The Vanishing Knife
It was about two hours before sun was scheduled to make her appearance and the woman lying next to me had just stopped purring and had settled into the deep and regular breathing that comes with rem sleep.
I was glad. I always felt guilty after "she" fell asleep and wondered how she ended up in my bed, again. But mostly I felt guilty because I couldn't say if her name was Miho or Alice or Hitomi.
She was Just another 'she' that seemed alone and sad. Not quite desperate but suffering from standards she set too high. Or like me, looking for love instead of waiting for it to find us. But out of lonliness or boredom, we would end up together, thinking this was it. And neither willing to make the post-coital call after. Unwilling to seem too eager or worse, not willing to reach out to the one who was reaching out to us.
But what can I say? I'm a fool for a soft-spoken woman with dark hair and and a darker story. I'm ashamed to say I don't remember her sad tale at the moment.
They say misery loves company. I often wonder is sadness also searches for sadness.
Too often, our meeting would be interruped by a call. Like tonight. A disadvantage of working the graveyard shift but also an easy way to break the moment without discussing the real reason we didn't want to face the dawn together.
Perhaps an explanation is in order. My title translates to 'keeper of the spirits'. It is not as morbid as it sounds. The correct translation is actually 'protector of those in the fourth world'. I simply call it "victim's advocate".
Whenever a crime occurs, there is a victim. Thankfully, most of these involve a victim who is also the perpetrator. Gambling, drugs, alcohol and most vices and sins. Self-inflicted wounds for those who are too afraid or too insecure to allow another to cause that pain. Or maybe they are just an alternate to indulging in meaningless sex with the person of their nightmares.
And you are correct that I have been described as 'jaded'. I guess this either means I look at the world with the eyes of a perpetrator who sees only victims or through the eyes of their victims. Not that there is much of a distinction in those views.
I intentionally woke her while pretending to be quiet as I carried my clothes to the bathroom to dress. If she was like the others, she would be dressed as quickly as I would. To avoid that uncomfortable moment where you must admit you trust her enough to exchange bodily fluids but not enough to stay in your apartment when you are gone. What fools we are. We kissed and hugged and she seemed almost as anxious to leave as I did.
Thankfully, it was a productive drive to the crime scene. Not only did I become fully awake and know exactly what I was dealing with {a young and recently widowed woman} but I remembered the woman I just ejected was named Nikki. Not that it excused our behaviour but at least I remembered her name. I was kind of proud and scared about that.
I might have been impressed with the house and landscape had it not been for the light show. By that, I mean the number of emergency vehicles with flashing lights was more than I thought the town had. There were three levels to the house. The lowest level housed the garage {with elevator up one flight} and access to the pool and tennis court. Located in the second floor were the communal areas; guest bedrooms, kitchen, dining room with chandelier and a small theater}.
The upper level held the master bedroom and attached bath/sauna, a study and a photo studio, complete with darkroom. From all the photos on the wall, it was safe to assume the photos appeared in magazines that were hidden under the counter or in the back room. There was also some video equipment but after my activities the night before, I wasn't interested in watching unfamiliar bodies try to merge into one.
I headed out to the pool after realizing that's where the crying woman was. There were one or two people asking questions through a translator and the poor woman was trying to answer in between bouts of hysteria. A few more were pulling a lifeless body out of the pool. The blood running down his back let me know it was a fresh kill, maybe an hour ago at 3 a.m. Just a hunch but I didn't think this qualified as one of those accidental deaths. Not that I was concerned with that. I had a live victim so the dead one became secondary. He wasn't going anywhere except to the morgue.
As they strapped the body to the gurney and wheeled him away, I dismissed the two detectives. The forensics people were taking samples and photos but it was obvious the murder weapon wasn't there. Based on the amount of blood and size of the wound, I was thinking large knife or even a meat cleaver. I figured the murderer was smart enough to take it during his/her escape.
I introduced myself and when the dark haired woman responded, I realized she spoke one of the dialects from my home so I also sent the translator away. After the Indie wars in the second decade, a lot of tribes returned to their original tongue and English became a minority language in North America except for those few remaining cities still under 'white' control. Sadly. that's where most of the jobs and money tends to be.
