13/07/562
We are four around the table. The chief coordinator, Mr. Greneau, prepares the investigation wall with zeal and devotion. I, the sector bailiff, and the receiver watch him work. The receiver, Domenic de Brolhok, is nearly tearing his hair out; the poor man turns, composes himself, and forecasts the costs. The bailiff, Alexandre Markov, is in a similar state.
Personally, the board's size intimidates me: thirty-six victims, fifty-seven testimonies. Seven investigators have taken this case; their families were stalked and killed by the Animal. Some turned to suicide, others to vengeance, others simply vanished. I will be the eighth if I miss him.
There's a correlating factor (other than modus operandi). Each time the killer strikes, a few days before the crime, a Maia tribe sets up at the city walls. Troubling coincidence, but incoherent. Since some bodies show bite marks, a Maia couldn't be the culprit. More precisely, we'd all be dead if it were that tribe. A zombie-Maia would be clearly catastrophic.
Greneau finished the planning; red threads covered the wall; sketches and transcripts made the pins scream. He jolted from his stupor and, like an elephant just as agile as in our introduction, he sat, and ridiculously fast… finally, we were going to discuss the subject and our approach to this Anteater.
The Anteater… for a corpse violator… that's an understatement.
The bailiff stood, then shouted:
— "Colin, Mr. Greneau, and my dear associate Domenic, we are gathered to introduce Colin de Boisvert to this case properly. Johnas, his predecessor, has disappeared. Death stalks this tragedy, and the abomination at its center revels in anonymity. Colin, you are one of the finest in the capital's history. Chief Coordinator, I leave the case presentation and known hypotheses to you."
The coordinator took over. He described the state of the bodies, the murders of families. Despite the killer's necrophiliac impulses (toward the bodies), he never left the slightest piece of evidence; testimonies came from families, friends, colleagues, but nothing conclusive at the scene. Nothing seen, nothing heard around the murder, which makes sense given the MO. He kills instantly and likely exploits their roles to lure them. He targets exclusively prostitutes or escorts.
He ended thus:
— "Finally, here are the hypotheses on the Anteater's profile: first hypothesis: the killer is highly placed, informed of Maia caravan arrivals, likely single, compulsive, intelligent, and probably wealthy. The second hypothesis suggests that the Anteater is a human living among a Maia tribe; that community likely cherishes him, hates women, and humanity. The third theory, that of a zombie-Maia hybrid, is implausible."
— "Indeed, improbable," I said.
A Maia cannot ingest meat: if his palate so much as touches a drop of blood, he mutates immediately into a zombie-Maia. That mutation unleashes a ravaging disease infecting humans as well as the Maias. The fact that the Anteater bites the corpse implies that he would mutate if he were a member of that tribe. This concept is known, but poorly documented. We have the notion of a zombie-Maia hybrid, but we don't know what it is. We know he doesn't use that term and seems offended by the topic. Maybe it concerns their gods? Anyway, I don't believe they're guilty, and the room's culture seems aligned with my views. Society is another matter.
Their species is at the root of several uprisings and massacres. They're viewed much like comparing a dog and a wolf: do we think the two should be allowed to mingle?
Of course, among the general population, the Maias are feared; to their eyes, the killer is a member of that people. Very few are aware of what they are, and the few stories the rabble spins concern hordes of undead, falling empires, and human sacrifices. Legends are hyperbolized by cultural trauma.
I took over and presented my plan:
— "I am aware the public is very likely one of our biggest constraints. Witnesses constantly watch the caravans, but the Anteater is one of our citizens. I state this and will prove it. Next month, we will secretly arrest the natives and send agents to watch every escort and prostitute in the city; we will prepare our plan step by step, without speaking of it to anyone beyond the four of us. If the killer strikes again, either we'll have him, or he has a completely different modus operandi. But in either case, it won't be a Maia."
Mr. Greneau winced. He knew where my plan came from. The fifth investigator on this case proposed it, but he died long before. The killer learned his identity and may have struck first. Of course, that is my hypothesis. He was beheaded and pulped in an alley in the slums. The location didn't match the usual sites either. But his death matched his lifestyle. Médéric was an investigator specializing in organized crime. Those organizations form in the slums…
— "Colin, are you aware of what happened to the one who had this idea?"
Greneau asked, worried.
— "Indeed, but Médéric was never discreet,"
I replied with apparent conviction.
— "Neither are you,"
The bailiff shot back, then continued almost immediately before I could answer:
— "In fact, when have you ever been discreet? You're the least discreet and most flamboyant investigator. You're clearly a genius and might be the best in history. Yet do you have any decency? Perhaps it wasn't your intention, but your remark sounds like spitting on Médéric's corpse. He was discreet; he infiltrated. Maybe he preferred frontal confrontations more than anything… Lack of discretion! Colin de Boisvert! You are not discreet, and you will never be as discreet as he was! If you want to survive this case, I recommend you come back down to earth and think, at least a little, about what you say."
He went out the door; I wasn't the only one surprised by his explosion of anger. The other two were as pale as the victims.
I swear on all that is holy and sacred: I will bring him to the gallows; we will crush him like the insect he has always been.
04/08/562
A small team of elite soldiers keeps watch on the Maias. It's insane how well-trained they are: able to stay awake two days without rest. I'm not the sort to believe every tall tale that reaches my ears; yet I've seen those men's professionalism. If the killer were a member of those people, he wouldn't last long.
