Death Watch
By Mary Ann Whaley

Silky smooth beneath the caressing fingertips, the contrast the total
opposite from the callused skin. The confusion of odors that rose in the cramped space were an intoxicating mixture of burnt coffee, stale cigarettes, manila folders, photo developer and fresh ink. The rain laden breeze that blew through the open window didn't even have a chance of cleansing the room.

Muddy brown eyes lifted to watch the seemingly slowed clicks on the face of the schoolroom clock that hung obscenely large on the wall. 'Where are you this very minute?' he asked himself. 'I know you so very intimately, yet this time there is nothing. It's as if you've vanished from the face of this earth. Not like you to be late.' Slowly the eyes dropped again to the multitude of sheets that spread across the desks surface. Dates were very clear on the respective sheets, to such extent one could almost set the proverbial clock against them.

'…approximate time of death between midnight and two AM. Victim identified as six year old Chuckie Plant. Cause of death - asphyxiation. The body was discovered by sixteen year old Diana Davies behind the elementary school on French Street. Identification was made through dental records, this method required due to extensive mutilation of the corpse…'

As he read, his fingers continued to caress the silky smooth photograph that lay closest at hand. The small, perfectly spaced handwriting was easy to read, more so because it was his own calculated script. There had been fifteen of them total that spanned over the past five or six years. Murders so disgusting that it wrenched his already frazzled mind beyond comprehension.

He'd inherited the case from Jackson Fire, who had retired, 'more likely
they forced that on you old friend', two years past. 'Obsessed to such extent that it is effecting his performance to his job', had been the reason typed on Jack's release papers. Who the fuck could help but become obsessed by these deathwatches. These were kids that were getting hacked and slashed by this fiend. Maybe this time would be different. But that was too much to wish for he was sure.

'…approximate time of death between ten PM and midnight. Victim identified as four year old Lacey Charter. Cause of death - asphyxiation. The body was discovered by forty-three year old waitress Mary Tarter behind the West Bend Diner on 33rd Avenue. Identification was made by father, Dan Charter, Senior Executive with Multi Diagnostic Services. Extensive mutilation of the corpse gives me to believe that this murder is related to the past thirteen…'

The fact was that each victim had been mutilated almost to the point of
being unidentifiable. There had however been one indication that each killing had been done by a single person. This whacko must have used an etching tool and a very steady hand to etch initials across the front three top teeth of each victim with exception of the third. That poor kid lucked out by wanting his two front teeth for Christmas. If there had been the initialing anywhere, the autopsy hadn't discovered them. This fact had never been released to the press, who had taken to calling the killer by some odd name. Seems that they too believed these masterpieces to be the work of a single sick fuck.

Trails of gray smoke lifted from the reddened tip of the unfiltered Camel as it was released from between his lips. For perhaps the tenth time in the past four hours he sifted through the papers and photos for the rap sheet. Lines creased at the corners of his eyes as they narrowed, tight lipped the stream of smoke exhaled had no where to escape except through his nostrils.

     NAME: Daniel Even Cade
     ALIAS: Even Dandles; Peter Singleman, Charles Bane
     AGE: Twenty-six
     DOB: April 1, 1976
     GENDER: Male
     RACE: Caucasian
     DESCRIPTION: Approximately six foot three inches tall. Black
     hair. Gray eyes.
     Identifying marks - Black rose tattoo on the palm of left hand.
     There seems to be significance to the symbolized black rose as it
     has appeared on four of the victims.

That last had been noted, by his own hand, on the worn border of the rap sheet. Various other notations littered the sheet as well but there was really no significance to them. Call it lack of appropriate scribble sheets if you would. Down in the bottom right corner was a scrawl, one identical to most anything that required signature. Let some forger try to copy that sucker, came the idle thought as his eyes settled on his signature.

"Ya ain't gonna find him…" came a bare whisper from the door, which he'd not heard open. Damn but this bitch seemed to appear when least expected.

"What do you want, Freda? Why don't you get lost." his tone angry at the intrusion. His muddy gaze lifted, the thick eyebrows almost joining into a single line as he cast a scowl in the woman's direction. Something inside of him lurched, that feeling of something not quite being right in bloody Denmark so to speak. What the hell was her real name? The question bothered at him every time she made her random appearances.

"A rose has..." the statement left hanging but accompanied by a vague
smile, that honestly made the man she spoke to question if it was a smile, or more of a feral sneer.

Was that supposed to mean something to him? What the fuck did a rose have to do with anything. "Quit talking in fucking riddles. If you have something to tell me then just say it." Despite the disgust that flavored his voice his eyes took her in, from tip of toe to that crowning mane of hair. Didn't this woman ever hear about getting a little sun. If she was one of those obsessed with protecting herself from the damaging UV rays, probably not.

"Come now Ash, you know something's not right." Crystalline blue eyes, so sharp in color they didn't appear natural, sparkled, picking up the watery light that filled the office from the single gooseneck lamp on the desk. "You should be relieved that it's not going to happen this time", she stated with a matter of fact tone.

Stubbornly he gathered up the spread of papers, photos and shoved them all back into the appropriate folder before cramming the lot into an expandable filer. "And what makes you the authority on what is or who won't in this town?" He hated being called Ash, yet this bitch did it repeatedly, "and how many times do I have to tell you it's Detective Ashure!" barely refraining from adding the customary 'to you, broad' that might have slipped from some of the rougher and perhaps older Detective's on the force.

