Archer
ARCHER
“ D etective Malone.” I flash my badge at the officer holding a boundary around a two-story Victorian nestled in a regular residential street a dozen or more blocks from the police precinct I work out of. Then I look at the woman beside me.
The doctor.
“Chief Medical Examiner, Doctor Minka Mayet. I’m primary on this one.”
“Detective.” The uniform lifts the yellow and black tape to allow us to walk beneath. “Chief Mayet.” He has eyes for Minka. A soft blush colors his cheeks despite the slight chill in the air. “Detective Charlie Fletcher arrived about two minutes ago.” He speaks to Minka. Watches her. Fawns over her. Because she’s so fucking beautiful and formidable.
Or maybe I’m just biased, considering she’s my wife—two times over.
“Your assistant, Doctor Emeri, is also here. She arrived about four minutes ago, but she didn’t enter the house until Detective Fletcher arrived.”
“My colleague,” Minka finally speaks. Her lips curl, ever so subtly, higher on the right as she studies the cop’s uniform. “Officer Crane. Doctor Emeri is not my assistant.”
“Oh, well…” His soft blush turns into an inferno when the intimidating Chief Mayet corrects him. “Of course, Chief. My mistake.”
“I don’t think we’re expecting anyone else, are we?” Minka casts her chocolate gaze my way, smirking as I wait for another man to finish ogling the woman I would murder for. In fact, I already have. But that’s a different story. Different day. “Aubs and Fletch are here. That rounds us out, right?”
“Looks that way.” I nod at the officer and enjoy a cheap thrill when he shrinks under my burning stare. Then I extend my hand to Minka. Though of course, she would never dare accept such intimacies at a crime scene. “You don’t wanna touch me, Mayet?”
“At work?” Predictably, she bristles. “No thanks.” She wears black pants and sensible shoes, which makes trudging across the soggy grass exponentially easier as we head toward the front door. “A haunted house? It’s not even Halloween yet.”
“Halloween goes on for the whole month for those who decorate and charge kids through the nose to be scared for an hour. It’s a cash cow that does well and supplements an entire middle-class family’s Christmas budget.”
“What would you know about budgets?” She pauses at the bottom of six steps and presents me with a look that says she isn’t pleased. “Mr. I-own-a-private-jet, a-house-in-the-hills, a-superyacht, and a-bank-balance-that-makes-more-interest-per-year-than-both-of-our-salaries-combined. Budgets don’t really apply to men like you.”
I choke out a soft laugh, muffling it with my hand because another officer waits at the top of the stairs. Then I widen my eyes at the woman who sometimes struggles to shut her fucking mouth about delicate topics. “ We own those things, Minnnnka. Both of us. And you spoke your vows on two separate occasions. Seems to me you’re stuck and staying.”
“Only for as long as you’re alive.” She smirks and starts up the steps. “If you die, I get everything and you’re no longer an issue for me.”
I shoot a look toward the cop and chuckle. “She doesn’t mean that. She’s kidding. Don’t arrest her.”
“Am I kidding?” She glances over her shoulder. “Do you really believe that?”
“Not for a fucking second.” I hurry up the stairs and reach the front door a step before her. Then, pushing the heavy wood inward, I reveal what is supposed to be a truly spooky home, but it’s lit up with spotlights and crime scene techs. The fake spiderwebs, terrifying in the dark, are just… messy in the light. The fog machine, scary when turned on, is just a square box by my feet as we enter. The gargoyle statue, plastic and flawed in the light, and the cauldron of steaming soup, merely a trick made lame when the lights are on .
The magic exists only in our minds and in the dark. Because once the sun is out again, or in our case, spotlights set up, none of the fear exists.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to trash my house and live like this for a month.” Minka reaches into the pocket of her ratty, too-thin coat, and pulls out a pair of disposable booties. She bends and gifts me with a grin when I grab her elbow to help her balance, then she places the throwaway fabric over her shoes to shield the floor and preserve our evidence. “To fill my home with all this dusty crap, live amongst the fake spiders and cackling witch statues.” She shakes her head and sets her covered foot back on the floor. “The first thing that makes noise while I’m trying to sleep is going on the lawn for the garbage trucks the next day.”
