Turning Tables
Richard Castle was a cop.
More specifically, he was a homicide detective with the NYPD's 12th Precinct. Uniform had fit his long, staunch frame well, but Castle was smart in a way very few people are able to comprehend. He saw things other people didn't; made connections where others lacked even the ability to provide conjecture. His innate talent had seen him rise through the ranks quickly, finally settling in homicide. It was fitting, really; after all, that was what had brought him here.
And so it was at work, in that steadfast way that only he possessed, that Detective Castle found himself on a Monday afternoon in October. It had been a nondescript day; he and the rest of his team, Detectives Ryan and Esposito, had worked a nondescript case; he stared at the now empty murder board in a nondescript, if slightly condescending way (those new smart boards were pretty damn cool, he had to admit); he answered his phone with a nondescript, "Castle."
The case itself was first in the chain of events which differentiated this Monday from its predecessors. When the team arrived at the crime scene, the unusual nature of the crime was immediately apparent. Whereas a lot of scenes showed a lifeless body in a pool of blood, this one was clean. Meticulously so; the intrusive scent of bleach still hung in the stale air, and Castle could see a silhouette of man bearing a startling resemblance to himself walking beneath him on the cool marble floor. Whereas some scenes have a sense of reasoning in the choice of location, this one was a residential address in a nice area, with a couple of undoubtedly nosy neighbors inhabiting the opposite apartment. Someone was bound to have seen something, or heard something, or even speculated something. Whereas a few scenes have the cause of death lying discarded next to the corpse, this one was well concealed. Detective Richard Castle had seen many a case in his seven years in homicide.
But not once had the victim been mummified.
That was really the only way to explain it; there was a person lying on the sofa with their arms pinned to their sides, and that person appeared to be bound in cloth. "Doctor Parish," he called quietly to the woman hunched over the corpse, "what can you tell me about our vic?"
Medical Examiner Lanie Parish seemed frustrated by his inquiry. "Not a lot, Castle. I don't want to unwrap our Egyptian friend here 'til I get him back to the lab, but by the size of the corpse, I think he's a he. Age; I can't determine. Also, I don't think your assailant was too skilled in the art of mummification."
"What do you mean?" A cluster of wrinkles congregated on Detective Castle's forehead.
"Well, are you familiar with how Ancient Egyptians used to mummify people?" Lanie widened her dark eyes.
"Yeah – pull the brains and guts out, drain the body of blood, and parcel it on up."
The ME gave him a brief disapproving look. "Usually it wasn't so crude," she corrected him, "but you've got the gist of it. However, judging by the exterior of the victim, I doubt the proper procedurals were utilized in these circumstances."
"Our vic was just wrapped up?"
Doctor Parish nodded. Castle, disheartened by the lack of anything really to go on, transferred his interests to Detective Esposito, who was just returning from questioning the building manager. "Hey Espo, you got anything?"
Esposito pulled a face for a split second; "Near to nada. Building manager over there says that the apartment was rented to a Sarah Bench, but she doesn't know much about her. Ryan's trying to contact Ms. Bench now, but otherwise, we've got nothing. CSU hasn't really started, but they say the scene looks clean,"
"So the likelihood of finding any relevant fingerprints or DNA are slim," Castle finished and Esposito affirmed it with an upwards nod of his head. The two men walked around the apartment procedurally, but both echoed each other's diminishing hope. Suddenly, doubled over on his knees behind the white sofa on which the victim was lying, Castle gasped enthusiastically, and arose brandishing a single page. The paper was yellowed; not the tea-stained hue of age, but more the scars of extended sun exposure. It was covered in small typed print, and torn, rather carelessly, down the side.
"It's a page from a novel," Castle explained.
"What book?" Esposito rebutted. "And why the hell is there one page of a book here?"
"I don't know," the now very much occupied detective replied, "but it's important. You're right, why leave a single page of a book lying around? Especially when you've left as clean a scene as this one. Ooh, see what I did there, with that rhyming?"
The other detective only rolled his eyes amicably. "I dunno bro. Maybe because he's a little messed up in the head? It fits the description."
"Ha. Yes, he – or she – might, or more likely probably, is a little crazy, but there's more to it than that. This page means something. And I know where it's from. The word 'thunder' is mentioned a lot, and it's always capitalized."
"So…" Esposito drew the word out much longer than its single syllable.
"Oh, come on, bro! Don't you read?"
Detective Richard Castle was back at the 12th Precinct, waiting in Interrogation Room Two, when a certain someone visited. Her aura commanded the whole, if slightly empty, room; she was a powerful woman, Castle could already tell, and she hadn't even opened those red-tinged lips. She was tall and slim – an athletic figure, but she was clad in dark dress trousers and a fitted patterned blouse. Her chestnut hair descended in elegant waves to just below her collarbones, and her very feminine features were adorned with a mix of curiosity and keen observance, topped off with the faintest hint of a not-entirely-innocent smile.
"Good afternoon, Detective. I'm Kate Beckett."
