Disclaimer: I don't own Ghost Hunt or Death Note.
The Whitechapel Case
Fox-Trot-9
Part 2: The Connections 3
Day 2—2:30 p.m. saw Noll and Lin down the stairs; that's when they noticed the decibel levels picking up as they descended. Several people, mostly high school and college students and some professors, were checking out books, doing homework, reading, chatting, researching, typing essays, preparing speeches, sleeping, playing cards, checking their emails, listening to their iPods, doing all the things academics did when not in class. And all this on every floor below the top floor, which added up to a steady hum of activity. Many heads turned, both guys and girls, who didn't expect to see two men descending from the sanctified floor of the library that few ever access. Some, mostly girls, eyed and sniggered at Noll and even Lin. Some even catcalled; yes, catcalling is a symptom of both sexes. If Mai was here, she'd be popping a vein over the scandalous looks and gestures Noll received from top floor to ground floor.
"Uh, excuse me, sirs," said the reception lady, when they passed her desk. "I need to check out your cards before you leave." They looked at her. "Our library policy has changed a bit since the last time you were here. Sorry for the inconvenience; it'll only take a second, I promise."
So they got out their cards and waited...and waited...and waited... One minute... Two minutes and counting. What was she doing? When she returned, she apologized and sent them off. Then the two saw Bert Grendal at the entrance of the library, with his hands in his pockets and a newspaper folded beneath his coat pocket. He looked harried and tired as Hell.
"So this is where you two were all day, huh?" he said.
"We were doing research," said Noll.
"I can see that. Listen," said Bert, "the shit's hit the fan at the MIT building, and the commissioner is balls deep in trouble."
"What does that have to do with this case?"
"Turns out it has a lot to do with it. Man, you stirred up a lot of hate yesterday, and all the cops are complaining to the commissioner about it. Said they'd be on strike, unless either Jake or you are taken off the case. The commissioner's looking for your head, man, I'm telling you."
"What are you going to do? Turn me in?"
Bert grinned. "Hell no, man. My loyalty's with Jake. So is the commissioner's, but he's got his arms tied; the news hounds got him by the balls, he told me. I'm not sure, but Jake might get fired before the day's out." Noll and Lin looked at him in disbelief. "I'm serious, guys. Here,"—he handed Noll the day's newspaper, courtesy of the Guardian—"it's on the front page if you don't believe me."
Noll didn't look at it; he didn't want to attract more attention than he already did.
Bert nodded toward the door, and they followed. The three didn't walk very far. In fact, they walked into the Clocktower Cafe, situated just outside the library.
"What are we doing here?" said Noll, as the three took their seats at a table. "I thought we were going to the MIT building to clear this up."
"No way, man. Not now. We need to lay low for awhile," said Bert, "at least for two days; we've got at least two dozen reporters from all over England crawling all over that place, covering the strike. Hopefully by then, all the shit has died down, but I seriously doubt it. You two hungry? It's half past two, you know."
That's when they finally noticed the time. Both hadn't eaten in awhile, especially Lin who hadn't had breakfast yet. Both their stomachs growled for sustenance. They ordered beer and three big grinder's sandwiches; Noll asked for tea, instead. No more alcohol for him. He sat back in his chair, trying to think about this new kink he had to deal with. Of all the cases Noll had, none were ever this troublesome.
"You going to look at that paper?" said Bert.
Noll looked at it, and by Golly, there it was; the headline summed it up, while the rest fleshed out the juicy details. It read:
"Cops on Strike: The Breakdown of Law and Order"
By Jason Pickmasters
April 10, 2010
London (Whitechapel).—Several cops have left the Murder/Major Investigation Teams (otherwise known as MIT) of Scotland Yard yesterday after a fuming Detective Sergeant Andrew Todd, age 45, publicly accused the long-time veteran, Detective Chief Inspector Jacob Meiler, age 75, of bribing Commissioner Albert Grady, age 49, a former partner of Jacob Meiler's, to get an unknown third party to investigate the serial murders of the now twenty-three victims, also known as the Whitechapel Horror.
