, they call her to try to talk things through. No answer."

Nate paused. "We're going to want to nail down the chronology here. Know exactly when that call happened. Just 'cause she didn't pick up, it doesn't mean she was already gone. She might just have been giving mom and dad the cold shoulder. But we still need to know the timing." Nate exited the Forty-Four early, on Commerce Way, and took Cherry Street into Plymouth from the north. "And we're going to want to know more about these friends she stayed out late with." Nate kept on Cherry, past the electrical store and the used-car place and then the neat lines of small clapboard homes. He tried not to think about how each of them had a crawlspace down in the basement, some dark damp place where no light and no eye from the street outside could reach, where the sun ceased to exist.

Nate stopped in front of one of those homes, and looked at it. He didn't want to get out of the car. He thought: I have a gun. But it didn't matter. He thought: Edna's in jail. But she wasn't. She had gotten out five years ago.

He told himself he wouldn't go down in the basement. It was a promise he couldn't keep, not for sure. But it got him out of the car.

Nate went up the steps to the front door. He looked at the pile of newspapers on the top step, uncollected, almost a week's worth. He worked his jaw, and then rang the doorbell.

He heard footsteps on the second ring, and the door opened a crack. Lauren Williams could have been a handsome woman, Nate supposed. It was hard to know, since she clearly hadn't put on makeup or even showered in a long while. Her eyes were red: it was barely nine in the morning, and she had already been crying. And Nate saw a hollowness in her face. The recognition, spreading like a cancer, that this was what every day was going to be like, now, every day until she died.

Nate had seen that look before. He saw it about once every six weeks. They'd put him on homicide as soon as he made detective in the troopers. Not gangs, not narcotics, not anything he'd worked before. Just homicide, right from the start. Nate often wondered about that.

Lauren didn't say anything; just looked at Nate, and then over his shoulder at Tom and Sabrina. Nate reached into his jacket for his shield. "Miz Williams, I'm - "

"I know," Lauren said. "I know, I can talk. Anything to help. Byron too. He's upstairs, with his books. Books." She looked back at Nate. "I'm sorry, what was your name, Detective?"

"Nathan Walker," Nate said. "These are Detectives Frey and Nithko."

Lauren nodded. "Yes. Good. I won't remember your names, I'm afraid. Won't you come in?" She stepped away from the door. Nate stepped in. He tried to make his boots quiet on the old hardwood floors, because he thought that a noise at some unknown exact frequency, at just the right volume, might shatter this woman like a champagne flute.

No one had cleaned the house in a while. There were stacks of books about religion on the windowsills, academic books. There was a pile of laundry in the corner of the living room, mostly nurse's scrubs. A casserole dish, covered in foil, sat on the coffee table in front of the television; a few gnats buzzed hungrily around it.

Lauren sleepwalked across the dining room. "Would you like to talk in the kitchen, Detective - "

"Walker."

"Yes. I would like to talk in the kitchen." Lauren didn't turn around.

Nate followed her. "Would you mind if my partner talked to Mister Williams?"

"No. He's upstairs with his books. I said that, right? Books. Our room. First door on the left. Byron doesn't like to come downstairs any more."

Nate nodded and glanced at Tom. He saw Sabrina next to the Southerner. "And could Detective Nithko take another look at Angela's room?"

Lauren stopped. She didn't turn around. She nodded once. "Yes."

Nate heard the awful leaden effort of getting the word out. He glanced over his shoulder at Sabrina, and nodded in the direction of the staircase. In these old South Shore houses, the kid's room was always upstairs. There was nowhere to run that way. He remembered the sound of grown-up feet on the stairs, and knowing there was nowhere to run.

As Tom and Sabrina moved off toward the stairs, Nate followed Lauren into the kitchen. On the counter, he saw a mountain of unwashed dishes, and next to them an Amazon package, unopened. The label said that it came from Morning Read Books, in New Salem.

Lauren followed Tom's gaze. "I told you. Byron. Books. Keeps ordering them. He's on leave, you know." Her voice softened for the first time. "I think it's his way of coping."

Nate looked at the box, and the detective's instinct flared: the animal startle at the one leaf misplaced that marked the tiger's lair. But it was too early to ask to open it. He looked back at Lauren instead, and took out his notebook.

Lauren looked up at him with her hollow eyes, and said: "What do you need to know?"

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Time kept ticking.

The detectives were in overdrive. Gone were the days of attempting to formulate a task force into something; now, it was something. Three of them had begun investigation into the first of the exalted. Another three were pushing their way into the lives of the second exalted. Now, three plus another force had entered the play. They were on the cuff of discovering eminence.

Scratching. Something in your ear. Itching.

Someone has something to say.

---

FADE IN:

MASSACHUSETTS, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE OFFICER
I can’t believe this happened. _____’s dead.

THE VENGEFUL
I know. ____ shouldn’t have been here.

THE OFFICER
Yeah. It’s just… fucking horrible. One of our own.

THE INATTENTIVE
What the fuck happened?!

THE SENIOR
I’m going to be sick. Oh Jesus, I’m going to be sick.

THE UNNATURAL stares at them. THE UNNATURAL stares at the corpse of THE ________. THE UNNATURAL is intrigued but scared. WE have hallowed them, THE SEVERE, and THE AFFLICTED. The rest will come soon.

THE IMPERFECT (after vomiting)
______ was fine… they were just fine.

THE CAPTAIN (crying)
Oh God. This… oh God...

The body comes into view. Limbs are missing. The face is destroyed but the corpse is recognizable as THE ________. There was one mistake.

---

Duxbury Pier Light
9:15 AM
Comes Knocking

The boat was rocky this morning. Cecil helped them all in one by one, grabbing their hands or arms and loading them in if they so required. Once they were all sat down, he tore the rope from the dock and plopped himself down in. The boat shook. It was big enough to hold all of them; but not much bigger.