Her name was 'Little Dawn' and she had met the murdered man at a party a year or so ago. After plying her with drugs and alcohol, she had agreed to some 'candid photos'. She didn't remember much after that except waking up to discover she was married and that her new husband expected her to perform on video as often as she was asked. Most of the time, she could hide her disgust and anger with drugs or alcohol but when those weren't available, her husband was quite willing to force her into the role.
Her long dark hair and symmetrical body was a minor distraction and I heard how he used the old pimp routine of beating the soles of her feet with a towel-wrapped coat hangar. It's not good business to spoil the merchandise and what does she need her feet for? There were other tales of abuse and horror that made me think of killing him myself, if he hadn't already been dead. Loaning her to his friends, making her perform live in front of business associates, so many reasons to hate that lowlife.
A crash from inside the house broke the horror temporarily and I went to investigate. An officer had tried to carry an ice sculpture to the van as 'evidence' and had dropped it, shattering it into dozens of irregular shapes. I noticed two eyes. One had a patch. Pretty strange sculpture.
Little Dawn seemed exhausted so I drove her to one of the safe houses I kept for victims and gave her a couple of sedatives so she could try and get some sleep. I left my card on the nightstand and told her to call me when she woke. She hugged me and it was difficult to not see Nikki or Miho or any of the other women who made me want to scream, "please stay". But as usual, I was silent. Too much work to do and as dark as she was, it just wasn't right. I figured I'd give her a few hours rest and then come back to try and help her put the pieces of her life back together. Maybe encourage her to find her way north and settle down with some nice Indie fellow. Help her forget the horror of the last year of her life. Help her forget the white world.
Instead, it was back to the station to compare notes with the investigators and listen to their taunts about how 'useful' my job was. Morons. They worry about bodies while I worry about spirits. Like there's a comparison.
By the time I arrived with some fresh clothes, a shave and some coffee, there were poster boards and photos, drawings and lists. All kinds of nifty things detectives use to chase their tails. And I was just in time for the briefing.
Before someone decided to put a sharp pointy object in his back, the corpse had held a rather lavish affair. Many guests, a few would require special handling but most were just the cream of the crop in money circles. Pornographers, drug dealers, politicians, what have you. It had been a celebration for his latest movie, something about pirates with looting, pillaging and of course, raping. Seemed to be a great seller on the airwaves and once it was put onto disc, a sure money maker.
Most of the people had been wearing some costume and from the photos, a life sized pirate had been sculpted out of ice. Of course thanks to officer Fumble-di-thumb, it was now just pieces slowly melting in a vehicle somewhere. Life sized with a detachable sword, eye patch, removeable pistol [that didn't fire} and even a parrot on his shoulder.
People started leaving or getting thrown out around one a.m. and by two, everyone that didn't live there was gone and the ones that were left were alive. Or so said the resident maid.
Lots of theories and names on the list who might be good candidates based on previous financial dealings, competition or simply jealousy. Lots of reasons why he ended up with a hole in his back, floating face down in the pool. None held water, if you'll pardon the pun.
Then the nerds and techies had their shot. The wound was from a large flat and pointed object that penetrated the left lung and exited the front before being ripped back out. The blade was thin and smooth so that ruled out most common serrated utensils like knives, cleavers, etc. They droned on about potential weapons but the only thing that caught my ear was the analysis of the pool water. Clorinated, as you might expect, and lots of blood but the water in and around the wound and body was mostly distilled water. No chlorine or other chemicals.
I smiled realizing I had solved the case with little effort and no chance to embarrass the brain trust with gold badges. Of course I wasn't the only one that knew where the murder weapon went. I tried to call Little Dawn but she had disappeared. I'm glad about that.
Somewhere, hopefully in a much happier place with someone who worships the ground she treads, she also knows about the ice sword thrown into the pool after serving it's ugly purpose. It will remain our little secret. But what can I say? I'm a fool for a soft-spoken woman with dark hair and a darker story.
I'm feeling a little guilty about not reporting this to my superiors but maybe the spirits I'm here to protect aren't all supposed to die violently and unhappy? And maybe it's a reward or a punishment but as I am getting ready to have a pipeful to relax, I find this small piece of paper next to my phone. It says "Please call, Nikki" and a has a local number in fancy print. Maybe it's time I stopped running away from myself and dial the number. I just hope she's home. But mostly, I hope she remembers my name.