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Erik instructs him to follow Smith from afar, just to know where he is going. That could have been simpler, weren't the roads almost absolutely deserted. At least, don't let him see you in a rear-view mirror — teaches Erik.
Charles thinks that the sleeping town passes by as though diffused by rare white and gold glow. The stripes of light get captured and stretched in his peripheral vision. His heart is thumping hard, knocking against ribcage, because he honestly can't believe he is doing it: the entire experience is very, very bizarre.
"I can't believe he fell for it," Erik murmurs quietly and then says. "No, you're going too fast. Slow down."
Charles does as he is told. A few cars whoosh past him, and he falls back, eyes on the road, his hands so tight around the wheel that he'll probably have a hard time letting go.
"He's leaving the town," says Charles unnecessarily when Smith's car takes a turn at the road sign welcoming to Glirham. He gets impossibly colder inside when he realizes that Mark was found along the same road, in the woodlands.
They pass the intersection and Smith speeds up. He takes a fist turning to his left not too soon. Charles slows his car, so that it is almost crawling behind, while he is busy racking his brain for their location. In the light provided by dipped beams, the road is but a narrow asphalt reptile with a cracked spine, arching and twisting like a temperamental beast.
"There should be a pond somewhere here," says Erik helpfully.
He is hunched over his phone, texting someone quickly — Charles can spot the new messages popping up on the screen.
Half a mile into the woods and Charles turns off all lights as the road clears and as his eyes get slowly reaccustomed to night scenery. Gaps between the trees let him focus on the car and the man exiting it. He hopes that he did everything right, stopped right before the clearing in order to hide their presence. A sheet of water, that must be the pond, looks remarkably dull. Its' surface is black and greasy and a full moon above it looks cartoonish.
Charles then glances at Erik, apprehensively, and when their eyes meet in the bluish light of Erik's phone, he reads a suggestion in the other's eyes to which he replies with a headshake.
"Splitting up is a bad idea in all movies I've seen," tries to joke Charles and Erik rolls his eyes, unimpressed. It's unfair how unperturbed he appears to be.
"I texted Summers," he confirms Charles' guess. "Right now we have two options: go back and come back with a forensic team in the morning or follow him in case he's meeting someone or trying to destroy the evidence. The second option is illegal and can arise many questions in court."
"That's why you want me to stay behind?"
This staking out is practically layered with complications Charles didn't consider before.
"That too."
"Well, it's too late for that," Charles leans over Erik to snatch a flashlight from a glove compartment, praying for this bout of adrenaline-induced courage to linger some more.
When they close in to the pond and the car, Charles takes a proper look around. There is a lonely electric column, towering over the pond, and when Charles risks a glance up he notices that it is long dismantled, for no wires stretch into distance. A bulky structure that resembles a power station is clearly abandoned. The graffiti on white-washed walls is peeling off. Someone must have searched it through, he thinks, because it is in two mile radius from the crime scene, right?
They are lucky that Smith is not trying to be quiet. He has somehow found a way inside that power station and his flashlight is dancing in there in a mad fashion.
Erik and he circle the structure from the other side to get to a window by the hill, and it's Charles who sees it before Erik steps on it, so he grabs the back of Erik's jacket and Erik freezes on the spot.
"What's that?" Charles whispers, squatting over something protruding from the ground, right there Erik's foot could have been a moment ago.
What he sees under moonlight is odd, but it's that smell, pungent and mixed with a tinge of sickening sweetness, that nearly makes him gag. A skull is peeking out from the dirty ground, its' jaw wide open and teeth bared. One eyehole is empty, but there's some stirring in the other one, where the remnants of flesh are sticking to bone. Sleek, black bugs dart out of that hole all of the sudden and Charles reels back.
"This is probably just a dead dog," hisses Erik and hoists him up. "Come on."
"If this is just a dog, where is the rest of the body?" whispers Charles back.
He feels stupid for overreacting, but when he looks down at the skull propped on the empty expanse of muddy bank his reaction seems justified.
Seeing that Erik is already standing by the large window arch, Charles joins his side. From here they can discern frustrated swearing and a shrill sound of metal scraping against metal. Intrigued and wary, Charles wants to lean closer, but Erik raises up a hand and makes a weird gesture, which, Charles assumes, must mean something akin to stay put. Erik is the one who leans in to peek over the edge.
