Chapter 6
SIX
The Emptiness Machine - Linkin Park
“Can you all just stop killing each other for two fucking seconds?” I throw my phone down on my bed and scrub my hand down my face. Fucking hell, this is the second time this week I’ve gotten called into work on my time off.
Apparently, there’s another body. A hiker found it in the park. It was close to the county line but still ours.
“For the love of god, can you walk another two hundred feet and dump it there?” I throw on my glasses, khaki pants, a black shirt, and my holster.
We’ve had a string of murders in the last few months that have only gotten worse as time has gone on. It’s not unusual for people in our county to get stabby or to shoot some holes in each other. What is unusual is the sheer amount of bodies filled with holes. Specifically, the bodies with the eyes stabbed through with a tattoo machine. The lab keeps finding traces of tattoo ink in the victim’s brains, or what’s left of their brains, after a nonconsensual scramble.
I stalk down the stairs of my split-level home and slam the door, locking it. Of course, the media has gotten ahold of our “first serial killer” and is up our asses for answers. They’re so far up the chief’s asshole I’m surprised they can get back out. Of course, shit runs downhill, so the detectives are getting reamed for not finding him.
Him. I’m not so convinced it’s just one. There have also been men turning up missing from a few counties over. No bodies, just poof. Gone. The only thing they have in common is their gender. And they’re all adults.
I get in my car and grunt as my gun hits the seat belt, jamming into my ribs. Fucking hell. Stupid fucking gun.
I get to work, grab my things, plus some more evidence bags they asked me to get, and then head out to the crime scene deep in the park. The small parking lot is full of cruisers and detective vehicles, and I have to park on the street.
“Bout time you showed up, K-K-K-Kota.” My coworker meets me at the car.
I glare at him, rehearse what I’m going to say once, then get out, “Joke never gets old.” I’ve worked at the department for ten years, and they’ve had the same joke every time, making fun of my stutter.
I don’t stutter all the time. Mostly when I’m nervous or trying to say a word that starts with an L or S for some reason. Doctors aren’t sure why. Say there must be something scrambled on the left side of my brain where speech is formed.
It’s awesome.
Mark laughs and smacks my back. “Got you a ripe one.”
I roll my eyes, almost saying ‘let’s get this over with’ but readjusting to, “Okay.” I refuse to stutter right after that joke.
We hike out into the woods for a few minutes till we meet up with the rest of everyone.
I frown, pulling my gloves on. “Not a normal dump spot.” Usually, the bodies show up inside their own homes.
And then I see what makes this one different. This body is…gone. Most of the fleshy parts, anyway. The person is just a skeleton, with most of the head missing. It looks like it’s been….dissolved, almost like a dead coral reef that’s been crumbled to hell by the waves.
Well, this is…interesting.
“Yep.” Mark scratches the back of his neck and then takes the evidence bags I brought over to our boss. “He got another, or we got another.”
Yeah, no. This isn’t what our one suspect does to bodies. It’s nowhere close.
Fucking hell. We might have another killer.
I go to run my hand down my face, then remember I have gloves on. Jesus Christ, I’m never gonna get another day off, which boils my fucking blood.
But after about thirty minutes, the anger dulls, and I find myself actually paying attention. I’ve never seen someone killed like this. Or were they killed a different way, and this was just how they ended up?
Fuck, I may hate this job, but there’s a reason I’m in it—‘cause I’m fucking good at it. I may not excel at the talking part, but I recognize patterns in human behavior pretty fucking quickly.
And these shits just took away any last bit of free time I might have because, apparently, we can’t keep our fucking hands to ourselves.
Guess it’s my turn to teach them what not to do: kill someone on my watch.