text: A Wholly Superior Creature by C.S. Humble *Part I - The Body* Courtney Marie Davidson joined the ranks of the butchered sometime after 7 PM on the twenty-first of March. A pair of twelve-year-old boys riding their bikes in a drainage ditch near a rained-out culvert found her face down in an oily runoff. According to them, they went home immediately, told their parents, and gave the station a call. I made a note to question them after I examined the scene to see if they'd touched or taken anything. Kids do that sometimes. They'll take evidence, or touch something they shouldn't touch. My partner of eight years, Roger Dale had recently retired, leaving me solo. My leather still squeaked when he got his tenured hands on me. Taught me everything I know about investigation. A harsh mentor, but never unfair. The homicide bullpen was thin as a bed sheet, so I was still waiting to be assigned a new partner when the boy's parents called about Courtney. I smoked half a joint on my way to the scene and climbed down into the ditch around 1 PM. I leaned around the beat officers squaring the tape across the ditch. The crime scene photographer cameras clicked and snapped like mussels clinging to a sloshing dock. The furious pace set my teeth on edge. The bright flashes went off like tiny supernovas in a bright galaxy. My superior, Sergeant Mike Donnell, stood over Courtney's body. He saw me and I saw him. Mike looked back down at the body and waved me over with the tip of the pen in his hand. He slid the pen over his ear and left it there. We shook hands. "Sam," he said. He tore a slip out his notebook no bigger than a deck of cards and handed it to me. "Sergeant." I took the slip. "Her name's Courtney Marie Davidson. Her brother reported her missing two-weeks ago. Recently graduated from Georgia Tech. Smart girl. Honors too. Moved here a couple of months ago to take a job with a think tank dedicated to ending homelessness. Brother's name is...shit," he said, flipping pages over in the notebook. "You know me with names, Sam." "Only took you three months to learn mine, Mike." "Here we go: Marty. He's flying in tomorrow to confirm." All the pleasantries said, his jowly cheeks bowed, setting his chapped lips into a thin, cracked line. He nodded his head down at the body. "It's bad, Sam." Bad was a cheap word for what had been done at Courtney's expense. The sun beat down, putting all the crimson lines of mutilation into the clear light of day. These weren't wandering strokes of inflamed passion, they were carefully scrawled etchings carved by a meticulous hand. From the base of her skull to the heel of each foot was a tapestry that narrated an extended period of torture. Each strange letter and symbol were slashed with a practiced, careful precision. When the photography unit was satisfied with the first batch of pictures they rolled her onto her back. Mike twisted away, his breath escaping his lips like a busted tire. "Jesus Christ." He was right to blaspheme. What they'd done to her back, buttocks, and thighs was a prologue to a monstrous text. Letters scrawled no larger than a thumbnail. Icons drafted from peeled flesh. Those were bad enough, but it was the scarlet mask they'd made of her face that hit a group of seasoned detectives like a hammer. Courtney's weightless blue eyes pierced me. Her killer had locked her jaw open, giving the appearance of a final, harrowing death scream. Everyone stepped away in revulsion. I wandered to the safe darkness of the culvert where I lost my calming chemical buzz and spilled my lunch against the wall. Dark as the inside of a gun barrel, the tunnel echoed with the sound of my tuna sandwich splattering into the water. Then it echoed again with another splash. The sound of a footstep in shallow water. I kept my head down and pretended not to hear. Pretended not to know someone was watching us from the foul depths. "Sergeant," I said. "I dropped my wallet when I puked. You got a flashlight?" "Thomas," Mike called over to one of the photographers. "get Sam a light would ya?" Tom was a little guy, his hawkish features soured with a mild annoyance as he plodded over to me. Clutching his camera like a first-born child, he objected when I snatched the cumbersome tool out of his hand. "Be careful with--Hey!" I pointed it down the tunnel and started snapping pictures. The light pulsed in the darkness and for a millisecond I saw a figure throwing their hands up around their face. "Freeze!" Not everyone who runs is guilty, but one thing Roger taught me early is that when they run, we chase. I chased. Peering down the tunnel was like trying to watch an eclipse through the fluttering wings of a hummingbird, but I saw him. Stamping through the water, I thumbed the shutter like a man trying to spark a dead cigarette lighter. Flashing sparks against the walls I flailed more than I ran. I bounced off one of the sharp corners. The camera fell out of my hand and clattered into the wet channel with a hollow noise. Far down the adjacent tunnel a single pillar of sunlight stabbed down into the darkness where I saw a pair of legs pounding against the rungs of a ladder set into the wall. Up and through an open manhole the legs slid out of sight. I waited to draw my pistol, knowing that it would only slow me down as I made my way up the rebar steps. Sometimes I get ahead of myself. I saw the street for half a heartbeat before the light intensified and lightning struck my skull. My hands slipped off the top rung. My chin collided with the second step, knocking my jaw shut. I had to grope for the top rung two more times before my vision stopped betraying my efforts. The sound of my assailant's feet hitting the bricks chewed in my ears as I slid into an alleyway, only to watch him round another corner out of sight. I tried to roll to my feet, but the world somersaulted and I tottered into a pile of wet garbage. I gave myself a quick pep-talk, which consisted of a "Get the fuck up, Sam," and before I knew it my shoes were scraping the pavement. Rounding the corner the world bent again, and I leaned against the nearest skyscraper for balance. A long warm river was running down my neck and throat. I knew it wasn't sweat. Slashing my vision down the busy street I looked at the legs of every man, woman, and child. Nothing. Not a single wet pant to be found. I was still pretty jumpy when I felt a hand grab me on the shoulder. I whirled and struck. The barrel of my pistol lanced out, cracking Tom across the beak. His legs went stiff as matchsticks, then crumbled in a heap. "Goddamnit, Tom," I said. That was as close to an apology as he was going to get. I blamed the rash action on the head trauma. The photographer groaned, his bloody fingers clutched his face. "You broke my camera, Maxwell," Tom said, his eyes scrunching shut, before they opened wide again in pain. "And my fucking nose.