When he leans back, Charles' taut nerves nearly snap, because he doesn't say anything at first. Meanwhile, the scraping noises turn into splashing, then into something, which, to Charles cautious ears, sounds like urinating. He gags again, assaulted with revulsion — so soon after that horrible smell. As he tries to keep down nausea, tension cramps his throat.
"Erik," he mouths, having no choice but to tug at Erik's sleeve.
"Need to stop him," whispers Erik so quietly, Charles almost misses it in distress.
Stopping Smith means searching for an entrance, and this is what Erik does, creeping around the building until they stand in front of an empty doorway with one rotten panel left.
"Get your flashlight ready," commands Erik quietly.
Their only weapon. Of course. Charles grabs it tightly and exhales sharply, forcefully pulling his focus outside his messy psyche.
From the looks of it, the building itself is divided into two sections, and Smith is in the second one, the door to which is on the left. They swiftly cover the distance and once they step through the doorway Charles switches on his flashlight and directs the beam right into Smith's face.
Smith, who is crouched by the heap of some rags, jumps up at Erik's "police" exclamation. But instead of raising his hands up, he grabs something from the floor and Charles steps in front of Erik, because his hind brain takes over, and something splashes all over his face, his hair, his chest and he is hit with a smell of gasoline.
Bugger, he thinks then: so, Smith was really trying to burn the evidence.
Smith darts at him, like a big, enraged bear, and Charles stumbles back, losing momentum, and when Smith collides with him, he promptly goes down.
He must have blacked out for a brief moment after the fall, because he coughs and blinks through nasty substance, clinging to his eyelashes, and then a hand twists his collar, and he is pulled up harshly, so that his back is off the ground.
Though his head is pounding and everything's blurry as hell, to his utmost horror, Charles discerns Smith leaning over him, and then his panicking, hazy gaze hones on a zippo lighter in Smith's hand. Blood is roaring in his ears. It feels like a turbulent flow is pulsating strongly inside his head and neck. He hates himself so much in this moment, he loathes his clumsiness, his weakness and especially the paralysis that cripples him from head to toe. His hands don't obey him and he would probably scream, but his voice is lost in the confines of his constricting throat.
His half-lidded eyes regard that tiny flame with doomed detachment. Through rhythmic beat of blood inside his ears, world begins filtering in.
"Don't you dare," rasps Smith, spluttering, and some spit lands on Charles' face, though this is the least of his worries.
"And you're going to do what?"
Erik is alive, what a relief, but he sounds breathless, as though he's wheezing.
"I lied. I'm not with police, but they are coming," explains Erik from somewhere to his right, Charles can't be sure. "This man you're trying to set on fire is just my neighbor. Why should I care if you do that?"
While Erik is talking nonsense, Charles' tension starts slipping away. He doesn't show it, tries not to, but he feels his arm again. Using this gifted moment of clarity, he clenches his hand into a fist and throws a punch with his left. He betted everything on it and has probably, somehow, passed a threshold of luck — his jab connects with his captor's jaw and pain flares up in Charles' hand upon the impact.
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Initially grateful for the blanket, Charles was not so grateful for all that fussing. After the paramedic checked his eyes and his head, he asked, cautiously, why Charles has an older bump on his head. Charles paused in his grim musing then, and settled on a joke that didn't make the man laugh, but, instead, made him uncomfortable, so he left Charles' gasoline smelling self alone at last.
His hair has dried off in a somewhat slimy, tangled mess and nothing seems more appealing at this very moment than a hot shower and thorough soaping.
After Erik disappeared inside of that blasted power station with Alex, almost fifteen minutes have passed, which Charles has spent sitting in the ambulance. Now, he decides, his sitting time is up.
When he discards the stained and definitely smelly blanket and pushes the door of the ambulance open, Alex and Erik are right there, thankfully.
"Are you alright?"
"I'll live," Charles nods to Alex, who smirks a little.