A short trip sent the boat careening over the depths. It was pure black down there; something observed them from the bank. A striped bass, a bluefish, or something other member of marine life. Nothing sinister. Just something very stupid.

As they approached, that same uneasy feeling washed over the boat. All of the inhabitants were grasped by the call of the void. It was not a good feeling; it was one of putrid imagination. They stopped next to the rocky island of Duxbury Pier Light, Cecil tying the rope up as he did before. Turning to Connell, he extended a hand out in a fist. The key to the lighthouse poked out of his hands. “Go on, I don’t want to see it anymore.” His voice shakes as a shiver tears its way down his spine. He visibly shudders in the morning wind.

The door is certainly rusted but the lock is not broken. Inside, thin metal sheets form a sturdy spiral staircase to the top. At the top; there she is.

There is no blood. The girl is Hispanic and entirely naked. Her mouth is closed and her dead eyes are wide open. She has no hair on any part of her body. Her hands are bound with bark cordage. Her legs show scars from bindings, but the rope for her ankles are entirely gone. She looks out at the ocean; one only briefly glancing at her would think she wasn’t even dead.

Her face is bruised on the cheeks and her nose is broken. There is some light dusting; something a married man or a woman would recognize as the remains of makeup. These are centered around the bruises. The stench is horrible and mixes in with the scent of the salty, fishy, dead sea. Anyone with any knowledge of forensics could guess that she has been dead for a few days. Her skin is beginning to rot and has turned a sickly yellow. Bloating as begun somewhat; she appears misshapen and broken. She is kept propped up by a stool that she is tied to by her waist. If anyone were to check her jaw, they would notice it was loose.

It was time to get to work.

[Transoxthraxia]

Supervisory Special Agent Madeline Pryor
8:57 A.M,
Somewhere along the MA Route 3, closing in on Plymouth.

Madeline Pryor’s aging Chrysler 300 sped south along Massachusetts Route 3 from Boston to Plymouth. It wasn’t an exceedingly long drive, but it would be one that Madeline would hopefully only make twice - once to get there, and once to leave. She had two suitcases, one in the trunk and one in her backseat; she wanted to stay in a hotel close enough to the crime scene that would prevent her from having too long of a commute. SSA Pryor had never slept well, but it was only in the preceding few months that it had gotten especially bad. Her dreams had become less coherent and more nightmarish, and she found herself feeling like a zombie every morning.

It was early, and there were only a few brave commuters making the southbound trip along the 3, and Madeline had her way with the road. She had never particularly enjoyed driving, but she found something intensely romantic about the open road, the freedom of going wherever, whenever. It wasn’t unusual to be given an assignment so early in the morning, but Pryor had been half-asleep when she walked into the Boston field office. Luckily, she had been able to secure what few documents and briefings there were on the case. Glancing over to the grouping of manila folders on her passenger seat, secured by her work bag and a seatbelt, it looked depressingly thin. Turning her eyes back on the road, Pryor remembered her other murder cases, before remembering what one local had said to her once, soon after the Conn Island Killings case. “Funny how that, if you just kill some random person you walk by on the street, it’s nearly impossible to catch ‘yas. Most murders have motives, right? I was watching this crime show, it said that it’s the ones without that are the hardest.” It was true, to some extent. When someone murders their lover, or their jealous wife, or their father’s dog’s aunt’s what-the-fuck’s ever, there’s at least some logic that can be applied to the process. Inheritance, love, lust. “Things you’d see in soap operas…” Pryor muttered to herself, shifting gears and pulling onto an off-ramp.

The Plymouth murders don’t have motive resounded in her head. She had only briefly parsed the documents before she put her car in gear and began the short drive to Plymouth, but it was exceedingly clear that, based on the victims, there was no way this was a simple case. And that’s what worried Madeline Pryor the most: A second New Germany, with two years on the case and absolutely no progress. People were hurt, missing, and no one was ever caught. There was no justice, no prevention, and no closure. She was nearly sectioned after that - she still kept regular, if not clandestine, contact with the local police department.

The town of Plymouth was a small settlement of just under 60,000 people. Originally, it had played a key part of American history, being the final landing point for the Puritan Pilgrims. Madeline had been there as a part of her high school history class’ field trip program. She barely remembered any of it, of course, it had been so long ago. But upon her first driving through it, Madeline was oddly charmed by the quaint, coastal town. It was close to Cape Cod, and the general atmosphere and aesthetic of the area reflected that fact. She found the quaintness of the town to be reassuring, despite the nature of the crimes that she had been sent to investigate. Navigating through the town, she found a Starbucks, and, after a brief stop, continued to make her way to the District Attorney’s office, London Fog in hand.

The Plymouth District Attorney’s office was an unimpressive, single-storey structure that had been built in the 1960’s or 1970’s, ostensibly when mimicking Soviet architecture that had been in style, Pryor quipped to herself. The building’s exterior was drab and clearly quite old, though not nearly old enough for it to be historic or charming. It had alternating panels of pure concrete and faux-pebble for its walls, with tinted, worn windows along the front. The entrance was similarly aged, with doors that looked older than Madeline. A disappointing blight on an otherwise pretty little town the SSA thought to herself as she parked on the street across from the office and, before she made her way inside, looked over what little she knew about the case thus far.

Three victims, all three younger women, with their hands bound, throats slashed, and all of their hair shaved. Each one was put out for display, facing the sea. What intrigued Pryor, however, was the choice of victims. Of the three victims discovered, two of them were yet to be identified, while another was a very high-profile target. Furthermore, while neither of the Does seemed to have any sexual interaction, the only named and recognizable victim had evidence of sexual violence inflicted upon her. “And at least two of them died on the same night…” Pryor muttered to herself, flipping through preliminary victim reports. Evidence of a spree killer, she thought. Sighing, Madeline flipped her dossiers shut, and opened her car door, deftly bringing her briefcase with her, putting the dossiers back into it as she locked her car and crossed the quiet road.