Personally, I'm waiting for the slightest result. The city guards work closely with the city's escorts. The secret holds because no one in their right mind would brag about being a voyeur. Even then, no one knows what my case is. Everyone assumes I finished my investigation and moved on to another. The affair is an open case that remains unresolved.
But the new case I took this month is an infanticide, a dramatic case that will draw the gaze. Five gold pieces… my God, I'm bored.
Jeannette, poor little thing, she was only 8. Bernard and I are at the crime scene. He's rummaging in the bedroom while I inspect the balcony doorway. The child came from a noble family; yet it wasn't the family that demanded justice, but the servants. When we arrived, no one was crying. The mother killed us with her eyes; the father, bottle in hand, was raking us with his.
What horrifies and intrigues me is my lack of obviousness: the mother tried to mislead us, but my power subtly overruled her. She spat something like, "That damn door," spontaneously, and a memory of her slamming that door in a rage sank into my consciousness on the spot. The little girl died in her bed… The barracks' medical examiner told us she convulsed, urinated, and likely begged many times… She had many bruises scattered across her chest. Her scalp had lesions and numerous scars. Jeannette suffered abuse over a long period.
My job is to prove why a noble's child would be abused under his own roof and deliver the maximum penalty to the culprit. My colleague Bernard has the opposite function, but even so, win or lose, no one gains anything more… well, usually. However, Bernard has a moral compass.
Right now, I'm standing more than 3.5 meters above the ground; if that little girl's door had been locked on her, going down would never have been an option…
Hmm… a small crack in the floorboards draws my attention; a small piece of shocking pink cloth intrigues me. I got down on all fours to inspect it. I took it with my tweezers. It's linen. Pink…
— "Did you find something?!"
I jumped like a gutter cat.
— "Bern! Could you not shout? Show some professionalism! A family in mourning!"
He knelt and leaned toward my ear.
— "Let's go… someone's watching us… and the family isn't lamenting nearly enough for my taste…"
— "Very well… In any case, I've found a key piece…"
I caught a sly smile from my colleague; he adores my slyness.
06/08/562
I watch the hearth's flames… The killer won't strike: it's noon; his business is nocturnal.
Maybe I should go down to the café? There's one farther down; I like their pastries. I don't want to play our card game with Julie anymore. She always tries to craft a strategy to outplay me. But each time she's about to trick me, my Plague activates: fragments of memories seep into my skull… and she ends up playing the honest move.
I felt like my head would explode. My power had triggered twenty-two times in a single game! She snickered. Argh… again: she had planned to slip the bottom card.
I'm the demon, but she's the she-devil. Why does she think of cheating every time we play? With her, it's instinctive. Who taught her that? Cheat first, play after? Is the game cheating?
Anyway, she keeps losing, probably because my plague ultimately forces her to play only honest moves.
I looked at the three cards on the table: the Vulture, the Devourer, and the Fool. Damn, I had all three in my hand… another victory. She was going to beg for another round. Reluctantly, I laid down my cards. She sank into her own defeat. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation: Julie wanted a rematch… Perhaps one last game won't do me any more harm.
She pounced on the deck; my heart clenched in terror. She was going to shuffle; fragments formed… four fragments in a single shuffle? I tore the deck from her hands, and the memories immediately poured into my brain. The headache was so violent and instantaneous that I collapsed on the floor. She panicked; my body trembled. She was calling for Gabriella, screaming, almost hysterical. After a few seconds, I regained control of my flesh. My God… she had planned four complex techniques. The two servants arrived shortly after, half-dressed, into the parlor nook. The poor things were enjoying their day off…
I decided to go to the café and leave the manor to Gabriella and Jorge: they deserve their day.
Jorge calmed down a bit faster than his companion: he was more used to my nonsense. He refastened his belt discreetly, then Gabriella straightened his collar; he retaliated by brushing a crumb from her cheek. It was strange not seeing them in uniform. I couldn't hide a soft jealousy at their complicity. I don't think I have a similar relationship with Julie.
17/08/562
A body… the guards' plan didn't work.
She was found around 04:45 by a young man. He was leaving the tavern, half drunk; he had slipped into an alley to find a place to urinate. There, he found the body.
It's 06:24.
No acrid smell; on the contrary, a blanket of perfume. Someone saturated the place, most likely the killer. That indicates a budget sufficient to buy and pour out perfume in profusion. He may have poor hygiene; generally, a heavy perfume buyer doesn't bathe.
She died recently, given the state of the body. Early, discreet rigidity in the masseters is estimated to occur two to three hours before discovery. The same signs as with the Anteater: several fractures, an abdominal lesion, and another on the forehead. An ant comes out of the abdominal opening, then two, then three…
There is a letter in the young woman's coat pocket.
On the envelope, it says: "Dear Eighth."
I ground my teeth: the killer's letter was addressed to me.
The letter says: "My friend, as you can see, despite your trick, this crier fell under my charm. Usually, my victims do not agonize; I eliminate them in one blow. A hunting knife into the skull… but this time, she didn't die immediately. She began to moan and spit random stammers. I decided to keep her in that state during my ritual, this time. Honestly, I have never been as happy as I am now. Perhaps the pleasure is in the agony? What do you think? I would be delighted to meet you. Do you have a wife? Children? Concubine? Oh! Don't tell me, I love the hunt…"
I was about to crumple the paper… I thought better of it and then handed it to one of the guards. This sub-piece of filth is going to see my fucking blade.