Erik then offers him a hand, when he indicates that he wants to climb down. The hand is still there even after Charles blinks to clear his eyes and there is something in that gesture that just finishes Charles. He wants to defend himself, to state that he doesn't need any help, but he's also too tired to pretend, so an internal fight, which could have been intense and uncompromising, ends before it begins and he leans on the offered hand with a low thank you.
"I'll walk you to your car," tells him Alex casually and adds quieter, not to be overheard. "Please, make sure that you tell the right thing when someone asks what you were doing at this place, late at night. And they will ask, trust me."
"I wanted to investigate this place and asked Erik to accompany me?" ventures Charles groggily, pouring his focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and so on and so forth.
By his side, Erik produces a deep sigh, a burst of poised disapproval.
"We'll think of something credible, Summers," assures him Erik.
"Please, do."
The dawn will be breaking soon. Rich, mushy darkness is as thick as it can get, since the moon has hidden behind heavy clouds, but that obscurity is the exact sign of the night's sure surrender.
When they stop next to Charles' car and Alex turns to go, Charles, conscious of insistent nagging in his mind, yields in and calls for Alex's attention. If he doesn't say it, this restless needle won't cease trying to pick at his thoughts.
"Could you, please, have a look at the skull? By the wall facing the south. It's quite visible and you can't miss it."
Alex almost does a double take.
"It's a dog, Summers," reassures Erik.
"Thank fuck," breathes out Alex and looks across at Charles, dismayed. "Don't scare me like that, Professor."
As Alex's parting words are ringing in his head, Charles sinks into a driver's seat with a wince: his back is sore, full of stabbing little pains, and, in spite of his best intentions, he can't help but jostle it and the back of his head as well.
To be completely honest, there's a special kind of tacit, serene appeal in driving through the night. Especially, when it comes to driving home. This ride could have been peaceful, yet Charles can't help noticing, more like feeling, that Erik is wallowing in thoughtful gravity, reluctant to talk. And, even in case Charles' insistence might prove unwelcome, he shatters a long suspended stretch of silence without regretting it too much.
"Erik, please, talk to me or I'll fall asleep at the wheel," his plea is enhanced by the yawn he covers with his bruised hand.
"There could be worse ways to die," says Erik with superficial sarcasm, through which Charles observes guarded resentment.
"Why didn't you — No, forget it. What did Smith try to get rid of? I didn't quite manage to have a proper look."
"Clothes, rags, something like that. Very muddy, so difficult to say right now… Were most likely hidden in a dent in the floor, covered with a sheet of metal, that's why it was difficult to tell that something was there upon your ordinary search. Forensics will deal with it."
"He seems, um, seemed much too desperate," Charles begins thinking aloud, tumbling down the proverbial hypothesizing road. He had his coping pattern figured out long ago and Erik's willing to listen presence is just a pleasant, if a tad unexpected, bonus. "Attacking us like that would only make whatever situation he's found himself in worse. It makes no sense. Mark's murder screams intention, plan, execution, with a great deal of sadistic satisfaction. There's a thrill in it, a powerful impulse, vindictive retaliation, I'd say, but the nature of that sort of impulse is quite different."
"We'll see," Erik mutters under his breath, as he's dragging his words in a way that can't be intentional. "Good thing is — Summers finally has someone in custody."
"But not a murderer," presses Charles with earnestness.
"He could have killed you today and earned that title."
For a second or so, Charles is tempted, but he genuinely fears that banter would do them both no good. Yes, an oncoming argument might be cathartic in a way, but it isn't advisable when both of them are, well, roughed up by a suspect and exhausted.
The rain starts abruptly, rudely, as if the sky bowels have just burst open and water broke free. Windshield glass immediately gets blurry under powerful onslaught and Charles has to peer at the road extra carefully, because even with wipers on, the roadway looks like a bad aquarelle, that with luminous splashes of light standing out too bright and too sharp amidst fuzzy darkness. The feeling of isolation is piercing. And very, very intimate. It weighs Charles down, then blows out of proportions and tugs on an inkling of the truth, which was asleep, hidden. It then occurs to him that he'd gladly stay in such a glorious, suspended moment forever.
"The rain, of course. That's why I was so sleepy," says Charles, barely above a whisper, afraid of breaking a tender spell.