Entering the District Attorney’s office, things were little different on the inside than they were the exterior. Ancient furnishings, tarnished decor and badges, and that old building smell that seems to permeate every old D.C building and any small-town law enforcement complex. Pryor instinctively riled her nose as she walked towards the receptionist’s desk. Taking a brisk sip from her drink, she then placed it on the desk to garner the attention of the older woman sitting behind it. If the interior matched the exterior’s theme of antiquated style, the receptionist would fit right in. She was a larger woman, with matted, silver-grey hair and a pair of cheater glasses resting on the edge of her knobbled nose, the glasses on a chain around her neck; Heaven forbid they fall off. She didn’t look so unpleasant as she did unfortunate - an important distinction in Madeline’s mind - she didn’t look inherently awful to interact with. Once Madeline had placed her cup on the woman’s desk, she looked up from the paperwork that she had been doing. “Supervisory Special Agent Pryor, here from the FBI. I have an appointment this morning? My partner isn’t here yet, but I’d like to get on with things as soon as possible, if that’s alright with you.”

[Recon]

November 10
Sean Connell
Plymouth Harbour, MA
09:16

He took the key reluctantly, knowing that whatever had affected the old Lighthouse keeper so deeply was only moments away. As the old man tied up the boat, Sean switched on his Dictaphone again. Here we go. He patted the old man on the shoulder as he made his way off the boat and onto –relatively dry- land. He chose his footing with care, mindful of not doing something foolish like slipping on the wet stones placed there over a century ago. Steading himself he offered a hand to those who followed him.

“Anyone need gloves?”

He pulled out a pair of disposable gloves for himself and a few spares if anyone needed them, he always seemed to collect them in his car.

“Speak now or forever hold your peace” he said attempting some humour, even if he did not remotely feel like it.

Gloves on, he made for the door. The wind was fierce now. They were exposed to everything out here.

Sean turned the key over in his hands as he searched for the lock. Once the key was placed inside, he felt the lock turn. The door slid partially open and then suddenly stuck. He looked through the crack; nothing was blocking it from the inside. So he tried again. Still jammed. He took a step back, yanked at the door again and the rusted hinges finally gave way. Nothings ever easy.

Even from the open doorway he could smell it, decay. It permeated everything, the air, your lungs, your clothes.

He moved slowly, looking around carefully as he made his way towards the staircase. Sean was well aware of their role, they all were. They were just here for observation; for anything that would give them a lead, an insight, before the scene was seized by forensics. Reluctantly, he began to climb the stairs.

Christ.

There she was waiting for them, like a bruised doll in a child’s playhouse. He had no urge to go any further, but the footsteps behind him continued to echo off the iron walls.

It was cramped, five of them up here, working in a space designed for just one. Sean leaned in as close as he dared, trying to breathe only through his mouth.

“She’s been here a while”.

He examined her face,

“Fresh bruises and it looks like her nose is broken” she’d put up a fight at least.

He kept looking despite dearly wishing to be anywhere else.

“She was wearing makeup to cover up the bruises”. That could have been from before she had met the killer, but the broken nose was clearly his work.

Sean remembered reading the files of the other two girls; the way the bodies were altered post mortem, the escalating violence; it looked connected so far.

He was drawn again to her eyes, left vacant and open. He turned to look out to where she gazed, but there was nothing, just the endless rolling waves of the Atlantic.

Looking back at her, he pulled the small Maglite off his belt, wary not to bump into the others busy working around him.

He switched it on, waved it over his hand to check it was working despite the morning sunlight all around him and then brought it up to her face. He checked methodically, first her ears, both clear. Then the nose, definitely broken. And then finally the mouth, which had been left, closed. He brought the torch in closer and noticed her jaw had been dislocated. Perhaps in the initial struggle. Carefully, he began to pry her lips apart.

[Hastur]

Special Agent Lauren Esther Pryzbylewski.
Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, FBI Boston Office.
November 10, 2018. - Duxbury Pier Light, Massachusetts.

---

And there it was.

The Duxbury Pier lighthouse.

The Bug Light.

The fourteen-meter tall maroon and white coffeepot-shaped construction sat ominously in the water as it seemingly observed in all directions over the enormous vacant sea. Unmoving as the intermittent waves and splashes broke against it. A construction that had been her long before she had trawled the earth, and might survive long after she disappeared.  The fisher boat drew up alongside.  Now fit to dispatch its rag-tag group of detectives into the designs cast iron guts, and up onto the beacon chambers perch, where the cadaver lay.

The one and only means up into its hollow interior was a withered ladder. Leading upwards onto an iron-railed platform that occupied the large, heavy door inward. The boat rocked annoyingly as the group assembled to carry out the assent. Lauren preparing her gear and herself for the journey and mission ahead. Putting on the gear in order not to contaminate a crime scene before continuing up. Shoe covers, gloves, hair net and the unnecessary inclusion of a medical face mask.

It was a precarious place. Narrow and uncomfortable. Little room to navigate as the detectives went up. With them standing side by side. With a cast iron wall to their right, and the railed platform to their left, with their shoulders touching. A brief attempt a humour was made by the senior detective as he offered out gloves, but the time passed, and he moved onto attempting to free the locked gate. The Baltic wind hammered them as the rusted door caused them trouble. Lauren stood impatiently, cold, thoroughly wrapped in her windbreaker as the entrance point-blank refusing to open even after being unlocked. Taking numerous attempts before it ultimately came loose from its outline. Opening the gloomy recesses of the lighthouse for them to examine.