It all started at the Mappleworth Pub off of Luton Street near Chancery Square at 3:30 p.m. Several cops were there when the unknown third party walked in. "At first, I thought they were just two fellas, one a tall guy and the other a kid, going for a drink and some small talk with my colleague, Bert Grendal," said Mickey Bronson of the West Department of MIT. "I was the only one who noticed them at the time. I soon realized they were talking serious stuff, but I figured it must have been about the case I was working with Andy and Charles. Nothing strange about that until the kid, I didn't get his name, showed Bert what looked like a legal pad, and they were discussing it a bit too seriously to just be small talk. I told Charles and Andy about this, and they looked at the three. Andy was joking around when he said, 'Hey, Bert, you interrogating that kid, or is that kid interrogating you?' We were joking, that's all."
"Now I'll be fair, here," added Andrew Todd of the West Department of MIT. "I know I was giving Jake, Bert and that kid a little too much heat, and yes, everyone in the pub was laughing quite a bit (I know I was) at the fact that the kid and the tall-ass Chinaman were now involved with the Case; but Bert just went too far when he unleashed all those f-bombs. I mean, seriously, the guy's just been assigned to the case, and he dares to put down everyone who's been working the case for months, like he's running the damn show? Just because you're some hotshot 30-year-old detective sergeant doesn't give you the right to be a total prick! And then this fucking prick of a kid decides to show us up like we're just a bunch of morons with our heads up our asses, like he's the God damn commissioner, or something! I mean, I don't care if that kid's Clint Eastwood, or Harry Bosch, or Philip (fucking) Marlowe, that kid needs to know his place in fucking society, man! In other words, that kid needs to learn how to respect his fucking elders!"
After these two left with Bert Grendal, the cops in the pub deliberated about what they should do next. "We've been talking about what just happened for almost two hours, and the next thing I know," said Charles Ebner of the West Department of MIT, "Andy just storms out of the door saying, 'Just watch me straighten that SOB out, fellas! That boy decides to fuck with me, and I swear I'll break my foot off in his ass!' Of course, we tried to calm him down, tell him that it wasn't worth a suspension or worse, but he drove off in his car before we caught up to him. Talk to all the people in and around that pub that time, and they'd tell you that he never takes shit from anybody; they'd tell you not to mess with Andy 'The Bull,' I'm telling you."
Eventually, this culminated in the confrontation between Andrew Todd and Jacob Meiler in the MIT building a few hours later at around 5:30 p.m. It started after these two unknown men, along with Bert Grendal, left Jacob Meiler's office. A fight broke out between the tall Chinese man and Andrew Todd, which also involved Bert Grendal. "When I got to the MIT building, along with Charles, Mickey and the others," said Anderson Novak, again from the West Department of MIT, "we heard all the commotion as we ran up the stairs to the second floor. We saw Bert and the Chinese man sitting on the ground, both obviously in pain. I told them if they were all right, and they said yes. Then I saw Andy confronting Old Man Jake, and I was thinking, Holy shit! Andy, you must have a death wish or something!"
"I've never seen that kind of insubordination in my life," said Mickey Bronson. "But when he went so far as accusing the old man of bribery—and with the commissioner, no less—, I was flabbergasted. I honestly thought he was bullshitting just to get fired, because he was pissed at Jake. But when he explained everything, and when I saw the kid and the Chinese man, I got the sinking feeling that Andy wasn't bullshitting. I mean, I don't condone Andy's actions; as far as I know, he overstepped his boundaries, broke about a dozen cardinal rules when it comes to police conduct and deserves to have his ass fired. Such actions just make the police look bad. But when Jake admitted it, I felt like everything I've worked for was complete bullshit; I'm sure most of the cops who saw the whole thing go down felt that way, too. That's why I quit and transferred to a different department—too much bull when it comes to Jake."
Other cops, many of them from the rank and file of Scotland Yard's top rungs of the hierarchy, were also shocked at the news. When I asked Andrew Todd how he knew about the bribery, he said, "I knew about it since yesterday morning, because I was there. I wasn't there directly, but I was there behind the door snooping around, because I've known Commissioner Al to never leave his office door closed for anything or anybody, especially not for someone as shady as Old Man Jake. I've always respected him professionally, but personally I detested him. Hell, I've heard he had a few ties to the mob, though no one's proven it; he's one of those types, trust me. So when I heard Jake talking to Al in his office with the door closed, I knew something was fishy. I just never thought he'd go as far as bribery; I lost my respect for Jake at that point. I sent my resignation to his desk the next day, but he wouldn't have it.
