Post by forcon on Apr 18, 2020 12:22:10 GMT
Although it was nearing midday, the headlights of the cobalt-blue BMW transmitted macilent beams of radiance into the gloom, barely illuminated the New England roadway. Initiating just after midnight, the light drizzle had finally surrendered less than an hour ago. Left in its wake was a layer of damp and a serried fog which hung low over the countryside. As the vehicle exited the bustling boulevards of Boston and entered the hinterlands, the driver felt a mysterious congestion of tension gripping his body.
Supervisory Special Agent Matthew Sullivan was a man of above average height, with moderately greying hair that betrayed his transition from his thirties to his forties. Not normally self-conscious, Sullivan had cropped his hair closer than normal to conceal its anaemic transformation. His anxiety was that the ailment would divulge its origin; the recent divorce from his wife of over fourteen years. Racheal Collins – her maiden name – was a good woman. The relationship had not withstood the test of the frequent relocations that came with the job. Rachael had had friends, jobs, and a life, first in Quantico in the early days of their marriage, then in Chicago and finally in Atlanta. When the posting at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Boston field office had emerged, Agent Sullivan was ready to make the move. Already, the marriage had taken a downwards spiral into a quarry of nightly battles and toxic standoffs over the paltriest of debates. Almost to Sullivan’s relief, Racheal had refused to follow.
The journey was fugacious, far more so than Sullivan had expected in the gloom of the autumn mist. He hadn’t predicted that the roads would be as clear as they were. He pulled up to the gateway of the scene, which was discernible only by the fulgurating neon flashes emanating from a pair of parked State Police cruisers. Sullivan felt himself surrounded by a shroud of hiraeth as he stepped out of the BMW and pulled on his blue windbreaker. He lived in Boston, but the city was not his home. Yet, being this far out of its surroundings was peculiarly unnerving.
“You Special Agent Sullivan?” The voice came from a man wearing a casual suit topped by the jacket of the Massachusetts State Police. He had to be a decade younger than Sullivan, maybe more. Behind the cop, a myriad of people scurried about setting up police tape and taking measurements and photographs. “I’m Detective Stanley.”
“Yeah, I’m Sullivan. Morning, Detective.” His surroundings were unmistakably gothic, with the decomposing parapets of what had once been a respectable church protruding from a patch of concrete amidst the soggy earthen ground. Like viciously barbed wire, naked branches wreathed their way around the crumbling structure, the dead leaves that bestrewed the ground a reminder of the incipient winter. Each tug of wind brought a susurrus rustle from the leaves as they danced in the breeze. “What’s the situation here? What makes this a matter for the FBI?”
“The body was in a state when we found it.” The Detective winced at the ejaculation of his own words. “Her, I mean. But we’ll get to that. Fingerprints match those of a woman who went missing in New York last month. So it looks like our guy crossed state lines.”
“Which makes it Federal,” Sullivan completed. After focusing on guiding his vehicle through the caliginous mist, it took willpower the FBI agent did not have to avoid the beckoning of a cigarette. He felt rude, but he answered the call by retrieving a camel from the half-used packet buried in the pocket of his jeans and allowed himself to light it up. The wind tried to pry the flame away as it danced at the top of his zippo. “What can you tell me about the body? How was she killed?”
Detective Stanley beckoned for Sullivan to follow him through the crowd of weaving cops, medics and forensic scientists. The two emerged through an archway guarded by a pair of statues which stood with weary eminence atop their bases, gazing down as though they were ancient marble guardians of those who had long been forgotten. Centuries of languor had left the sculptures scabbed and rustic and yet they were no less omnipresent. The effigies dictated an allegory of loneliness and despair, one that offered no aspiration, no escape. It was as though they were alluding to inevitable fate that awaited all of humanity.
“She was tortured first. Probably for a couple of weeks, at least. Our Medical Examiner says she hasn’t been dead for more than twenty-four hours. Maybe forty-eight at a push.”
“What’s her name?”
“Alexandra McKinsey,” Stanley reported, checking his notepad as he pronounced her surname. “Nineteen years old, college freshman at Syracuse.”
“Parents been notified?”
“NYPD is handling that. Rather them than me.”
“You said she was tortured. How so?” He could now see the corpse, a desolate lump covered by a body bag that had clearly been placed there to preserve evidence rather than dignity.
“Badly. We don’t know all the grimy details yet. But she’s missing several teeth, and from…from the bleeding, it looks like she’s been raped. There were dozens of small contusions on her torso and neck. I guess if you boys take the body, your ME can figure those out.”