The initial thing becoming immediately noticeable was the smell. Even from under the N95 mask that clasped to her mouth and nose. The particular stomach churning stench of mortal decay that clung to and seeped through everything. It wasn't her first time. She had smelt the putrid stench several times during her time with the FBI, but it always felt unique. Each time felt different. And it always provoked her abdomen into tying itself into a knot every moment she inhaled the god awful stink. Several seconds of nausea kicked in as she tried to stabilize herself. Silently gagging and dry heaving from beneath of mask as her eyes watered.

Calm.. Calm.. Calm..

But the moment went. The heaving stopped. The nausea passed. And she proceeded on. She had appearances to carry. She followed the detectives inward into the cramped space, lit only by ambient daytime lighting through the door and a small window which sat near the base of the stairs. The ones they had to ascend. She followed them upwards. Being stuck in the group’s middle as they traversed the circular staircase. The stench of death getting every so stronger as they did. Climaxing in a crescendo of malodor as they entered the lantern room.

The hairless Hispanic woman sat motionless, braced against the railings. Just past the glass exit that led out onto the perch. They had deliberately left her facing out onto the endless sea. Naked. Long dead. That much was obvious from how she was posed and the level of decomposition on the corpse. That and the smell. Laurens eyes peeped and fluttered almost frantically as she gazed on a concoction of revulsion, horror and anger. Viewing the deceased woman from the passage of the lantern room as she pulled out her camera, a Nikon DSLR, and secured the proper lenses for close up photographs. Forcing whatever heated emotional into the dark recesses of her mind.

She had a duty to do this.

Lauren moved closer. Navigating her way past the detectives as she crouched down near the corpse, closely examining the poor girl for any clues, putting herself through a mental refresher of her Quantico days, as she tried to drudge up old memories that would put her on the right track. Her eyes moving up and down her decaying and bloating form with an analytical and cold glare. Several thoughts raced through her head as she considered the possibilities. It matched the modus operandi of the other murders, but why here? Why this place? Why hairless? So far it was just a bunch of why's. No solid answers. She had been bound and forced into this position after death. Almost as if she was praising some unseen force.

It struck her as something religious, something following the occult.

“She’s been here a while.” Sean stated. And he was right.

“Three days at least.” Lauren added. She crouched close to the body and made a hand gesture towards the notable bloating in the abdomen. She Lightly grasped the woman’s thin wrist with her gloved right hand, careful not to disturb the scene too much. The ice-cold body was limp. “Stage two decomp is setting in. She’s bloating. The stiffness has faded. She has been dead at least three days. Possibly two if the weather has sped it up.”

She took several pictures of the misshapen body. Her smashed nose. Scared legs. Shackled hands, and interesting pattern of lividity that the body had. A horrid dark purplish colour that seemed to pool around her back and lower back legs. It was looking like she potentially wasn't killed here. At least in this spot.

“See the purplish colouring on her back and lower legs?” She asked the detectives. Marking it out to them with her gloved right-hand index finger, which trailed from the top of her back to her lower extremities. Emphasizing the deep discolouration. “She was initially in a supine position when she expired. The blood pooled down into that area before they moved her.” Her hand drifted over to her collar area where old wound lay. Spotting tiny blood stains and traces of makeup around the throat area, leading downwards towards the back of her neck. “Bloodstains. She was doubtless moved.” She stated, her eyes being captured by something else. Her hands.

She gazed at them for a few moments, eyes shivering as she clicked onto the matter that her finger nails were missing. All of them. Glancing closer. It quickly became clear that they‘d been removed. A certain peculiarity which she didn't notice in the briefing or the previous case files. “Guys? On the previous two homicides. Did you guys notice if the girls finger nails had been removed?” She asked. Taking close-ups.

[Arkhastok]

November 10
Plymouth Harbour, MA
09:17

Stepping once again on dry land, Halberd managed to admire the lighthouse in a way. What a shame that it would be used to dump a body. Putting on the protective equipment, he looked up the lighthouse with a slight unease. As the gate was barged open, the rotting sound slammed into his senses, sending him back to previous cases of investigating these bodies.

Holding on to the railings, he wasn’t eager to see the scene at all but he had to keep determined and have a positive image in front of the people around him. He had no feeling of nausea or sickness from the smell, however the atmosphere was disturbing and it had looked like the other detectives had also been attempting to keep a good image.

As the body came into sight, Halberd was slightly relieved at the sight of blood being mostly absent. The detectives had started to inspect the body. Bruises were scattered around the face, the skin was discoloured and bloating had already begun. It was obvious that the body had been placed there some time ago, most likely in the span of the last few days.

As Agent Pryzbylewski pointed out the missing fingernails, a combination of this with the shaved head seemed disturbingly organised. Halberd winced slightly at the sight of the fingernails and attempted to avoid looking at them. “If there is a repeated occurrence of these in the other cases there’s a possibility that they aren’t grabbing random people off the street and murdering them for no reason. Most likely, there’s some sort of torture happening. You can see that also from the binding marks near the ankles. They’re gone. She was held before somewhere.”

He examined the cheeks, noticing the attempt to hide the bruises. “Detective Connel, this makeup might probably have been applied by the murderer themselves. Either that, or she knew the murderer before she was taken in and all this happened and there was abuse already happening. She could have tried to hide the bruises herselves to reduce the suspicions that something was happening.”

Picking up on the stench, he tried to dissect the components of the smell. Obviously the scent of dead fish. Which brought Halberd to another proposition “She might have been dumped in the ocean around us before she was brought here as well. Accidentally or on purpose, no clue. All the clues are everywhere. Some connect but the other clues do fuck all.”

