Chapter 10:
"First, we're going to organize everything into its own pile: date books, calendars, bills—"
"Won't that get confusing?"
Kevin used a pocket knife to open a box, saying, "How's that confusing?"
"We'll be putting items from each vic into the same pile—"
"If everything is properly labeled it'd be fine."
"Maybe we should organize everything for each victim into separate piles, go through each one-by-one, and write anything we find on the whiteboard?" Greg said as he grabbed a marker and started writing the victims names on the white board. "This board can be for the first vic, Samantha Ivers. That one," he pointed to the white board on the far wall, "Amanda Henley. That one for Evelyn Olsen, and the last one for Brandi Powers." They had four walls and four white boards. On the board he made categories: Work, School, Activities, Bills, Meetings, Dates, Friends, Family, and Miscellaneous.
Kevin eyed the board, all the boxes, and said, "You've got the first vic and I'll start with the second."
He was surprised that Kevin didn't say anything and instead went right to work. He didn't even try to protest to tell him that they should do it his way. Kevin was the one in charge and running things, not him, but he was willing to let him show him a different way to do something and then agreed.
"What's the matter?"
He should've realized that Kevin would have noticed his hesitation, especially since he was still standing by the white board, marker in hand. "I wasn't expecting you to agree with me."
Kevin removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, all while saying, "Nothing wrong with being wrong. Your idea was better, more efficient, almost like you've done it before." He smirked and he let the tension out of his body.
They hadn't really talked or seen each other since Montana. He hadn't gone to the hospital with him, having stayed behind with Warrick who'd also been injured. Then Kevin went back to Virginia. They barely talked at the ceremony the FBI hosted, but that was that, until now. In a lot of ways, Kevin reminded him of Grissom, in a lot of ways he didn't. Except, maybe he did because Kevin had been raised by Will Graham. He knew Grissom's anger, how he could be concerning certain cases, and he'd seen Kevin's anger.
Kevin was angry, and unfocused, as he went through the box open on the table. He also unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, loosened his tie some more until he had it off, while his eyes darted around the closed evidence room.
"Hot?"
"What?"
"You're sweating. Are you hot? This room is temperature controlled—"
Kevin glanced up at him and said, "I'm fine." As he grabbed a stack of bills out of the box, he nearly dropped them. His hand was shaking.
Anger, sweating, shaky hands, and eyeing the door every thirty seconds as if he might have to jump up and leave, or someone might come in or something might happen…Yeah, he knew the signs. "If you need to open the door—"
"Greg," Kevin nearly yelled as he slapped the table.
He nearly dropped the papers in his hands. Staring at him, he saw his irritation along with all the anger. With those hard eyes staring right back, he should have been scared, but he wasn't. He knew what it was like. The one person who saw it first, who recognized the signs in him, and then got him help, was Grissom.
Letting out a breath, he said, "A few years ago, there was an explosion in the lab. It happened right in front of my face, and…I got thrown through the glass. Spent a few months recovering, and I thought I was fine afterwards. All my physical wounds were gone. I came to work, but…my hands shook. I couldn't get them to stop shaking. No one noticed, except for Grissom. He told me that it would stop. He told me that if I needed anything, he'd be there. He was, by showing confidence in me, my work, and…eventually, it stopped. I also decided to go to therapy. But, I only felt it was okay for me to do so because of Grissom. I know he's your dad, and I know him, so I know that he offered you the same help—"
"How'd you know—"
"He had to have seen it too."
Kevin had been eyeing the table, unable to look at him, before lifting his eyes up to ask, "Seen what?"
"Dude," he said in disbelief as his eyes glanced down to Kevin's hands, "your hands are shaking."
Kevin fisted his hands, much like he'd done thinking it'd stop the shakes. "I'm fine—"
"Have you talked to anyone—"
"I don't need therapy, Greg." Kevin's voice was harsh, and angry, as he said that.
He'd learned today, not too long ago, that Hannibal Lecter had been Grissom's therapist. So, of course Kevin wouldn't want therapy. He gave a nod, but said, "I was told that as long as I have someone to talk to that I wouldn't need to see my therapist every week. I needed a support system, friends to talk to who would listen. Do you have a friend here that you can talk to, if you can't talk to Grissom?" Kevin didn't answer him, and he got his answer. Kevin had no friends in Las Vegas. "You can always talk to me, or anyone else here at the lab. We've all been through something. Nick was stalked by a crazy guy and Warrick—"
"Who'd you talk to?"