Sullivan sighed deeply, so much so that his breath seemed linger as he exhaled, hanging visibly in the air. “I’ll get in touch with the Boston Field Office. If you’re people are okay with it, we’ll take the case.”
Supervisory Special Agent Matthew Sullivan was a man of above average height, with moderately greying hair that betrayed his transition from his thirties to his forties. Not normally self-conscious, Sullivan had cropped his hair closer than normal to conceal its anaemic transformation. His anxiety was that the ailment would divulge its origin; the recent divorce from his wife of over fourteen years. Racheal Collins – her maiden name – was a good woman. The relationship had not withstood the test of the frequent relocations that came with the job. Rachael had had friends, jobs, and a life, first in Quantico in the early days of their marriage, then in Chicago and finally in Atlanta. When the posting at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Boston field office had emerged, Agent Sullivan was ready to make the move. Already, the marriage had taken a downwards spiral into a quarry of nightly battles and toxic standoffs over the paltriest of debates. Almost to Sullivan’s relief, Racheal had refused to follow.
The journey was fugacious, far more so than Sullivan had expected in the gloom of the autumn mist. He hadn’t predicted that the roads would be as clear as they were. He pulled up to the gateway of the scene, which was discernible only by the fulgurating neon flashes emanating from a pair of parked State Police cruisers. Sullivan felt himself surrounded by a shroud of hiraeth as he stepped out of the BMW and pulled on his blue windbreaker. He lived in Boston, but the city was not his home. Yet, being this far out of its surroundings was peculiarly unnerving.
“You Special Agent Sullivan?” The voice came from a man wearing a casual suit topped by the jacket of the Massachusetts State Police. He had to be a decade younger than Sullivan, maybe more. Behind the cop, a myriad of people scurried about setting up police tape and taking measurements and photographs. “I’m Detective Stanley.”
“Yeah, I’m Sullivan. Morning, Detective.” His surroundings were unmistakably gothic, with the decomposing parapets of what had once been a respectable church protruding from a patch of concrete amidst the soggy earthen ground. Like viciously barbed wire, naked branches wreathed their way around the crumbling structure, the dead leaves that bestrewed the ground a reminder of the incipient winter. Each tug of wind brought a susurrus rustle from the leaves as they danced in the breeze. “What’s the situation here? What makes this a matter for the FBI?”
“The body was in a state when we found it.” The Detective winced at the ejaculation of his own words. “Her, I mean. But we’ll get to that. Fingerprints match those of a woman who went missing in New York last month. So it looks like our guy crossed state lines.”
“Which makes it Federal,” Sullivan completed. After focusing on guiding his vehicle through the caliginous mist, it took willpower the FBI agent did not have to avoid the beckoning of a cigarette. He felt rude, but he answered the call by retrieving a camel from the half-used packet buried in the pocket of his jeans and allowed himself to light it up. The wind tried to pry the flame away as it danced at the top of his zippo. “What can you tell me about the body? How was she killed?”
Detective Stanley beckoned for Sullivan to follow him through the crowd of weaving cops, medics and forensic scientists. The two emerged through an archway guarded by a pair of statues which stood with weary eminence atop their bases, gazing down as though they were ancient marble guardians of those who had long been forgotten. Centuries of languor had left the sculptures scabbed and rustic and yet they were no less omnipresent. The effigies dictated an allegory of loneliness and despair, one that offered no aspiration, no escape. It was as though they were alluding to inevitable fate that awaited all of humanity.
“She was tortured first. Probably for a couple of weeks, at least. Our Medical Examiner says she hasn’t been dead for more than twenty-four hours. Maybe forty-eight at a push.”
“What’s her name?”
“Alexandra McKinsey,” Stanley reported, checking his notepad as he pronounced her surname. “Nineteen years old, college freshman at Syracuse.”
“Parents been notified?”
“NYPD is handling that. Rather them than me.”
“You said she was tortured. How so?” He could now see the corpse, a desolate lump covered by a body bag that had clearly been placed there to preserve evidence rather than dignity.
“Badly. We don’t know all the grimy details yet. But she’s missing several teeth, and from…from the bleeding, it looks like she’s been raped. There were dozens of small contusions on her torso and neck. I guess if you boys take the body, your ME can figure those out.”
Sullivan sighed deeply, so much so that his breath seemed linger as he exhaled, hanging visibly in the air. “I’ll get in touch with the Boston Field Office. If you’re people are okay with it, we’ll take the case.”