"He bribed me, too, and, God have mercy, I took it; I fucking took it! God, I fucking hate myself for giving in like that! I admit it; I took a bribe, and I'll happily do time for it, so there! But I let it slide, after awhile. Till that fucking prick kid decided to fuck with me! Now I know I have my faults; I'm rough around the edges, and I'm not the smartest cop out there, but I have my own God damn integrity! You may not believe me, but I do. It's my integrity, something that won't change even under pressure. The commissioner and Jake may call me a rat, but they deserved to be ratted out; I didn't want to be part of anything that went against the laws I swore my life by, and as far as I know, I haven't yet. And I never will, trust me. And if I do, then may God smite me!"
As for the unknown third party in the Whitechapel investigation, this kid and this Chinese man, nobody knows where or even who they are. I've tried calling my connections to get an interview with these two, even Bert Grendal, Albert Grady and Jacob Meiler, but had no such luck reaching them. It appears that above all the hear-say, the personal grudges and conflicts between these cops, secrecy itself has caused this upheaval in the hierarchy of law and order. Secrets were the downfall of many a civilization, causing conspiracy and blackmail and even murder; if our own police, the very watchmen of our streets and neighborhoods, is falling apart at the seams, I and everyone in this city should fear for what might happen to our dear London home as a whole.—End
Noll didn't have to read it twice to see this Jason Pickmasters had a similar style of writing articles to Evan Moore's. Could he have gotten that style from Evan Moore? And if so, could this Jason provide more information about Moore and anybody else connected to Jacob Meiler? Well, it was worth a shot.
"It's messed up, isn't it?" said Bert.
"It's also a bit peculiar," said Noll.
"And how's that? You mean the style of the article?"
"Yes; I've never seen a newspaper article written like this, at least since Evan Moore."
"Whoa, kid, wait a minute. He's been dead for over thirty years; how do you know about him?"
"Lin and I weren't in the library idling our time away."
"I see. And you think Jason can provide anything relevant to this case?"
"Yes, I do. His information may not directly tie into this case, but it might indirectly lead us into something more substantial."
"Can you elaborate on that? As in specifics, not generalities?"
Noll sighed. "All right, I will. I was hoping I'd talk about this in some place more private, but it looks like I have no choice." He leaned in closer to Bert, so he could hear without being overheard. "I believe this case is connected to two other cases from the 1970's, one in 1977 and another in 1979, both of which involved Jacob Meiler. I have a hunch, but so far, it's barely even a theory—I need more information to build on this case, which is why I need you to contact this Jason Pickmasters and set up an interview with him as soon as possible, before anything else happens. Before any more murders happen. Do you understand the gravity of this situation, Mr. Grendal?"
"Okay, okay, okay! Jesus, Kid, I wasn't born yesterday!"
"Do you know his office number?"
"Yes, I do; I'm gonna call him, okay," he said, going out of the cafe to make the call. God, this kid's a real prick!
Though Lin didn't have any form of ESP, he knew what Bert was thinking about his young boss. Noll was a prick, all right; Lin knew that first hand. "Noll, are you going to tell him about the first murderer's eyes?"
"Not yet. I'll let everybody know once we get home; I've gotten enough attention as it is."
Lin nodded. The news hounds would be all over the place if they found out the great Oliver Davis, paranormal researcher extraordinaire, or the "Sherlock Holmes of All Psychic Detectives" as their headlines might put it, was on such a publicized case. And if that wasn't enough, the potentially explosive findings would scare the public into a frenzy, which would in turn compromise Noll's efforts. A lot was at stake in this one.
They ate and drank what was left of their meals, then waited in silence. When Bert came back after setting up the interview, they hailed a cabbie and drove east along Katherine Street before turning left at Norwood Drive, taking that north past several suburbs into the border of Camden and Islington, where the King's Cross and St. Pancras train stations were situated. Here, they turned left at York Way and took it west past old brick warehouses until they reached 90 York Way, where King's Place housed the current headquarters of the Guardian. King's Place was another giant block of a building, an imposing structure of glass and black metal overlooking the Battlebridge Basin on the Regent's Canal. On the other side of the canal were many residential boats and the London Canal Museum. King's Place tripled not only as an office building for the Guardian and the Observer newspapers, but also as a concert hall for the London Sinfonietta and the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment, as well as an eatery for the Rotunda Restaurant and the Green & Fortune Cafe.