Greg smiled slightly as he told him, "Grissom and Sara. Grissom's good at offering advice and helping me through a problem; normally here at work. We don't hang out. Sara…she's good at being there when all I need is a friend to talk to over a beer. Or, at least she was when she was here. I've never had a beer with Grissom, but, since you're his son…I'm sure he'll have one with you."
Kevin eyed the door before getting up. He opened it, just a crack, before sitting back down. It seemed that he could breathe a little easier. "It was getting stuffy in here."
"And closed-off. What sucks about these rooms are no windows. I wish we could work outside."
"Wouldn't that be nice."
They didn't talk much, except for the occasional 'pass me a box' or 'write this down' until nearly three hours later. At that point, Kevin leaned back in the chair, rubbed his eyes, and stretched. He took a look around the boards, the table, and said, "I need a break. Wanna grab food?"
His eyes lit up as he stood. "Do you like sushi? I know a great place that's not too far."
Kevin grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair and followed him out. "You've been thinking about California rolls for a while, haven't you?"
"Actually, the spicy tuna. I'm starving," he told him as they left the room.
Catherine was walking by, talking into her cell phone, and they nearly collided. Lowering the phone, she asked, "Any progress?"
Greg answered as Kevin kept walking. "Nothing yet. We need to eat, so we're grabbing lunch."
"Whatcha getting?"
"Sushi. Want anything?"
"California roll, extra soy sauce and ginger, and don't forget the chopsticks."
"You got it, boss lady."
Catherine went back to talking into the phone as he caught up with Kevin who was waiting at the end of the hall.
Snapping her phone shut, Catherine walked into the A/V lab as she said, "Grissom told me he brought you a 9-1-1 recording."
Archie pulled off the headphones and turned in his chair, saying, "About two hours ago. He wanted to listen to it himself but didn't have time. I guess he was in too much of a rush to go see his boo thang."
"His, what, Archie?"
Upon seeing her look of disapproval, he said, "Sorry."
"And isn't that someone you're not having a serious relationship with?"
"Ah, so you do know it," Archie said with a laugh. "Thought you might."
"I have a teenage daughter. She's always keeping me on my toes. Discover anything interesting?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact," Archie said as he returned to the computer screen. He grabbed another set of headphones and handed it to her. "You'll need these."
She put them on as Archie started the recording of the 9-1-1 call.
The first voice she heard was the male dispatcher. "Ma'am, hello, where are you—?"
"Yes, yes." It was the voice of one of the victims: Ashley Lang. "We're near the corner of 5th and Cheyenne, by a park– What's the name of the park? Dan, what's the name of the park?"
She heard a male voice in the background say, "City View." That must have been Daniel Vetrini.
"City View Park," Ashley answered.
"—Ash, hey, Ashley, get the first aid kit out of the trunk!" Dan's voice again.
Ashley yelled back, "You get it—"
"I think he's hurt," Dan called out.
The dispatcher asked again, "What's your name, ma'am?"
Before Ashley could answer, she heard a fourth voice. It was different from Dan's voice. Raspy almost. "We have to go, tell her…We have to go. He's coming…He's—"
"Ashley."
"Okay, Ashley, and you said the man is injured?" the dispatcher asked.
"Don't tell me there's no one out there!" the raspy voice yelled. "You think I did this to myself! I didn't—"
"I don't know," Ashley's voice said over the guys. "He looks pretty bad. There's blood, he has no shoes on his feet. I think he's homeless."
"—What's your name?" she heard Dan's voice ask.
The raspy voice answered, "Nathan."
Archie leaned back in the chair as he hit pause. "Confirms the killer."
"He said his name was Nathan. We got his voice on tape. Can you isolate it so we can do a voice comparison if we need to?"
"I can try. Though, if you really want an expert on voice comparisons, Grissom knows a guy."
She remembered Gil's friend very well. She'd met him before. "Hears in perfect pitch, and is a record producer?"
"You've met?"
"I have. It was during the Paul Millander case."