[Costa Fierro]

Oceanside Ladies Club, Plymouth. November 11, 2018. 10:00pm.
Oceanside Ladies Club was a rather nondescript place, at least it was during the day. David had seen it during the day before on occasional visits to the boat storage lot at the pier. The place was out of the way for a reason, very few people here wanted a strip club in their backyard, and when the area near the pier at Cordage was "redeveloped", it was the perfect place to build such an institution. Crossing the railroad lines that separated the empty lot from the community college and university buildings, the club occupied a two story building that had been extensively remodeled, but still kept its industrial character. Even the signage, while bright, was rather brief, with "Oceanside" written out diagonally across the front of the first floor in italics, the neon lights giving off a hazy, pink glow. The road leading to the club had been paved, which was a somewhat recent addition. He rounded the left-hand turn and entered into the car park, David took a note of some of the vehicles present. They were mostly pickup trucks, older model cars. Comparatively few bikes, the cooler weather must have moved most of them on.

David pushed open the front door of the building and found himself in an entrance way that, despite the lack of people, it was surprisingly tight. Some sort of electronic music was playing, the bass thumping loudly. To his left was, essentially, a hole in the wall. It constituted the "reception" area, where customers paid to enjoy the alcohol and women further inside. David walked over and found no one inside. He poked his head in and had a look around. Aside from a cash register, a computer monitor displaying a social media sight, nothing else was in it that he could see, as it was dimly lit.
"Can I help you?" a voice asked curtly as it pierced the repetitive thumping. David turned around and saw a young woman, barely out of high school, standing behind him, arms folded. She had tight black leggings on, polar white sports shoes, an open red branded sports jacket, and a short cut top underneath. Her hair was dyed grey, with the natural colour becoming prominent towards the roots. She had pencil thin eyebrows, dark coloured lipstick, and a flawless, and featureless, face. A pair of knockoff brand sunglasses rested just above her forehead. She had a look of inconvenience about her face, as if somehow his presence in of itself annoyed her. She asked the question again, this time with a much greater tone of annoyance.
"Can I help you?"
"You can," David replied. He produced his badge and identification and showed it to the young woman, who looked at him, then it, then him again. One of her pencil thin eyebrows raised up when he announced who he was. "I'm Detective David Wright with the Massachusetts State Police. Is your manager about?"
"Sure, I guess," the young woman replied, the tone of annoyance now replaced by one of subtle intrigue. She walked around to the side of the reception and entered through a side door. She walked over and picked up the handset of a hitherto unseen phone.
"Yeah there's a cop standing at the reception," the young woman said. "Wants to speak with you." The young woman looked up at the man. "Yeah, he's not going anywhere. He seems harmless. I'll tell him." She put the phone down.
"The manager will see you." The young woman said. She left the hole in the wall and beckoned for David to follow her. He did.

She led him down a corridor and turned left, up a flight of dark stairs. At the top, they turned left again, and David was left out the front of a blank door. David knocked, and a voice from inside responded, telling him to enter.

The manager's office was probably the best lit room in the entire club. It was lit by basic white fluorescent lights, and the decor was minimal. A desk sat at the end of the room, on top was placed a computer monitor and an Apple laptop. David was surprised to find a middle aged woman with black and pink hair sitting at the table, staring blankly at the computer screen. She looked over at him.
"You must be the detective," she said. "I'm Joanna."
"Is there a last name?" David asked, approaching the table.
"Just Joanna," she said. "How can I help?"
"I'm looking for information on this woman," David said, holding up a picture of the Jane Doe. "Do you know her?"
"Nope," Joanna replied. "Haven't seen her around before."
"Is there anyone here who might?" David asked. Joanna shrugged.
"You could check with the dancers," she suggested. "They're on break now. In the dressing room. I'll get Hannah outide to show you where it is."
"Thank you." David said as he nodded his head. He returned outside and mentioned the dressing room to Hannah.

David was escorted to the dressing room at the far end of the building, behind the stage where the women who performed prepared. A bouncer was standing outside the door. David produced his ID and badge and explained that he needed to ask some of the dancers if they recognise the murder victim or know someone specific. The bouncer knocked on the door, and told the women behind him to "look decent", before opening it up. David entered.

The changing room was an orgy of pink and purple. Mirrors lined both walls either side of him, and several women were sitting on stools in dressing gowns. Various makeup products littered the small benches in front of the mirrors. David held up his ID and badge and began his usual spiel.
"Good evening. I am Detective David Wright with the Massachusetts State Police. I'm here looking for information of this woman." David produced the photo of the Jane Doe and showed it. "Is there anyone here who might know her or might know of her?" There was silence, and many of the women shook their heads.
"I'm also looking for information of a man who goes by the name of Cochran," David said. "Anyone here knows him or of him?" A few heads turned to a younger woman sitting down the back of the room. She was reluctant to speak up.
"She might," one of the other dancers said, pointing at her. "She's mentioned him before."
"What is your name?" David asked.
"Mags," the dancer replied. Dave nodded his head, produced his notebook, and scribbled down the name.
"Can we speak alone, please?" he asked. The other dancers got up and left. David walked over and sat down adjacent to Mags.
"So," he began. "Is Mags short for something?"
"Yeah," she said. "Magdalene Parish." David scrawled down the name.
"You said you know Cochran," David asked. "How do you know him?"
"Why do you want to know that?" Mags asked, looking anxious.
"Our victim was found with methamphetamine in her system," David said. "A person who shall remain nameless was arrested last night and was found to be in possession of methamphetamine. He referred to Cochran by name. I'm operating under the assumption that this Cochran is a prominent drug dealer."
"He is," Mags said. "But that's all he is. Just a dealer." David knew she knew more than she was letting on. He wasn't sure about her reaction to the next question, but decided to ask it.
"Were you a user?"
"No," she replied. "I didn't use any of his stuff. He works out of a house in the woods." She gave the same description Donald Parker did. She also added she didn't want to go back there. David could get a sense that she's hiding something. David tried one more question.
"So you aren't a user, yet you know what he does, where he operates?" David queried. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know how I know this, or him. Only that I do." David got the hint.
"Did he come into the club?" David asked. Mags nodded.
"Yeah," she replied. "He came in sometimes, watch us perform, had a few drinks at the bar, then left." David considered his options. He hadn't spoken with some of the other patrons at the bar, and Mags was going to be the closest thing he'd get if he didn't get extra information.
"I can get you a meeting with him," Mags said, out of the blue. "I don't want to go back to the house." David was caught off guard by this offer.
"Um, sure," David said, trying to find the right words. "If you can do that, it would be immensely helpful." He was intrigued as to why she didn't want to go back. "How come you don't want to go?"
"I don't want to be seen at a cop bust," she said. "He's an asshole but I want to stay as far away from that shit as possible."
"Fair enough." David concluded. He flipped to a blank page in his notebook and scribbled a number on it. He tore it out and handed it over to Mags.
"This is my personal number," David said. "Call it if you have any more information or if you can arrange a meeting." Mags took the piece of paper. David stood up and thanked her for her help, before leaving the dressing room.