Noll only heard about these eateries when Gene told him about them years ago. They were eleven or twelve and just entering the first stages of puberty, when boys first entertained the idea of interacting with the opposite sex. Though he would rather roast in Hell than admit it, one time Noll jokingly made a bet with his brother about which one will take a girl out on a date to these places first. At that, he entertained the thought of taking Mai out for dinner at either restaurant (with Luella's permission, of course), but he knew that would never happen. Not in a million years, even if he or Mai somehow survived the shock and embarrassment of asking each other out on a date. Especially not when you have a case like this to take care of, first.
Once there, the trio entered the building and took the elevator to the sixth floor, where the senior writers and editors of the Guardian did their writing and editing magic. Jason Pickmasters' office was in the D Section of that floor, room number D799, in the last room at the end of the last hall to the left. Confused yet? Don't blame yourself if you are. Believe it or not, the floor plan was a confusing labyrinth of halls and rooms that would have looked the same to an unfortunate newbie to the place without a map. Luckily for Noll and Lin, Bert had been here often enough to know his way around. He even got a few nods from a few of the reporters he had talked to over the years.
Thank God, thought Lin, these guys have working elevators.
Bert was about to rap on the door, when Noll said, "Wait. Is this Jason Pickmasters trustworthy? Because I don't want any leaks about my involvement in this case getting to the public."
"Don't worry. I wouldn't be his source of information, if I thought he was phony, okay?"
Noll nodded, so Bert rapped at the door's window.
"It's open," said a rather loud bass voice. All three entered, and Bert shut the door. Jason was a 50-something-year-old black man, with graying kinky hair in the advanced stages of receding; and his office had its share of clutter but nowhere near as cluttered as Jacob's. "Hey, Bert. How's life treating you?"
"Rougher and rougher everyday, man."
"Oh, I've heard, man, trust me. All because of that asshole, Andy! Ah, and these must be your two associates. I'm Jason Pickmasters," he said, offering his hand for Lin to shake.
"Lin," and he shook hands.
"And you, young man?" he said, offering his hand.
"Noll," he said but didn't shake, though.
Jason looked at him. "Does he not trust me, Bert?"
"Don't worry, man. The kid trusts you, all right, but he's always been rough around the edges. He never even shook my hand when I first met him."
"All business, I see. Well, then. What do you want to know from me, Noll?"
"Everything you can remember about Evan Moore."
"Evan Moore? He's been dead for over thirty years. In what regards are you asking for?"
"Anything out of the ordinary that you saw him do, or that he told you about."
Jason smiled, trying to repress a chuckle. "Well... I don't know if this will help you, but one time Evan told me about how he put the razz on a few of his female coworkers years ago. He said he went to his office wearing a towel and exposed himself to them for one hell of an April Fools joke. Thank God I wasn't there to witness it!"
Jason was laughing his head off at this, while Lin and Bert sniggered.
Noll sighed. "Maybe I should rephrase it. Did Evan Moore ever tell you about anything you thought was strange or intriguing? As in, something that he could not explain, something that bugged him and quite possibly you, as well?"
Jason considered the kid's question (considered it the way a long-time skeptical reporter of his caliber only could) and said, "Now that you put it that way, I...do remember him telling me something along those lines. I think it was back in 1979, the year when he died; I was twenty-four that time, and we were at the Exeter Bar just a mile west along York Way—I can't remember the exact address, because it was torn down in '82 or '83; it's a parking lot now full of cars. Anyway, we were having a few drinks there one night—probably Sunday; I'm telling you, he's one of the hardest drinkers I've ever seen, that Evan. You would have thought he was a cop, the way he took his liquor—straight-up single malt hard-as-hell scotch on the rocks, no water added. No pun intended, now."
"Don't worry, man," said Bert. "Just keep going."
Jason sighed. "This is as far as I'll go."
"What do you mean?" said Lin.