Archie smirked and said, "Listen closer as it continues playing," before he hit play.
Putting the headphones back on, she listened as a unit was dispatched to the scene. "...Unit 576, proceed to the corner of 5th and Cheyenne Parkway for a 404, possibly a 401A. Caller is a woman, two males are also on site, one with blood on him and no shoes."
Deputy Adams answered the radio. "This is 576. We're enroute to the corner of 5th and Cheyenne Parkway. ETA, five minutes."
"Ashley, is anyone else injured?" the dispatcher asked. "Ma'am, was there an accident?"
In the silence that followed, she heard Dan's voice in the background. "Medical student—…you were…Let me…at least bandage—"
"…Hello, ma'am?..."
"...What is it?" Ashley asked away from the phone. "Dan?" Her voice grew more distant. The phone was far away from her mouth. "Da—"
The call went dead. The phone was still active, but there was nothing. Only silence. Then, a gasp. She listened as someone was gasping for breath.
"Hello, Ashley? Hello?...Unit 576 are you on scene?"
"We're nearing the corner of 5th and Ann."
"Be advised 404A. I lost connection with the caller."
Archie stopped the tape again and said, "Did you hear it?"
"All I heard was someone gasping for breath," she said with a shake of her head.
Archie adjusted the volume then replayed the last portion of the 9-1-1 call. She pressed her hands into the headphones as she closed her eyes and listened. During the break in the call, she heard the gasping. In the distance, behind the gasping, she heard something else.
The hum of a car's engine. A squeak.
Squeak of brake pads? A car stopped?
"Hello, Ashley?" the dispatcher asked. "Hello?..."
She heard a voice. It was faint, in the distance, but it was another voice saying, "You? What—"
"Unit 576 are you on scene?"
Adams answered, "We're nearing the corner of 5th and Ann."
"Be advised 404A. I lost connection with the caller."
A door shut. The hum of the car engine disappeared.
Catherine opened her eyes as she said, "It sounded like someone was driving by and stopped, got out of the car, talked to the suspect, and then got back in before leaving the scene. Deputy Adams said that when they arrived on scene, no other vehicle was there and there were no witnesses."
Archie said, "Sounds like you have a witness to me."
"He also sounded like he knew the guy. He said, 'You'." Catherine thought about that as she handed the headphones back to Archie. "Grissom said that there were two people possibly at the Brandi Powers murder scene. The killer, and then the guy who saw it happen."
"But if he only witnessed the murder, then how did blood get all over his hands?"
She shrugged. "He could have come across the body of the victim while the killer was leaving. He tried to save her. Perform CPR, and the killer noticed. Maybe he started running because the killer was after him? He did say that 'he was coming'. It sounded like a warning."
Nick parked the department SUV in the back parking lot of the 7-Eleven off Charleston Boulevard. Across the street was another gas station, a bank, and a couple of medical offices. He heard a car horn down the street and saw someone honking at a parked taxi. It had its hazard lights on. There was yellow tape up, securing the scene. To the left of the lot was the gas station and to the right was the back of a strip mall. Looking around at the back doors to the businesses, he didn't see any cameras. There were no cameras on the side wall of the gas station either. Coroner's van was already there.
Detective Sofia Curtis greeted him once he ducked under the crime scene tape. "Stokes."
"What'd we got?" he asked as he got right down to business.
"Male db. You're going to want to see this." Sofia showed him the body that was in a sitting position on the ground. It was leaning up against the side wall of the gas station and the wall that housed the dumpster.
He watched as Dave, the assistant coroner, finished taking body temp before asking, "What's the verdict, Super Dave?"
"He's been dead for less than an hour," Dave told him before moving aside. "All yours."
"Thanks," he said as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. "Check the pockets?"
Sofia shook her head. "Waiting on you to do the honors, but I don't think you'll find anything. Someone took trophies."
He went to ask what trophy's when he clicked on his flashlight and stepped closer to the body and got a better look. "His hands are missing." Both of the arms stopped at the wrists. Bringing the light up, he checked over the rest of the body and saw his face. "And he's been beaten. Face looks like hamburger meat."
"I'm thinking it's to prevent identification."
He agreed. Either way, he had to check for a wallet. In the front pocket of the bloody jeans, he found a small rectangular bag. Inside of the bag was a white substance. On the outside was a stamped symbol. Showing it to Sofia, he asked, "Seen this before?"
