Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line
"I'll show you your destiny...John Sheppard!"
Detective John Sheppard jolted awake. He sat, staring round as the deep, male, oddly melodic voice sounded in his ear. So vivid he half expected to see someone standing near his bed. Not a human, not quite. A piece of memory surfaced. A cell. A man who wasn't a man clad in prison blues. Ghoulish face. Emaciated body. Long, stringy hair. Rows and rows of teeth. Slitted eyes like a cat's.
John blinked, but the image was gone. The memory extinguished. He frowned. Ran a hand through his disordered dark brown hair. Over his stubbly jaw and chin. He looked at the clock. Glanced out at the window. The sun was shining as it rose in the pale, pale sky. Shining through the faded olive curtain that shaded the window. A second later the alarm rang. Blaring Bad Company.
He reached over, shutting it off. Trying to recapture the pieces of memory evoked by that voice. By the startling words. But they were gone. As transparent as the light filtering into the room now. Dust motes danced in the air. Tiny sparkles that were visible, then gone.
His phone began to ring. He grabbed it from the night stand. "Yeah?"
"Morning to you too, Sheppard," came the amused voice of his boss, Captain Hendricks. "Homicide. Off the Strip. Pawn shop. Unis are there now. Texting you the address. Go."
"Going." John glanced at the address. Frowned. He was familiar with the place. Like he was familiar with most of the seedier parts of Vegas. The areas that tourists never saw. The areas where crime proliferated and where victims weren't mourned. Reports were rarely made. And homicides were often not solved.
Quickly he showered, letting the hot water beat out any lingering uneasiness or weariness. Not bothering to shave he dressed, grabbing clothes without really looking at them. Grabbed his police badge and his gun. After a quick cup of joe he was on his way.
The place was a mess. Smashed cases. Glass littered the floor as John walked across it. Junk was everywhere. Broken. Cluttered like some hoarder's nightmare. He made his way to the body, weaving past uniformed cops and bright yellow crime scene tape. Past the team of forensic scientists in their dark blue jumpsuit uniforms and shiny silver cases. "Robbery gone bad?" he asked.
A policeman turned to him. A blond man, with very short hair and glasses. "Looks like it, detective. Body's the owner. David Marcus. Perp's over there." He jerked a thumb towards a man who was being handcuffed. "Steven Caldwell, ex-military. Claims he didn't do it. He was just looking for something."
"Aren't we all," John noted. He glanced at the bald man. He was irate, but docile enough now. Hands cuffed behind his back. Clothing nondescript, gray t-shirt and jeans. Boots. "You got the perp? Then why the hell am I here?" he wondered aloud.
"That." The cop pointed towards the mess on the floor. "Captain said it was right up your alley."
"Great. What am I, Mulder now?" John complained. He moved to the body. Squatted to view the dead man. Blood was splattered all around the corpse. Two gunshots to the head. The skull was shattered in the back, leaking brains in a ghastly river. It was a messy killing. Not professional. But what drew John's attention were the marks on the chest. The shirt was ripped open to reveal an almost shrunken, concave torso. Odd indentations, circular patterns on the taut flesh. He swallowed, staring.
This victim resembled the body that had been discovered in that excavation site. Except this one wasn't as drained. Had not been exsanguinated of all bodily fluids to the point of being nothing more than a papery corpse. John's gaze traveled up to the man's face. It was thinner. Marcus appeared older, as if he had aged fifteen years in a day. Wrinkles lined his sallow skin. Grey hairs proliferated in his close-cropped black hair. John looked back at the chest. At the telling marks. A copycat? But then why shoot the guy? Had the criminal been interrupted and had been forced to make a quick ending of the hapless pawnshop owner?
He stood, making room for the ME. Doctor DeMouy gave him a shrug, a smile, as she set to work. Gesturing for her assistants to join her in the examination of the corpse. John moved to the pile of haphazard debris. It was a random collection of junk. The typical detritus of a pawn shop. Jewelry. Guitars. Electronic devices of all kinds, televisions, VCRs, DVD players, even old computers. Baseball cards galore. Books and old bones, coins and old signs. Even a ancient video game console and a pinball machine.
John squatted. There was a curved bone, highly polished and brown. It reminded him of a sabertooth cat's canine. He frowned, recalling Moira O'Meara's despair over the looting of prehistoric artifacts. He shrugged. He was about to make a sarcastic comment when he spotted it amid the smashed debris and trash. Among the piles of porn magazines and model trains.
A make-up kit.
It was smashed like everything else in the shop, but it triggered something. A spark of memory. They have to apply make-up to blend into society. John stared at the oozing flesh-colored liquids. The eye pencils. The empty contact case. The pigments of human flesh and the brushes to blend them. A black case full of the ingredients to appear human. To appear normal.
"Detective? Detective Sheppard?"
John stood. "Yeah?"
"It wasn't a robbery. Till's full of cash. Safe in the back is untouched."
"Oh, it was a robbery. They just didn't get what they...ah." He turned, moved to Steven. "What did you want? No, what did they want?"
"I'm telling you, detective, he was like that when I got here. I tried to resuscitate him but it was too late. I'm the one who called you guys."
John glanced at the blood on the man's t-shirt. Met his gaze. "That's not what I asked you. What did you want?"
"It's nothing. A watch. I had to pawn it last month when I was running short. I came here to buy it back when I found this." He shrugged a shoulder to indicate the disaster around him. "It has sentimental value for me. But the bastard must have sold it because I couldn't find it."
"Sentimental value?" John scoffed. Clearly not believing a word. "Yeah, right. I can just tell you're the sentimental type." He turned. "Get a full inventory of this place. What's on the books and off them. Check it against the receipts. If Marcus was one thing he was meticulous in his bookkeeping. And get this joker to the station for further questioning."
"What? I told you, I didn't–"
"Save it for later!" John moved back to the body as Steven was hauled out of the store. "Doc? TOD?"
"Two hours ago. Shots are point blank range, but..."
"Oh oh. But?"
"But there are some anomalies. Those wounds. Like the last victim. I'm sure you noticed. I'll know more when I get him on my table. This time we have more viable tissue to test. He's not as drained as the other one. It's a fresh kill, John. Do you have any idea what's going on?"
"No. Not yet. Whoa!" He pivoted on his heels, heading off the forensic team as they were taking their leave. "Bag that. That make-up kit over there."
"Detective? Why?"
"It could prove to be important. Dust for prints and any DNA trace evidence. Just do it," he snarled, silencing the scientist's protest. The man nodded, scurried over and carefully bagged the smashed kit.
John moved back to the wreckage of debris. Knelt and quickly snatched the sabertooth from the floor. Pocketed it, without really knowing why. He turned, watched the body being carried out by four men, as there was no room to roll a gurney into the store. Doctor DeMouy followed, directing them with quiet tones. A silence fell over the crime scene as it was being evacuated. John looked round at the debris again. Something wasn't tracking, and he couldn't quite work it out. A robbery that wasn't. A murder that was something else.
His headache was returning. He scowled, rubbing his temple.
Wishing he had a drink.