"I mean I can't tell you more, unless you tell me why you need this kind of information. You must understand that I never betray a trust, not with a cop, not with an informant, not with anyone. Ask Bert, and he will tell you, trust me. I'd sooner be hanged than betray a trust; because Evan Moore, whom I've only been professionally acquainted with for two or three years, entrusted me—an old white man to a young black man at a time when few black men were ever entrusted—with something I promised him never to tell anyone about under any circumstances, unless it was a dire situation of life and death. Do you understand me? I must know why you need such information."
"Fair enough, now that I know you won't leak anything," said Noll. "I am the paranormal researcher, Oliver Davis. I am currently investigating the murders of the twenty-three women in and around Whitechapel, and I believe it's connected to two prior murders in 1977 and 1979. Bert, Lin and I also found out that there are at least two serial killers responsible for these murders. Now I need whatever information you hold to confirm my suspicions about these three cases, which I cannot reveal to you for obvious reasons. There, I've told you enough."
Lin and Jason were shocked. Jason felt like the bombshell of bombshells had landed on his lap and exploded. He began to sweat profusely, and his heart was racing at the horrible fact that this current case, the one that's been on the news non-stop for seven months, was just the tip of a bloody iceberg as old as his career. Lin, on the other hand, repressed the urge to slap his boss upside the head for revealing some sensitive things he should not reveal about himself.
"Good God, you have got to be shitting me!" said Jason; Noll shook his head. "This is much worse than I thought. Hell, this is worse than any of us thought. The rumors are true; all those cops that quit weren't bullshitting to save their asses. Noll, does that mean that the ki—?" He stopped when he saw Noll in front of him. "Good God, you're that kid I wrote about yesterday! And you must be that Chinese guy that got socked in the balls by that asshole, Andy!"
Lin leaned his head against his fingers, as he felt his cheeks beginning to burn. "Let's get back to the interview, please."
"Bert, why didn't you tell me you were bringing in these two?"
"Because we're kind of incognito, if you know what I mean. Every reporter in England is looking for these two. And one other thing: This is strictly confidential, so don't reveal your sources when the press asks for it. And don't release any information about the two killers out there. A mass panic is the last thing this investigation needs right now."
"I see. No need to worry—I'll keep that to myself. And for giving me the exclusive of all exclusives, Mr. Davis, I'll tell you the rest of what you need to know. So anyway, while Evan Moore and I were having a few more drinks at the bar, he told me a little about his childhood. I was a little tipsy when he told me this, so I didn't mind much—or remember much, for that matter. But I do remember he said he was ten or eleven years old when he and four other kids about his age found a place that was supposedly haunted by spirits; I think it was a cave, or some underground dwelling, or something like that. He also said it had buried treasure, like a chest of pirate gold or whatever grade-school kids found valuable at that time. He said the five of them went to that spot, wherever it was, to dare each other to spend the night there with just a lamp on to keep away the ghosts. I'm telling you, man, even in my drunken stupor, I found that pretty hard to believe, like reaching the end of the rainbow and finding a pot of a leprechaun's gold there. I was even laughing at that.
"But then his tone turned dark, and I could tell. Evan had a few more drinks before he told me about that one time he dared one of his friends to spend the night there. He said the four of them left him there and returned to find nobody there. Not a living soul down there in those devil-haunted bowels of the earth. He said they didn't call the authorities, because they didn't want to be blamed for his disappearance and go to jail for it. As you could imagine, they were scared shitless at that point. He said he could not sleep for three days afterward, and when the authorities listed that unfortunate kid as missing and searched for him, he said that he was thinking about running away from home to avoid any prosecution under the law. Can you imagine that? To be just a mere kid and already feel the sinking feeling of guilt stalking you wherever you went? He even said some of them thought about committing suicide, but none of them were up to it. None of them had the courage to pull it off.
"Then he said he went on with his life, eventually growing up even under the weight of that guilt on his shoulders—all his friends did the same—, until there he was, drinking with me at the Exeter Bar at age forty-something. I told him that was a hell of a story, one that he should publish in an anthology of scary stories on Halloween, but he turned and looked me dead as a rattlesnake in the eyes. I'm telling you, that scared me. Then he gave me something from his pocket, a sheet of paper folded four times. Then he left the bar without another word; he didn't even finish his glass of beer. I thought that was strange, but when I unfolded the sheet of paper, I found something even stranger. It was just three typed lines that said in all capital letters:
"THERE IS NO HELL LIKE THE GUILT OF A SINNER YET TO BE PUNISHED.