She gloved up and took it. "No. Must be a new street drug." She took a picture of it before bagging it using an evidence bag from his field kit.
He moved the body to check the back pockets and saw a wallet on the ground by the wall. He nearly laughed. "I think we caught a break."
"You found something?"
Grabbing the wallet, he held it up and said, "Killer could have been interrupted and dropped it." He flipped it open, saw the name, and nearly gasped in surprise.
"What is it?" Sofia asked as he stood.
Pulling out the driver's license, he studied the face of the photo and then the man on the ground. He couldn't tell if it was a match or not. Handling the ID to Sofia, he said, "Nathan Cole."
Sofia took the license and read it over. Her eyes went from the photo to the body and back. "I can't make a positive ID."
Nick knelt down and checked his mouth. "Broken teeth." He saw the missing hands. "No fingers to run prints. Smashed face. Nah, I don't think this is the same guy."
"The wallet was a plant?"
"Possibly. He knows we're looking for him. So, he kills a guy, makes identification impossible—or so he thinks—and leaves the wallet, hoping that we'd think it's the guy we're looking for."
Sofia glanced around, saying, "This place is a hot spot for junkies."
"What'd you mean?"
Sofia gestured over her shoulder, saying, "Follow me." She led him to the sidewalk where she pointed down the street. "New Beginnings Addiction Treatment Center. Dealers hang around to try to lure addicts back into using." She then pointed to the pharmacy on the opposite corner of the gas station, by the medical offices. "That place is constantly getting robbed. And the manager of the gas station said that he's reported junkies shooting up in the parking lot damn near every night. Then they walk in wanting beer and snacks. It's like an addict Bermuda triangle."
Nick eyed the treatment center and saw the people walking out, along with the recovering addicts on the sidewalk and dealers in the alley. There were cops right on the corner, and they still didn't care. A bus sped by with "Garage" showing on its destination sign. Once it passed him, he saw a woman in a white jean jacket and skirt get into a taxi that was parked in front. At least she didn't pay them no mind.
Sofia handed him the evidence bag as she started for the street as another detective's car pulled up along the curb. It was Evans. "Time to start canvassing. I doubt that anyone will talk to me, but…I have to try."
"Good luck with that," he tossed over his shoulder as he went back to the body to process it.
He put the evidence bag in the truck, grabbed his camera, and started taking pictures.
Working as a detective wasn't so bad, but working as a detective in Las Vegas, that was a different thing altogether. The city was a beast. The ones with money fed the beast and the ones who didn't got eaten by it then spat out. Detective Sofia Curtis saw hundreds of them, beaten, broken, and all standing on street corners or sleeping under bridges. All at one time had hopes and dreams of making it big at one lucky spin of the wheel, bet on the red, or the luck of the draw. Their dreams had been stripped away, hopes tossed aside to make way for their new addiction. Gambling, sex, or drugs. Or all three. It was heartbreaking.
The city preyed on the innocent with the backdrop of the rich and famous, neon lights and gold buildings, pyramids, and water fountains. Cars were like herds of elephants stuck going nowhere, and people barely looked at one another. It was no wonder no one saw anything whenever asked about a crime.
Helping her canvas was Detective Evans. He was a seasoned cop, more seasoned than her, but still reminded her of a wet-behind-the-ears newbie. It could have been due his boyish good looks, or the fact the guy wouldn't stop looking at every skirt that passed by him. On the corner they were approaching, she spotted a familiar face. She was short, with long black hair, a skirt above the knees, bright red tube top, and a pair of four-inch pumps. The woman appeared to be a prostitute. She knew otherwise.
Deciding to bust Evans' chops, she called out to her, "Hey!" Once she got her attention, she said, "Hey, chica! My partner thinks you're cute!"
Evans nearly gapped as he stared at her in disbelief.
The woman whom she yelled out at had been leaning against the wall next to the treatment center entrance. She tossed her cigarette to the sidewalk as she walked over them. "Oh, yeah," she said with a Spanish accent. "You looking for a good time?"
"My partner here is," Sofia said with a straight face as she eyed Evans. "What'd you say? You've been eying every skirt who walked by."
