When the Gods Are Away, page 6
“Well... I mean, these things aren’t fast. And I don’t think—"
“Whatever.” Schirra shook her head. “Maybe consider showering once in a while."
Virgil sniffed his tunic after Schirra and Stathis had strolled from the room. Should have put on more cologne. Everyone had noticed, and now they were going to think of him as the guy who never showered.
He shook his head. The shower comment wasn't the most important part of that conversation. Schirra and Stathis wanted to prevent him from going to the crime scene, but he belonged there. The chief should have ordered him to go. Maybe Virgil’s performance on this case had confirmed the chief’s opinions of Virgil and his profession.
Chief Dimitriou had made no secret of his preference for the old investigative methods, in which the act of gathering evidence was treated as a mere formality before the officers concocted their own conclusions, presumably from a combination of personal dislikes and made-for-television movies. Maybe the chief planned to prevent Virgil from working on cases in order to fire him for never solving anything.
Virgil’s stomach fluttered. I can’t allow that, right? No. I can’t. That’s what my therapist would say.
Virgil took a bite of his candy bar and wiped the crumbs from the client’s sheet. He would be at that crime scene.
Chapter 07
VIRGIL TOOK SHORT, shallow breaths as he clambered up the apartment building’s concrete staircase. Paint peeled from the walls, and the overhead lights flickered every few seconds as though the place were auditioning to be a location in a horror movie. It seemed like an appropriate place to murder someone.
The motive was unclear, though. Apparently, the victim had served as a security guard at the Keres Lab, the same lab where Chrysanthe's husband worked. Why would someone kill a security guard at home? Virgil decided to take more thorough mental notes of the scene this time so he didn't miss as many crucial details as he had at Manikas' apartment.
When he reached the second landing, he noticed the doors to Rooms 202 and 204 stood ajar. It didn't surprise him that Room 204 was open; the murder had occurred there, and the officers would have gathered inside. But why is the adjacent unit open?
As he paused at the top of the stairs, a crash came from within Room 202. A moment later, a dark shape slammed against the open doorway's frame before sliding to the floor and spilling into the hall. A body, crumpled into a shape no living human could assume.
Footsteps came from within the room. The killer, walking to the door.
Virgil backed toward the stairway, his legs shaking. Even almost two semesters of combat training hadn't prepared him for a real fight. He reached for the banister, but his hand slipped and he collapsed against the railing, banging his elbow. It tingled and throbbed, and he didn’t know how well he could use it if forced into combat. A silhouette filled Room 202's doorway, casting a shadow into the hall as the figure emerged.
Chief Dimitriou. Virgil released his breath.
The chief stepped forward and planted a boot atop the body as though conquering a mountain. He smirked and dusted off his hands. “Convicted.”
Virgil blinked. “Wait... what?”
Then he realized: the chief must have accused the victim's next-door neighbor, in Room 202, of committing the murder and had successfully challenged him to a trial by combat. Standard operating procedure for police departments in the Greek Alliance. Barbaric and stupid.
The door to Room 204 slammed open, and Stathis emerged, holding his nose. "Smells awful in there. Guy must've been dead for more than a day. Ugh."
While Stathis leaned against the wall and took deep breaths, Patroklus seemed to float from the room into the hallway. At least now Virgil knew why Patroklus had left the lab with such haste. The priest halted several steps from the chief and peered at the body of the ‘perpetrator.’
“I see my services are unnecessary.”
“Yep.” The chief grinned as though he had won an Olympic gold medal. “This is how you solve a case. Keep ‘em coming, Zeus. I love this week.” He looked in Virgil’s direction, his eyes narrowing as though at an uncommon stench. “Virgil. I thought you were already working on a case.”
Virgil swallowed. “Yeah. But I—"
“So why aren’t you doing your job?”
“Well, this—"
“Solve one case before starting another. You’re a homicide detective; I thought you would have known that.” The chief frowned. “Nicholas was one of us, and it sends a bad message to leave his death unresolved for so long. You find the murderer by the end of tomorrow, or I’ll find him myself.”
Virgil stared, mouth open. “Well, I mean, um, I... I think th—"
“After the senator’s speech last night, I would have expected you to hurry with your investigation. You might not have much time before you're unemployed.”