FOR IN THE END, ALL MUST DIE.
FOR ONLY IN DEATH ARE ALL MORTALS EQUAL IN GOD'S EYES.
"When I read that, I almost freaked out; hell, I almost pissed myself. But I'm telling you, man, the scariest part of the whole thing came the day after that night. When I went to work that morning, I brought the paper with me to show Evan while he was sober; I wanted to confront him on his drinking habits, so it wouldn't affect his job performance, but when I saw him, he looked spick and spam like nothing happened to him that night. It was a bit creepy. Then Evan swiped that paper out of my hands and said, 'Where did you fucking get this?' Before I could answer, he lit it on fire in the office and let it burn in the waste basket. That got the sprinklers on the fire alarm going, and we both got in a hell of a lot of trouble. He was so damn crazy, I'm telling you!" Jason stopped.
Jesus, that's fucked up, thought Bert.
No doubt, Lin had similar thoughts, but his face didn't show it.
Noll considered the man's account that posed many questions for him. For one, how does this account fit in with the two serial murders in 1977 and 1979, if it was even related to them at all? He wasn't sure; he needed more information to verify his theory. Then he remembered the obituary of Evan Moore, who died in his sleep and whose cause of death the coroner could only guess at. Could Jason's account at the Exeter Bar shed some light on his colleague's death? Jason said Evan was 'crazy,' as if he had a screw loose somewhere hidden in the recesses of his mind. Could he have died from exhaustion? Or from insomnia? Or from an undiagnosed mental disorder? Or from something else entirely? He didn't know; but then he remembered this unknown man's eyes that scared everyone who saw them. Could Evan Moore have died from exhaustion or insomnia, because he saw something that kept him awake? Could he have seen this man's eyes? He probed Jason for more information.
"Mr. Pickmasters," he said. "Do you remember anything strange, or scary, or anything out of the ordinary following Evan Moore's death?"
Jason leaned back in his chair, gripping the chair handles till his knuckles were almost white. Lin and Bert noticed this when he began. "Yes, I do remember; I wish I didn't, but I do. A year passed, and I completely forgot about the sheet of paper with those three morbid lines. But when I found out Evan died, it was like a flood of fear rushing back into me. That's when I remembered those lines again. I volunteered to report about his death and became one of the first reporters there on the scene in his house, where he died. Police tape sectioned off his bedroom, so I stood at the perimeter waiting for any officers to give me a line about the cause of his death. But I forgot to bring my notebook with me, so I looked in his home office for a spare notebook. Looked on the desk, then in some of the drawers. That's where I found it - a sheet of paper with those three typed lines, repeating over and over:
"THERE IS NO HELL LIKE THE GUILT OF A SINNER YET TO BE PUNISHED.
FOR IN THE END, ALL MUST DIE.
FOR ONLY IN DEATH ARE ALL MORTALS EQUAL IN GOD'S EYES.
THERE IS NO HELL LIKE THE GUILT OF A SINNER YET TO BE PUNISHED.
FOR IN THE END, ALL MUST DIE.
FOR ONLY IN DEATH ARE ALL MORTALS EQUAL IN GOD'S EYES.
THERE IS NO HELL LIKE THE GUILT OF A SINNER YET TO BE PUNISHED.
FOR IN THE END, ALL MUST DIE.
FOR ONLY IN DEATH ARE ALL MORTALS EQUAL IN GOD'S EYES.
THERE IS NO HELL LIKE THE GUILT OF A SINNER YET TO BE PUNISHED.
FOR IN THE END, ALL MUST DIE.
FOR ONLY IN DEATH ARE ALL MORTALS EQUAL IN GOD'S EYES.
THERE IS NO HELL LIKE THE GUILT OF A SINNER YET TO BE PUNISHED.
FOR IN THE END, ALL MUST DIE.
FOR ONLY IN DEATH ARE ALL MORTALS EQUAL IN GOD'S EYES...etc.