“Some people enjoy this.” I straighten my spine and attempt to look past all the noise. The mess. The clutter. And when I hear a familiar voice, my ears prick. “I think our crime scene is a little further in.”
“If you try to scare me, I’m gonna hurt you next time you turn your back.” She catches my eyes to make sure I’m listening. “Respectfully, Detective. Don’t even try it.”
Smirking, I follow her into the house and take care not to touch the props. “I wouldn’t dare, babe. Living matters to me. And your threats are rarely empty.”
“The bedrock to a strong, long-lasting marriage.” She pokes her head around corners and nibbles on her bottom lip as we explore. It’s not so hard to find our way, really, considering the homeowners have created a path that intentionally leads kids in a certain direction. “Doctor Emeri? Speak.”
“Polo.” Doctor Aubree Emeri’s voice weaves throughout the home. “You’re supposed to say Marco. Not speak .”
“Why?”
She hesitates for a minute. “Why what?”
“Why say Marco? Who is Marco? And why would I call his name? I’m a married woman.”
“Are you serious?” The telltale click-click-click of photographs being taken echoes throughout the home. “Marco isn’t a person. It’s a game.”
“Well,” Fletch inserts helpfully. I don’t see him yet, but I’d know his voice anywhere, anytime. “Marco Polo was a real person. A merchant, actually, who lived like, seven-hundred-ish years ago.”
“So you want me to call a dead man’s name?” Minka drawls. “Why the hell would I say another man’s name, especially when he’s already dead?”
“No, you just…” Aubree pops out from around a corner and rolls her eyes. “It’s a game, Mayet. You call Marco, I respond with Polo. It’s a thing ki ds do to… Ya know what?” She turns on her heels and strides back to her body. “Whatever. Forget it. I forgot you don’t understand references unless they revolve around dead bodies, murder methods, and Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood.”
Sly, Minka peeks over her shoulder and winks, dragging me into her game of, ‘ Let’s screw with Aubs ’, then she turns back and digs a hand back into her pocket to take out a recorder. Switching it on, she sets the device on the top edge of a mirror, safely tucked away, but close enough to document a scene. “Chief Medical Examiner, Minka Mayet. Accompanied by Doctor Aubree Emeri, Detective Charlie Fletcher?—”
“Present,” Fletch announces playfully.
“And Detective Malone. It’s Friday, October thirteenth.”
“Which is the spookiest day of them all.” Aubree fakes a shiver. But when her boss purses her lips at the second interruption to her formal recording, she turns her ass around and continues to photograph her scene.
“First impressions: we have a woman. Late teens, early twenties. Approximately five feet, seven inches tall. My best guess is she weighs in around the hundred-and-twenty to hundred-and-thirty-pound range. Sandy brown hair, approximately shoulder length. She’s wearing makeup.” Minka moves closer to the body and crouches on strong legs. “It’s minimal, though. Natural. Lip gloss. Mascara. Perhaps a light cover of foundation, but not much more. I’m inclined to consider her in her teens. Not her twenties. College age.”
“Hit the nail on the head.” Fletch stands back, watching the doctors assess their scene before it’s our turn to do the same. “College freshman. She turned eighteen in May of this year. She attended this spooky house with her same-aged boyfriend, best friend, and best friend’s boyfriend. They’re all freshmen.”
“Only eighteen.” Minka releases a soft sigh and accepts the pair of gloves offered when Aubree lowers her camera. Sliding the latex on, she carefully presses her fingers to the vic’s throat and searches for a pulse. Though the blood smeared on the carpet, and the girl’s open, but dead eyes, are probably clue enough that she’s not breathing. “Have we formally estimated time of death?”
“Not yet,” Fletch answers. “We got here only a minute before you. But her death was not unattended, and calls went out to 9-1-1 within minutes of it happening.”
“Took them that long to realize this was real,” Aubree murmurs. “They’re in a haunted house and she screams. No one really thinks anything of it at first.”
“All just part of the show,” I mutter. “She was attacked, and no one tried to help her because they thought it was fake.”