"Look, I'm not," he went to say but stopped. "I'm married." He raised his left hand. "I would never—" Both her and the woman busted out laughing so hard Evans knew by that point that she was messing with him. "Oh, screw you, Curtis."
Stifling her laughter, she finally filled Evans in as she introduced them. "Alexandra Perez of Vice, this is Detective Travis Evans, Homicide."
"Nice meeting you, Evans," Alex said as they shook hands. "And it's Alex, not Alexandra."
"So, what's the word on the street?" she asked Alex.
Alex shook her head as she said, "I think these murders got a lot of people spooked. It's been quiet around here. Too quiet if you ask me, just some small stuff."
Sofia had to ask, "Why are these killings spooking the regulars?"
"All those dead girls? They used to be out here."
She glanced at Evans who did the same. "They were all hookers?"
"Hookers, addicts, either way, they all ran in the same circles. That circle's getting smaller."
Evans asked, "Anyone particular they all knew or hung around?"
Alex was shaking her head.
She followed up the question by asking, "The same John or boyfriend?"
"All I know is that they stopped being on the street because they all got a new job. They meet someone. Don't know who, but I'll ask around."
Sofia told her, "We'd appreciate it. Hear anything about what happened at the 7-Eleven tonight?"
"Nope. No one's talking. Even Philly Joe isn't talking, and he sings like a canary."
"Philly Joe?" Evans asked in confusion.
"Yeah, this guy Joe, a regular on the street; he's from Philadelphia. Philly Joe."
Sofia nearly smiled as she took out her cell phone. "Hey, uh, I got a picture for you. See if you can ID it for me." She brought up the photo she'd taken of the street drug that Nick had found on the dead body.
Alex took one look at it and said, "Dagon. It's new. Powerful stuff. If you want to know more about it, get with Detective Perez in Narcotics." Seeing the question in Evans' eyes, she answered, "He's my husband."
She gave a nod. "Okay. That's all I got. Evans?" He shook his head. "Stay safe," she told Alex. "It's a jungle out here."
"When isn't it?" she said as she looked around the sidewalks.
The street was a dangerous place, especially right now. They had a couple of killers out there taking lives and so far, there wasn't much they could do about it. There was no connection other than all the female vic's had records and a diastema. And now their suspect, who had gone by Nathan Cole, was either dead or had killed someone else and took his wallet and left the old one behind. If that was the case, then he could be anywhere and anyone.
Earlier…
Sitting in a parked taxi, with cars rushing by him and neon lights lighting up the inside of the cab, he placed his notebook against the steering wheel and wrote:
People want to know. How can I live like this? I was set on fire. How can I live like this? Arisen from the ashes. And I say to them..."How could I live any other way?"
Lifting his head up as a car honked behind him, he stared through the rearview at it until it went around him and moved along the street. He glanced in the side mirror and saw the police down at the 7-Eleven on the corner. He paid them no mind. The building he was parked in front of was a center that treated recovering addicts and noticed the men leaning against the wall. They were waiting with white, pale faces, blond and/or black-haired men with long jackets, long hoods, and jittery hands. A man walked out of the building and started chatting with one of them. No one else seemed to notice that they slipped back into the shadows of the alley. He knew once morning arrived that they would be nowhere to be seen. Vampires. They only came out at night.
A few more cars passed; a bus sped by with "Garage" showing on its destination sign. It was done for the night.
He went to pull back into traffic when his eyes caught sight of someone coming up to the taxi. It was a woman. She was of average height, brown hair, and her clothes were white, and neat. She looked like an angel. She clinched onto a black purse that was slung over her shoulder. Her body was loose, but her hands were tight. She was scared, yet burdened but there was something else. Something he couldn't put his finger on.
Tapping on the window, the woman asked through the glass, "Are you still taking fares?"
It took him a moment to answer as he gave a nod. Once she was in the back, he asked, "You have money? I don't want to get you where you're going, only for you to skip out on paying."
She reached into the deep pocket of her jeans, not her purse, and pulled out some cash. Showing it to him, she said, "I can pay."
"Where are you headed?"
She didn't answer right away as she stared out the window at the vampires in the alley. He knew the building and knew that an NA meeting had ended. She was tempted. Weren't they all? She moved her hair off her shoulder. "Um, the uh…" She shook her head and said, "Let's just drive."