"I looked through the drawer and found more of them, pages and pages of them. I looked through more drawers and found more sheets; I looked in the file cabinets and found more of them... My God, I even looked under the floor rugs, and there they were; I looked in the closets, and there were thousands of them, stacks of them. I told the police about this, and they ordered the whole house sectioned off. We eventually went into the attic, and there they were, God knows how many, stacks upon stacks upon stacks of paper written with those ever-repeating three sentences... I tell you, all of you, that Evan Moore was insane!... Must have been that way for I don't wanna know how long! It's... I've only worked with Evan for only a year and hadn't an inkling of his madness for so long a time…" Then Jason buried his face in his hands to quell the memory of that day before saying, "I've been a reporter for over thirty years and have seen many of the horrors that come with the job, but never have I seen anything like it... And I hope I never will."
This unnerved everyone, though Lin and Noll didn't show it.
Again, Noll thought about his account. It clarified the mental state Evan Moore was in; he was mentally fatigued, that's for sure. But one question remained: How did he die? His most likely guess was from exhaustion, when the mind and the body begins to shut down from insomnia and near-constant exertion, as the thousands of pages of writing attest to. But this was just an educated guess, nothing more, because he could not confirm this through careful observation. No wonder his father, of all people, could not positively identify this first killer's murder method.
"Thank you for your time," he said, getting up to leave.
"Wait just a minute," said Jason; all three stopped. "Trust me when I tell you this. There are some cases out there that cannot be solved, that should not be solved; this current case you're building might be one of them. Get out of it while you still can."
Noll thought about it. He remembered the case of the Blood-Stained Labyrinth (*), where he told the SPR team not to continue with an exorcism of the house because of the unnecessary danger it posed. He remembered saying, "I know how to hunt ghosts, but monsters lie in a different realm, in which I'm not skilled. That's why an exorcism is off the table, unless someone here knows a sure-fire way to hunt a monster safely." Not even Mai's pleas could convince him otherwise. But this case was different. Whereas Urado was a monster trapped in a mansion, unable to kill anyone outside its decaying walls, this monster with the evil eyes roamed the streets near his home like a wandering plague, where thousands of people live and can't afford to move away. This plague had a grudge against an aging cop, and it won't stop until that cop and others who know him are dead, including but not limited to Bert, Lin, Noll or even his family. On top of that was another killer on the loose, who was influenced by this first one.
"I can't, and I won't," he said. "If you think running away from your fears is a viable option, then be my guest. But I have an investigation to do. I may not have started it, but I will finish it."
"You have a personal stake in it, don't you?"
Noll glared at the man.
"All right, you don't have to answer. But in that case," continued Jason; he got out something from his desk drawer, "take this with you. It's a rosary. You will need it much more than I ever will."
Noll pocketed it and walked out, Bert and Lin close behind.
Jason looked at the trio as they walked down the hall, then said, "You don't know what you're getting yourselves into. God, have mercy on you three, especially you boy, for those monsters won't have any."
When they got in the elevator going down, Bert said, "Noll, did you notice he was sweating?"
"I also noticed him gripping the chair handles very tightly. What about it?"
"What do you mean, 'What about it'? A guy like Jason doesn't kid around. A case like this might get real hairy real quickly, if you know what I mean."
"Nobody's forcing you to be on this case."
"Bullshit, man. I promised Jake to see it through."
"And I promised myself to finish it," said Noll. "So we're even."
"What about you, big guy? You up for it, too?"
Lin nodded yes.
"Oh, and before we go home," added Noll, "I need you to set up another interview with a patient named Penelope Fowler at the Allenshire House for the Insane."
Bert looked at the kid, astonished. "You're kidding me?"
Noll shook his head.
"For today?"
"There's no time like the present."
(To be continued...)
A/N: Okay, you're probably wondering why I have cops, seemingly excessive swearing, newspaper articles and stuff like that in my GH story. I'm a police procedural buff, all right. Those novels just seem to strike my fancy for some reason. I know it's kind of weird for a kid like me to like those gritty grown-up stories; I never knew I liked that stuff, until I started reading them. I wonder what you guys like to read besides fanfiction. Anyways, that's what I bring to this story, a hard-boiled mystery filled with suspense and horror, and a good helping of fowl lingo. I don't know what I'll do to get more reviewers for this story, but I'll think of something.
(* Blood-Stained Labyrinth Case = 7th case of Ghost Hunt. See episodes 19-21.)