Her posture altered little at the rebuff, actually it was as though she
hadn't moved at all. But she had, hadn't she, he questioned himself. She was about two feet closer to him now and there was a warm smell about her, tangled with something he couldn't identify but would have been able to in a heartbeat were the setting different. The woman's expression flowed into innocence, and flowed was the exact description that came to his mind as he watched her intently.

"Sorry, I did mean ta say Detective Ashure, Ash. But ya know…" Her hand moved with inhuman speed to pick up one of the folders from the corner of his desk, "the herd is safe now." That unsettling gaze lifted to pierce his as she tossed the file back onto the desk. "At least until the next twisted psycho appears on the scene to make your life a livin hell."

Mockery seemed to lace her words, yet something within told him that
mockery was the last thing on her mind. "It won't be over until I see that fucker roasting in the electric chair. Maybe for an additional bonus I can even talk the switch flipper to let me have the pleasure."

Like the moon suddenly being blotted out behind a thick bank of clouds she shifted the conversation. "Something new is happening, or didn't you know it?" One pale hand lifted to push back the errant wisps of hair that fell over her eyes.

It was a good thing that Corbin Ashure was seated at his desk, otherwise he would have been in a whole world of aching. How, in the course of conversation, this conversation in particular, could he have a hard on. Yet, every time this woman appeared to him it happened. They could have been wallowing in a pit of blood and guts and he'd want to lay her down in it and fuck her like she'd never been fucked before.

"Ya would have made a great one, ya know that, Ash", she asked, yet again shifting the conversation unsettlingly. Leaning over the desk she ran one tapered finger along his jaw enticingly, if a bit chillingly. The way her tee-shirt shifted as she moved only heightened his agony and it escaped in a moan. "Ya got the balls ta back up yer words, and the attitude that could send most anyone backin away from ya with piss runnin down their legs." Her smile flickered slightly, almost revealing something but what he didn't quite catch. "Unfortunately, a world a hurtin much bigger than that little pissant Cade could ever give ya is happening, I think."

The last two words she seemed to add almost as an afterthought, or
perhaps because she really didn't know. Almost snapping his neck, Ashure pulled back away from her and it took three tries before he found his voice. "What the hell are you talking about, Freda?" but before she could answer the phone on his desk rang shrilly. He looked at it in annoyance then back to where she had stood as one hand reached for the tool of interruption. The movement faltered as his eyes found only empty air where she had stood. Half rising out of his chair so he could see out the dimpled plexiglas that formed the wall at the front of his office Ashure snatched up the phone on its fifth ring. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Whoa there sport! Wanna take it down a notch or eight?" came the voice of Detective Nigel Lowery on the other end. "Got something that I think you should come see."

"I'm kind of bus…" was as far as Ashure got before Lowery interrupted him.

"I mean it sport, get your ass down here. It don't tie in with what
you're working on but it's about as close as we've gotten so far."

Frustrated, and still wondering where the fuck Freda had vanished to he grabbed a pen from the blotter. "What? And where is this miracle supposed to be?" Quickly jotting down the information as Lowery fed it to him he slammed down the phone, secured the strap of his holster and put on the brown leather bomber jacket that completed his jeans and polo shirt uniform. The sound of the tapped heels of the gray snakeskin boots he always wore echoed off the near empty outer office as he left.

"What did he say, bella?" Lawrence Giovani asked the stunning beauty as she approached him in the alley where she'd bid him wait. "Did you relay the message I gave you?"

Known for his lack of patience, Freda let Lawrence stew for a moment
before she dipped her head in a slow acknowledgment. "I gave it as riddled as you requested." Stubbornly she thrust out her bottom lip, her clear blue eyes meeting those piercing black of the man whose association she chose for its benefits. "Wish I could bring him over though. Ya think Tristal would allow it?"

The man snorted, "do you honestly think that puppet of a Prince would enjoy seeing the Brujah grow more in numbers in his court?" Curtly he shook his head before continuing. "You and your clan are nothing to him but tools…" his smile formed, his words like bitter acid. "And such well behaved tools you are."

It took all Freda could muster in the way of restraint to keep from
separating his head from his shoulders. Such action would not have gained her any favor though so she pushed back the anger and flashed him with a smile near the equal of his. "Touch�, Lawrence, and may it come back on you tenfold." Having the last word sufficed as Freda turned on her heel and left the Giovani standing alone in the dank alleyway.

Lawrence's visage darkened measurably as he regarded the retreating
figure. "You don't know how much your words say, bella." He set the silver tip of his cane to the ground and exited the alley, stepping onto the near empty sidewalk. His direction took him in one similar to that which the Detective had taken.

He wasn't rushed at all as it would be several hours before the early
70's model El Dorado would be moved from where it had sat for several nights now. Despite the reputation of the neighborhood where it had been found not even the roughest of toughs would have chanced smashing the rear window of the otherwise unadorned automobile. The deeply etched image of the rose had been tastefully painted black, with a single drop of blood falling from one of the vicious thorns. The drop appeared a recent addition, if one were to look closely enough.