He wanted to ask 'why' and 'what for', but knew it was none of his business. He doubted she would tell him the truth anyway. "Yeah. Okay. It's your money."
He shifted gears, adjusted the mirror away from the building, and then pulled the taxi onto the street. As he drove through the streets, he kept glancing at the woman in the backseat. A former junkie, yes, but that wasn't all of her. There was darkness there from a hard life. In that darkness he also saw a light coming from within. He tried to work it out, but he didn't know enough. He didn't know her. It was unnerving, having her there, watching him. Watching everyone.
He decided to strike up a conversation. "Mind if I ask your name?"
She didn't even look at him as she kept her eyes out the window, watching the world go by. "Ellie."
Truth. At least she was honest. "Been in Las Vegas long, Ellie?"
She looked at him then, like she was surprised he was still talking to her. Or maybe she just now realized what she'd said. Ellie studied him through the rearview and said, "My dad lives here. I'm just visiting."
"Have you had any of the street tacos? They're the best."
The soft smirk was nice, and very sure of itself. She then rolled her eyes, acting like she wasn't interested.
"I haven't eaten anything in what feels like days and we're approaching one of the best taco vendors in all of Las Vegas. If it's okay with you, I'll stop. Don't worry about paying, it's all on me and I'll stop the meter. It really is the best. After one bite, you'll be thanking me." Ellie looked out the window with reluctant anticipation. "When was the last time you had a decent meal, Ellie?"
After a moment, he heard a mumble of, "Alright, but I'll pay for my own tacos. I don't want to owe you anything."
"I said don't worry about it. You won't owe me anything." He started to slow to make the turn on the next street.
A couple blocks up he pulled into a parking lot and stopped the taxi. The vendor was set up along the edge of the lot near the street so people could walk up off the sidewalk to order. Some plastic folding tables were set up for those who wanted to sit and eat. There was a line and most of the tables were filled with customers. Neither of them spoke as they waited, and once they got up to the window, he looked over at Ellie to ask what she wanted and was surprised when she started ordering in Spanish.
They took their food back to the cab and ate while standing, using the hood as a table seeing how all the seats at the tables were now full. And he was right; after one bite, Ellie looked at him and smiled as she said, "Thank you for stopping. This is delicious. My dad took me to dinner earlier, but…I couldn't really eat."
"Told you. Best in the city." He dipped the taco in a container of red sauce before taking a bite. "So, where're you from?"
She took a moment to answer, like she didn't know the answer. "Currently, Los Angeles." He took a sip of the soda he ordered. "You?"
"Me? I'm not specifically from anywhere. Lived in a lot of different places. Started out west, where the trees grow tall, and then headed east. Been far away, overseas, and now I'm back here. Feels like I've lived many lifetimes by now. A new life everywhere I've been."
"Were you in the service?"
"Hoo-rah," he replied. "Did a tour in the Gulf. I gave them everything until there was nothing left to give. Nearly killed me. You look like you've seen a lot." The woman had a world-wariness to her.
Ellie went back to eating and didn't say anything. Then, once they were done eating, she asked, "Got a cigarette? I always want to smoke after I eat."
He pulled out his pack of Newports and gave her one before taking one out from himself. After he lit them up, he asked, "Do you know where you want to go now?"
"Yea," she said as she blew out the smoke, "I do," before sliding up to him and putting her hand on his thigh.
He froze at the touch. As she rubbed him through his pants, he felt the ache once again in his gut. She was beautiful and it'd been a long time. Her smile was nice, her eyes a shade of brown, and she wanted him.
"You got a place?"
He gave a nod as he kept his eyes on hers. He had a place. A very long fifteen-minutes later, they arrived at the apartment building.
As they walked inside and up the stairs to the third floor, she said, "I never got your name."
"It's Nathan. Nathan Storen." Opening the door for her, he let her walk inside first before following.
Hours later, he was back on the job, picking up fares, and keeping his eyes open to the people roaming the streets. That was until he heard a dispute on his favorite nightly talk radio show. They usually kept their conversations to conspiracy theories, aliens, unexplainable sightings of nightwalkers, and other supernatural or paranormal activity. Tonight was different. They were talking about the victims of the serial killer that was terrorizing the city.