In a heartbeat or two, it seems as though they are driving through a sea.
Turning his head, and it hurts him to do so, Charles looks at Erik. And finds him asleep.
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###
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Charles sincerely thought he would be able to function properly on two hours of sleep, but, upon waking up to his alarm clock, he immediately knew that his conviction was completely made-up. As if he had any choice, except of cramming his exhaustion back in the casket where it dared to crawl from.
He flips on his side, turning away from invasive sunlight, streaming through window in generous patches, and his spine doesn't thank him for a movement. Despite every bone and tissue screaming at him to get more rest, he drags his body into a bathroom. There is really no way to test whether he still reeks of gasoline or no, because even if the smell lingered, he would be too accustomed to it to detect anything. One more shower with that vanilla extract won't hurt, he decides.
During a seminar, he is wary of the urge to shut his eyes, standing and talking simultaneously is impossible to the point that he has to sit at the desk all the time and prop his tremendously heavy head with his hand. Students, on the contrary, are unfairly chirpy and bubbly today, as though last night's rainfall came and magically washed all their worries away.
At the cafeteria door, some man on the phone just walks straight into his shoulder, barely pauses enough to sneer at him, before striding away. Charles thinks that this man has a reason to be cross.
Jean attracts his attention by being the brightest, in all senses, human being in the entire room. She waves at him from her merry perch at the counter, where she's beaming, practically bouncing on her seat, and Charles wonders again what is it with most people being cheery today. It should be pointed out, that, if not for his physical pains and aches and his precautious, panic-prone mental balance, he'd gladly become infected with the same mood. Instead of willing to slump dead to the ground and be done with the day, that is.
Coffee grants him an ashy, fractional presence of mind, grounding him in merciless reality of an incoming publishing deadline and attending department colloquia later in the afternoon.
"What is it?" he sighs, dropping any preamble, when Jean gives him another funny squint.
He isn't completely clueless of his deviant look; he just muses idly, what part of his overall appearance can tint her cheeks with a pink flush.
She raises a brow, a smile tugging her lips in a bow.
"Your cologne. It's," she stops to pick a proper word, humming meanwhile, "so sweet."
"Are you sure you can't smell any petrochemical residue?" asks Charles, pursuing the topic.
Jean shifts in her seat, like a change of posture may help her deal with imminent confusion.
"No, there's nothing like that," she answers seriously and Charles likes her a bit more.
"This will be a story for another day," he promises deftly and looks at his watch, "because I have to go."
He quickly covers the steps up to the conference hall, whilst his phone buzzes once, twice. For all the world, Charles ignores it stoically, blanketing his curiosity, but, at the same time, anticipating the caller to be Alex.
Coming to a stop by the dark oak doors, Charles runs his fingers through his hair, which, as per his earlier observations, is the best way to tame it. Aiming for unobtrusive, he pushes the doors open and slides in. Quite a few heads turn to him, but Diana just nods and Charles takes his designated seat.
Coffee can help, but it can't enforce miracles and by the end of the hour, Charles struggles to keep his eyes open. The troubled daze unlocks itself when he looks up from scanning the context of his folder and sees Mark standing right in front of him. He almost chokes. Mark's visage is deathly pale, though unmarked by earthly means; everything about his slack features, glassy eyes, bloodless lips yells dead right into Charles' face. It rings like a desperate warning and a shock running through Charles' frame jostles him a bit.
Fortunately for Charles, he can cover up his minute slip by standing and then grabbing a glass of water with less than steady hand.
Truth be told, his hand itches for his phone instead.
And yet, he's only able to spare some time whilst waiting for a taxi to arrive, too worn out to bear the commute by bus. Seated on the bench by the fountain, with wood digging into his sore back and therefore effectively keeping him awake, he feeds a raving curiosity demon by pressing a dial.
"Smith refuses to speak," says Alex sullenly.
Charles ponders quietly, that though it's not in detectives' best interests, he can understand and condone this kind of behavior.
"About the dog," Alex huffs, whether with vexation or wariness, or, maybe, an unhealthy mixture of both. "Someone buried it in the ground. Only a head was left out. It's hard to tell, but, a guy from Forensics says the dog might have been alive when buried. He didn't spot any bone damage. It might have died of exposure, dehydration or whatever… Christ, it's sick."