The thump of electronic music had returned as David entered into the main bar area. He wandered around, canvassing some of the patrons until he met a young, blonde haired woman who went by the name of Lucy. She didn't know the Jane Doe, but she did know about Cochran.
"So how do you know about this Cochran?" David asked, pulling out his notebook and pen. "Are you a customer of his?"
"No I don't use." Lucy said.
"So how do you know him?" David queried.
"I've spoken to others who are customers," Lucy replied. David was a little bit hesitant about relying on third hand information from some random patron at a seedy bar cum strip club. Nonetheless he took notes down diligently. Lucy continued. "He likes to use code phrases."
"Any examples of these?" he asked.
"Sure," she said. "You ask to meet up with him and he'll respond with the message "Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder", all in capitals. If you meet him in person and say "Lock and Key", he'll give you two code phrases. He gives you one, you respond with it, and then you'll go and meet at his place."
"And where is that?" David asked. Lucy gave the same description as both Donald and Mags.
"How did you come across all of this?"
"Like I said, I've talked to people who are customers or friends of his," Lucy said. "They've told me about him." She seemed to know a lot about someone from friends and customer. Whoever Lucy was, she was well connected. David was also intrigued about the use of code phrases. He'd seen something like that being used by CIA spies in movies, but wasn't sure if that was how they operated. Or why they would even bother with an out of the way place like this. David thanked her for her help, and left the premises.

David walked back to his car and pulled up the onboard computer. He typed the name "Magdalene Parish" into the search bar, and it came back with a profile, including personal details. David noted a prior arrest for possession of drugs, also for methamphetamine. It was dated December 17th, 2007.
"Now we know why she doesn't use it anymore." David said to himself. David pulled his phone out, pulled up a number from his contacts, and called it. A voice echoed in his ear.
"What have you got, Wright?" it demanded.
"It's not what I've got, it's what I want," David said. "You've got some new friends at the Bureau now. Get them to run the name Cochran."

[Imperial Idaho]

Plymouth Harbor, Massachusetts, United States

Potlatch was fairly idle upon answering Driesler's question. The FBI agent was leading the conversation with Cecil mainly, along with Connel. The trip on the small boat was uneventful. Simply a group of cops and an old lighthouse keeper heading to the lighthouse. Potlatch continued to ponder the events, feeling nervous and slightly pressured as they got closer and closer to the murder site. The smell of the sea filled his nose.

Eventually they found their way to the dock, where Cecil tied the boat up just now. He felt an increasing sense of dread every step of the way up the spiraling lighthouse steps. A feeling he hadn't quite felt since his first few cases as a homicide detective. The stairs ended as quickly as they started, and suddenly there she was, Jane Doe. A particularly cruel sight it was. He'd seen many bodies before, but this one got to him a little bit more than most. An unfortunate end he'd wish on nobody.

He took a pair of gloves from Connel, thanking him as he grabbed them. The body showed signs of damage at the wrists, ankles, neck, the face, and there was pooling blood on the victims back, days old by now. It was positioned in a way most odd, tied to a stool with her hands bound to the railing and facing the great big Atlantic. Abraham looked over the poor woman while the others pointed out various blood related discolorations on her back. Pryzbylewski was checking her loose jaw and noted her apparent lack of fingernails.

Driesler had brought up the idea of torture. It was possible, but just as likely that it wasn't torture. The killer could've pulled the finger nails and shaved the body post death, and the binding bruises and facial damage could be done while initially kidnapping the girl and moving her to the site where she was killed. Torture is possible, but not absolute fact. Potlatch spoke up about it.

"Not too sure about the torture part. She could have been kidnapped originally. Explains the face wounds and the binds if she was trying to protect herself from the killer. The fingernails and hair could've been pulled and shaved after she was dead. I haven't seen the other two bodies quite yet so I can't say for them, but this killer might enjoy having a body to stage for the world to see more than actually killing their victim. Seem's they've done more work getting it up here and posing it than actually getting the body."

As he said this, Potlatch looked down the edges of the Lighthouse, seeing the distance down and wondering if it could have possibly been climbed with the aid of a thrown rope or something to that extent. The others were checking the body, so he'd focus on figuring out how the body got there for now.

[Arengin Union]

Detectives James Adrian Bowen and Victor Alexander Constantinovich
Poverty Point, Plymouth ~ 10th
November of 2018, 10:00

Constantinovich knocked on the door. As he waited for an answer, he gazed at the grey skies, listening to the sound of the far away sea, mixed with urban noise. Bowen for his part took out a cigarette from his jacket, setting it on his mouth he lit it and took in a breath of the smoke, he figured it was the best of any time to finally relax as the two detectives waited for the door to open.