“Two stab wounds,” Minka recites. “One to her left side, potentially puncturing her kidney. We’ll confirm that once she’s on our table at the George Stanley.”
“Second wound to the chest,” Aubree continues. “Straight through the heart.”
“We assume ,” Minka interrupts. “Confirmation via autopsy. The killer?”
“In hysterics,” Fletch answers, “and sitting in a cruiser outside. Dude is seventeen and a complete mess. He’s puked in the car twice, messed up his Ghostface costume, and begged for his mom a few million times.”
“A kid?” Slowly, Minka turns the girl’s head to the side and studies her flawless, youthful skin. “A kid did this? And now he’s crying?”
“Seems this was just his job. He comes on shift when the sun is on the horizon. Steps out, terrifies whoever paid to be here, slashes at the air, then hides again for the next wave of people who come through. I haven’t taken a statement yet, but word’s getting around that he didn’t mean for this to happen. He was just working. Just doing his job. But this time, she fell and didn’t get up again.”
“So his knife was real?” I question. “Meant to be a prop, but was swapped out for the genuine thing?”
“Sounds about right.” Aubree turns her attention to the Buck hunting knife on the floor, smeared in blood and left behind by an—allegedly—terrified teenager who didn’t mean to hurt anyone. “You can buy these at costume stores all year long. But especially around Halloween. It’s reasonable that he thought it was a fake.”
“It would be heavier than the dupe,” I argue. “By a long shot. No way you can pick that up and not know it’s real.”
“Killer was a kid,” Fletch repeats. “Kids do impulsive, dumb shit all the time. Teenage boys, even more so. He’s working. It’s dark. Maybe he’s an athlete, so he’s stronger than your average seventeen-year-old. It’s not unreasonable to think he wasn’t paying complete attention to those details. Especially if he’s worked here awhile and the job had become monotonous.”
“So I guess we gotta figure out if he knew her and held a grudge, making his move in the dark and claiming innocence. Or if this was purely bad luck for them both. Vic and killer were almost the same age, so it’s highly possible they went to school together and knew each other. ”
“Or,” Minka concludes, running her eyes along the girl’s torso and gently peeling the blood-soaked sweater back, “someone wanted her dead and didn’t wanna do it themselves, so they swapped the prop for a real hunting knife and destroyed two lives in one go.” Frowning, she tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes when a new reality wanders in and complicates our case. “Correction for the record: potentially three lives. Her womb is distended. Might indicate pregnancy.” She presses down on the very bottom of the girl’s stomach, measuring just using the length of her knuckles. “If so, I estimate her to be approximately four or five months along. Dammit.” Smoothing the sweater back down, she pushes up to stand and peels her gloves off, depositing them in the plastic baggie Aubree already knows to offer. “I need to bring her to the George Stanley to confirm. But I think this is a double homicide, Detectives.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Fletch drags his hands up through inch-long hair and groans. “She’s a baby, having a baby, and now they’re both dead.” He looks across to me. “We’ve gotta talk to the boyfriend. The best friends. The dude with the knife. The owner of this house. And everyone’s parents, too, now that we’re pretty fucking certain a baby was conceived while she was still in high school.”
“Go.” Accepting a fresh pair of gloves and opening the kit Aubree brought to the scene, Minka catches my eye from the corner of hers. “The sooner you talk to everyone, the more luck you’ll have of catching a liar out. Aubree and I will call for transport and move her back to the George Stanley within an hour or two.” She peruses the bag’s contents before selecting a thermometer and pulling it out. “And can someone get me her name? It shouldn’t be too difficult, considering you have all of her friends, and her killer, bundled up outside. I hate calling them Jane when I don’t have to.”
“We’ll get it.” I don’t reach out for her, though my hands itch to touch. I don’t tell her I love her, or drag her in to kiss her plump lips, though I really want to. We’re on the job, the recorder is going, and we have a brand-new dead body cooling at our feet. So I hold her gaze for a long beat, a million thoughts bouncing between two souls who know each other better than they know themselves, then I dip my chin. “Be safe. I’ll call you when we have answers.”