The truth is, Charles expected something like this. That's why he suspected that the skull was worth additional regarding, so to say.
"Let's look at these two crimes stripped of everything, but core points, shall we?" he offers.
"I'm listening."
"One: somebody, or somebodies, let's not ignore that option, take their time beating up a teenager to death. Probably, rendering him defenseless in advance, hence clothes. Second act goes like this. Again, it probably goes, we are not sure, but let's presume. Someone takes a dog to a remote place and digs up a hole in the ground to put the animal there. One needs tools for that. My point is the following: what unites these deeds? Is it prolonging the other's pain on purpose?"
"Yes, you are right," grunts Alex.
"To be the master and tyrant of any animal is a continuous charge of sadistic satisfaction. There is the same dynamic thinking behind these two, I believe. And, well, in addition you must know that you might be looking for someone with a remarkable functional capacity."
"I see what you mean," Alex grunts in acknowledgment again.
"I don't want to jeopardize your work by wrongly assuming that these are connected, but the location just might be a key."
"I kind of hope you're right. That bastard. They always start with animals, right? Then, move to people?"
"Not necessarily. The mechanism is, well, more complex, so to say," remarks Charles.
"Complex, you say? Okay, that's right. Well, what I know is that we have a real, tangible lead and a suspect, who refuses to talk. See you tomorrow?"
"Yes. See you."
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It must be them: Mrs. Smith and her son Daniel, perched on uncomfortable, plastic chairs next to the door Charles is going to enter. Daniel's head is thrown backwards, headphones in his ears, his eyes shut and his features twisted in an odd rigid state of half-frown. She, a petite brunet in well-fitting clothes, looks up at Charles, when he approaches and there's a lifetime worth of guilt in her raw, red-rimmed eyes. A blaze of naked fear flashes through her dull gaze so fast, that if no one were looking for it on purpose, they wouldn't have noticed. Yet, Charles did.
As he turns the handle, he offers her a polite nod, which, to his surprise, she returns with a crude, twisted semblance of a smile. This little exchange coils his gut it a nasty knot, because here is a person trained to please the others in spite of her own pain and Charles wonders whether there will come a day, when he stops reacting to such signs with helpless anger.
Inside, Danielle, Rose and Alex seem to be arguing in subdued voices. However, they cease to, as soon as Charles comes in and Rose is the first one to greet him civilly. Charles dons his coat on the hanger, while Alex is walking him through the motions.
"I'll take your statement first. Then, we'll try talking to Smith together."
"Who is going to interview his family?"
"Rose will," Alex chances a look at Rose as she leaves the room, fetching a stack of folders from her desk.
"Is Lehnsherr coming back?" prods Alex in lieu of an ice-breaker.
"He didn't tell me," shrugs Charles, silently digesting a simple question, which doesn't appear so simple when he thinks about it.
"It's a mystery of the week. I thought he would. Tell you, I mean."
Charles is astonished by the implication in Alex's words. Halting for an instance, he recollects his last conversation with Erik, and more importantly, the one they didn't have for a very sober reason.
After the statement is signed and done, Alex leads him to the interrogation room, where Smith is already waiting.
Charles certainly didn't expect his punch to engraft the man's face with that much bruising. He thinks, that might be Erik, actually, because in that fraction of second when Smith's head snapped to the side, Charles was only able to summon enough strength to wiggle out of grip and roll away from the lighter. That's why he didn't witness a brief, yet, by all means, violent scuffle, which occurred in the darkness that fell after Erik snatched Smith's lighter.
"We confirmed that the remnants of clothes, which you were trying to burn, belonged to Mark Evans," states Alex upon dropping the case folder on the table.
It lands with a pronounced, dreadful finality and in the perfect world a confession would follow, but that was not the case.
This means nothing to him, decides Charles, for he already knows what happened to Mark and he has no intention to spill the secret. There should be a way to pluck the ground from under his feet, to leave him doubting the merit of his silence.
"Well then, I have a question for you, sir," speaks Charles with levity, borrowed from sleep deprivation. "Please, tell us how you feel about pets?"
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