“Hold on a second!” A muffled voice spoke from the other side, Bowen looked at Constantinovich with a raised eyebrow. Suddenly the door opened to reveal a typical looking college kid, messy hair, college tank shirt and black sport shorts with nothing else of major significance on him.

Bowen and his partner followed the usual procedure, taking out their badges Bowne spoke, "Detective Bowen and Constantinovich, Massachusetts State Police sir, we're investigating a disturbance that occurred here that may relate to a homicide case. May we come in?"

The kid’s eyes widened at the sudden appearance of two police officers at his doorstep, stepping out of the house clumsily he said “Uhmmm hi… I’m Ian. Y-yeah… I rather we talk outside. The house is… a bit messy still.”

Bowen eyed at Constantinovich, cigar still in his mouth. The two detectives got out their notepads, “Very well then” Constantinovich said while Bowen himself simply shrugged.

"We're here because we have several accounts of a party that occurred here on November 4th, a particular individual is said to have been from the Pike Fraternity of Quincy College, he was said to be bothering a lady and also said the phrase ‘Pike is Spike’, you happen to have an idea of who this person was and who he was bothering?" Bowen opened the questioning, Ian seemed rather taken aback by what Bowen said.

Frowning and crossing his arms Ian answered rather defensively “Parties ain’t illegal man… And I didn’t hear anyone saying that.”

Bowen was ready to set his foot down on the kid, he would call on the DEA if need be, then suddenly Constantinovich spoke “Ian, we have a witness who can attest to the event, it would be better for you to tell us the truth than having us come back with a warrant or the DEA. Believe me if the info you give us leads to an arrest of a suspect we will put a good name for you with the DA.” Squinting his lips Bowen nodded at Constantinovich’s words.

Ian for his part switched from being defensive to more sincere as he got uncrossed his arms and rubbing his head said. “Look, this is my dad’s house, I don’t want trouble, and so far as I know there was no drugs at the party.”

Bowen and Constantinovich looked at each other with unsure eyes, "Then at the very least have you got any idea of the identities of the Pike Fraternity people that were here? One of them we’re told was bothering a lady, black hair, a beard and seemed to be in his twenties." Bowen said with a more calm but firm tone than his partner’s.

Ian had a confused expression as he recalled the events "Some guy with a beard? I'm in the Pike frat. I saw that guy, I remember him. I don't know his name, he isn't in the Pike fraternity."

Bowen and Constantinovich looked at each other again, puzzled eyes on their faces. Ian then added "Just some creep. Me and some guys told him to fuck off after a while."

With no delay Bowen the got out his phone, unlocking it he got to his photo gallery and to the picture of the Jane Doe, showing it to Ian he said "Does the girl that he was bothering match this photo?"

Taken aback and a little bit in disgust Ian said "Jesus, no. I don't let junkies into parties, they're bad news. The girl he was bothering was blonde. She was too young to be at the party, I told her to leave once I found out she was 18."

Bowen rubbed his chin before then switching to the photo of the Angela Williams and again showing it to Ian. “Was she this girl?"

Looking closer at the photo Ian then uttered “Eh... yeah, that's her. I... holy shit. That was... fuck, man.” That was all that Bowen and Constantinovich needed to hear as they both looked at each other with some level of achievement but also worry as they needed to take this new info quickly while it was fresh. Ian for his part was in distraught as he fell back to the wall near the house door, "I-i don't know where she went after I told her to leave."

Constantinovich went into action "We're gonna need you to focus a bit. The man with the beard, did you notice any other features of him? Birthmarks, tattoos, the clothes he wore?"

His body shaking and his stomach feeling a deep ache Ian answered "I didn't see anything on him, man. He was wearing a flannel shirt, green. Jeans. He had boots on. He was like, mid 20s. I've never seen him before in my life. He had like... a tattoo on the back of his hand... think maybe a swastika on his neck? I can't remember exactly, that's what it looked like though."

Bowen then asked "Do you know of any local places where those type of people may gather here?"

"Look man, I don't do that shit. If he's like some AB guy or neo-nazi, I've got no clue. I don't hang around with those people." Ian answered still upset.

Closing his notepad Bowen got out another business card from his wallet, “Alright. My card in case you remember anything else. Oh and we'll keep you updated on what we find. Constanovich.” With that, the two detectives began to walk away leaving the fraught and distressed kid behind.

As the two walked out of the yard and to the car Bowen the said “We should call HQ and give update on what we found. Also have a patrol car here, keep the kid under watch as a suspect.”

“An unmarked car may be a better option. If the kid's really guilty of something and we keep some poor state trooper in uniform outside, he might suspect that we suspect something and leg it.” With these words, Alexander walked a bit ahead, reaching the car and getting to the passenger side as his colleague followed suit, Bowen made his way to the driving side of the vehicle.

“And make sure that it isn't a Crown Vic. Everybody knows those are still cop cars. We should go and have some lunch soon.” Constantinovich said, Bowen then nodded in agreement as he opened the car.

[Reverend Norv]

November 10
Williams Residence
Plymouth, MA
09:10

Lauren looked up at him with her hollow eyes, and said: "What do you need to know?"

"We're trying to reconstruct the sequence of events of five days ago." Nate usually tried to make the bereaved feel like a part of the investigation. It helped to keep them from feeling like victims; it gave them back some agency. That made people more willing to speak honestly. It also made Nate feel better about his job. The detective glanced at his notebook. "You and Byron called Angela, and she didn't pick up. When did that happen?"

Lauren leaned against her kitchen counter. "Three-thirty," she said. The answer was immediate, and Nate wondered how many times Lauren had asked herself these same questions, in the blackest watches of the night. "We thought she'd be getting out of school, and we wanted to talk. To apologize." Lauren's eyes wandered away from Nate, to something only she could see. "We wanted to make sure she was going to come home."