"I don't feel safe anymore," said Mike from Henderson. "My wife and kids don't feel safe. We have gang violence spreading like a disease in our neighborhoods, tourists being mugged, and now women being attacked and killed all over the city—"
"That's why we have the LVPD," said the radio show host, Jon Burkman. "Let them handle the low-lifes."
"All I want to know is what are they doing to protect us?! We have a newly Sheriff who's done nothing—"
He pulled out a flip phone from his glove compartment and flipped it open. Reaching over with the same hand, he turned the volume down on the radio and then from memory dialed a number and put the phone to his ear as he stopped at a red light.
"Well, I for one, am glad they brought in the FBI," said a caller, Glen, from Las Vegas. "And let's not forget that Will Graham, the guy who caught all those serial killers and recently took down Hannibal Lecter, is right here in our city. Gil Grissom, the crime lab scientist, he's working on it. I bet you a thousand dollars they got him on it—"
"Hold on to that thought, Glen," Jon Burkman suddenly broke in. "I've got another caller on the line. Go ahead, caller, you're on the air."
"..."
"Hello? You're on the air."
"Tell Mike from Henderson and Glen from Vegas..." his raspy voice spoke over the airwaves, "tell 'em...the Sun has risen over the city. The shackled dead, the ghosts in the night...their time has come."
"...Could you explain that furth—" Jon went to ask.
"I'm Anubis. The great cycle of fire has born anew. Out of one, many, out of many, one…Annuit coeptis, the all-seeing eye. It's the prophecy; the golden King to rise over the world. It calls me now. His voice. It calls me. The Sun King has risen. I have arrived," he said as he stared out at the moon in the sky as tears filled his eyes.
He had arrived.
"Uh, caller?...Caller?..."
He flipped the phone shut then turned up the volume on the radio. They had gone to a commercial break after his call into the station. He told them. And he'd tell them again until they understood. Until the truth was out.
The taxi continued along the streets as neon lights lit up the concrete streets and sidewalks in orange and blue, red and yellow, as he went from one side of the city to the other. There was no street, no area, no person out of his zone. He had no zone.
He went everywhere so he could see everyone. And saw them he did. Most of the people he had for fares during the night were regular people. They were businessmen and women, moms or dads with kids, young professionals and students, musicians and singers. Gamblers, prostitutes and pimps. They were all human and all mortal. He wasn't there to judge the sinners. They were all sinners and sinners sinned. He was there to judge the shackled dead. He was their King. They were either set free, like him, or he ferried them to depths of Hell. He was their judgment.
Ellie had been a shackled dead. And he had judged her. She was an angel. She had been set free.
His judgment came from the Sun god himself: Ra. He'd been judged and he'd survived. Given a new life in servitude of Ra. But Ra was in the sky. He needed someone on land, a boot on the ground, to do his work for him. There was another world on Earth, one that the mortals had no idea went on around them in the shadows. In the in-between of the light and dark. The ghost world. Most people believed the stories to be nothing more than mythology, folklore, and horror stories. He had been one of those people. That was before the fire. The resurrection had come at a price. He was a King among the ghosts. Once you became a ghost, your life wasn't yours anymore. The only way to keep living, was to take on another life. Take their soul, their name, and live forever.
He'd taken a new name, a new life, and had risen in the desert like the Sun that had risen in the sky. No one else was like him. No one else had risen from the ashes to do the will of a great God like he had. No one, he thought, until he saw him. The one on the news. The one who had risen, like him, out of flames and shadow and death. Will Graham, aka, Gil Grissom.
The man had confused him. The eyes were the window to the soul, as the saying went. And it was in those dark blue eyes that he saw the man's true nature. He saw the aftermath of a rebirth. A new beginning. He saw a man risen out of the ashes of Hell and not into darkness but into the light. In him he saw a reflection of himself. A man with the strength of a God on the inside.
He didn't know what to do about Grissom. He wanted to reach out to him but didn't know if he could. So, he'd reached out to Ra, sought him out as he asked for guidance. He needed to know what to do because he'd never met someone like Grissom before. He wanted him to see him; to know him. He wanted Grissom to understand what he'd become.
So far, Ra had been silent. He would wait for an answer.
TBC…