Nate nodded. He wasn't sure that Lauren saw it. She continued: "We called again. That was an hour later. Four-thirty. We were starting to get worried. Then twice more in the next half hour. And then we called the police at five."

Nate blinked. The Williamses had reported their daughter missing after just two and a half hours. That was usually the stuff of truancy complaints, not kidnapping. "You didn't think she was just giving you the cold shoulder?"

Lauren's gaze abruptly focused on Nate, and she shook her head. "Angela always answered her phone. Always texted back, even. It's how we raised her. We wanted to keep her safe." One of Lauren's hands made a tiny twisting, wringing motion. "And we called her friends. She's usually with them, when she doesn't come home." A pause. "When she didn't."

Nate thought about Henry. He wondered how it was possible to raise a child, knowing that there was no such thing as safety. He looked back at Lauren. "So what did her friends say? And did the school ever call you, to let you know that Angela was missing?"

Lauren shook her head again. "No. Nothing from the school. And when we called them, Angela's friends said they hadn't seen her either. That's why we called the police."

Nate flipped his notebook to a fresh page and put on his reading glasses. "Can you recall the names of those friends?"

"Lily Brown. Lilith, that's her full name. Makayla Aiken, M-A-K-A-Y-L-A. Josephine Trengove. Angela called her Josie. Aveline Harmon." Lauren scrubbed at one hand with the other, eyes far away. "We called them all. When we got scared, you know. They didn't know where she was."

Nate's pen scratched quietly for a moment, and then he asked: "Have you talked to Angela's friends since -" He stopped. "In the last five days?"

"One of them called. Don't remember which. Said they're all..." Lauren shrugged. "Distraught." The word was unutterably exhausted.

Nate nodded. "You said earlier that Angela was usually with her friends when she wasn't home."

"That's what she said." There was an edge in Lauren's voice. "And Lily and Makayla and the others all said the same thing. So we thought...we just thought..." Lauren's fingers skittered over the countertop. "We just wanted to trust her," she murmured. "Just...the benefit of the doubt. That can't have been so wrong. Not this wrong." Nate heard Lauren's breathing: shallow panic-breaths. "She always called back when we called. Always texted back. She wasn't...she was just out eating, or driving around. Sometimes studying. That's all. How could we - how could I - there was no way to know." Lauren squeezed the edge of the counter hard, and her voice was a lost child's. "It's not fair."

Nate looked at his notebook and saw it shaking, and he thought about how strain could creep up on you: cumulative, over time, deep down in your muscles where the body kept the score and nothing was ever forgotten. He made his hand still. "I know," he said, very softly. He looked at Lauren over the tops of his glasses. "Lauren" - it would be a terrible kind of cruelty, in this moment, to use "Ms. Williams" - "Lauren, I have to ask. Was there anyone else in Angela's life? Anyone she spent time with?"

Lauren stared at Nate for a moment, unreadable, so broken as to have become illegible. Then she let out a short breath and nodded. "She talked about a new boyfriend," she admitted. "She told us about him about a month ago. But it was like - she didn't want us to know too much. She said he was from school, and she said he was perfect for her." Lauren shook her head. "But she wouldn't tell us anything else."

"Did she tell you his name?"

"Cornell Martinson. I don't know where he lives." A muscle flickered in Lauren's neck, and her voice went rough. "I'm glad I don't."

Nate nodded. "Anything else about Cornell that you can remember?"

"I - " Lauren paused. "It's not a - not a fact. Just a feeling. Angela seemed anxious, in the few days before...before. And I had the sense that it was about Cornell. I don't know why. Could be wrong. Just a -" her face finally crumpled, and she turned away for a moment. "A mother's intuition."

Nate nodded and closed his notebook. He looked back at the box on the countertop: the one leaf out of place. Now or never. "You know, Miz Williams, I have an interest in religion too. Not like your husband, of course, but I've been looking for new reading for a while. Would you mind if I had a look?"

Lauren blinked and took a breath. Nate saw her think about it, saw her realize that this was the nice detective's way of trying to distract her. He let her believe it. "Sure," Lauren nodded. "Sure." She produced a pocket knife and cut open the tape at the top of the box. "I've never understood any of this anyway."

Nate looked inside. There were Bibles, four of them, in different translations. There was a book about grief, and another about communing with the dead. There were books about dreams and dreamcatchers, and the spirituality of dreams. And there was a thick academic book about dead languages and undeciphered scripts.

So Byron had bad dreams. So did Nate. That meant nothing. Nate supposed his instinct had been wrong. If Nate were a religious scholar, these were exactly the books he would buy as a coping mechanism.

All but one.

Nate took off his glasses and put them back in the inside pocket of his tweed blazer. He closed his eyes and saw the naked corpse sitting on the seawall, looking out into the grey depths forever.

"One last thing. Did Angela ever talk about the ocean?" The words were out before Nate could stop them, before he could even question why they mattered. "Did she - did she have any kind of connection like that?"

Lauren blinked, and then shook her head. "She was like any other girl in Plymouth," Lauren said. The past tense came easy to her lips, now, and there was a terrible finality in it. "She liked the beach a lot."

It was over. Nate nodded. "That's all I have." He took a step backward, out of the kitchen, toward the door. He felt the shame: the shame of leaving, of running away, of consigning Lauren back to the silence in which death's burden fell on her back alone. "You and your family are in my prayers, Miz Williams."

It was a weak thing to say, Nate thought. Weak and pathetic, an appeal for unearned absolution.

"Oh," Lauren replied. Just that. Then she turned away from Nate and looked at the kitchen wall, and Nate knew that she was gone, so he walked quietly to the front door and sat down on the step next to the pile of rotting unread newspapers. Waiting for his partners. And letting his hand shake until it was finished.