Virgil tried to ignore the glee dripping from the words. “Okay.”
He wondered what his therapist would have thought of his response. It didn’t really matter what Perikiades thought, though. He could say all he wanted when he was comfortable in his chair. It was different when you were actually in the situation. Even Perikiades probably wouldn’t have antagonized someone who had just finished killing another man.
Besides, maybe the chief was right. Instead of traipsing to every murder scene in the city-state, Virgil could concentrate on the Manikas case and solve it. Then he could move on to other cases. One at a time, like the chief had said.
Why did the chief allow me to work on this particular case, though? Does he know on some level that my method is the only way to find the real murderer? Does he want true justice for Manikas and not the arbitrary justice he normally deals out?
“Stathis!” Dimitriou folded his arms across his chest. “Write down that I conducted the investigation and executed the murderer. Schirra, get out here and clean up this mess.”
Schirra exited from 204 and glared at the crumpled body on the floor. “Why am I cleaning this up? I’m one of the most senior members on the force.”
“Because you’re a woman, and women are good at cleaning.”
“I’m a police officer.”
“Women aren’t real officers. Now get to work. I’ll be back at the station.” The chief strode to the stairs, jostling Virgil to the side on his way past.
As the sounds of the chief's footsteps faded, Virgil turned to Schirra. She looked at him with something resembling sympathy or commiseration.
"Um," said Virgil. "I'm sorry the chief said that. You're a real officer. You're as much of a bully as the others."
Schirra frowned and seized the dead person’s legs. “You always know exactly what to say to make any situation worse.”
“Sorry, I...”
Schirra knelt and heaved the body over her shoulders. "Get the fuck out of my sight."
Virgil felt his face redden. She was right: he always made things worse. A perfect summary of his life. He hurried to the stairs before he caused any more damage.
VIRGIL RUBBED HIS SORE eyes as he ambled into the evidence room. Rows of shelves, filled with baskets and cardboard boxes, fought for space between the dingy walls. He made his way to the nearest shelf and peered into the basket labeled, "knives." An accurate description. Various sizes, various stain patterns, various degrees of sharpness, but all knives. There were no notes indicating the investigations to which the weapons belonged or where they had been found, so the room served more as a museum of the macabre than anything functional.
He selected one of the larger knives. It looked sharp. Applying minimal pressure, he ran his finger across the edge. It felt like, at most, a cool breeze, but he noticed the knife had sliced free a thin layer of skin. His thumb played with the skin flap. How would this blade feel against my...
No. He dropped it back in the basket. He would just ignore those thoughts and pretend they had never happened.
He located three baskets labeled "spear tips" on an upper shelf, each of them packed to the brim with an assortment of spear tips. Comparing them to Manikas’ wound might help identify the brand and model of spear used, which might provide a clue leading to the murderer. Virgil stacked the baskets and carried them from the room.
Maybe, even if I miss the deadline, the chief might consider a clue like that as sufficient progress, and then he’ll give me an extension. Virgil sighed. Unlikely.
After walking down several flights of stairs to reach the examination laboratory, Virgil stowed the baskets in the back corner. He retrieved Manikas' body from cold storage, wrestled it onto a cart, and transferred it to the lab table.
The corpse’s smell wafted into the air. Its odor had metamorphosed into something strange, but inoffensive. Flowery, maybe. Even dead, Manikas continued to develop as a person.
Virgil pulled back the blanket. "Oh, no."
In Manikas' chest, the original spear entrance had been extended to form the mouth of a smiley face. Two additional holes in the body formed the eyes. Flowers protruded from each hole, with white petals leaning over the fleshy edges. From the mouth, a stick held a note that read, "Happy Blasphemer’s Week, Virgil!"
Virgil jerked the note and flowers from the wound. For a moment, he stared at them. Whoever had placed them here had rendered the wound unusable for investigation. Virgil couldn’t compare spear tips to it. He couldn’t do anything with it. The person playing the gag might have destroyed any chance Manikas had of receiving justice.
Was it a gag, though? Someone had deliberately entered a police headquarters laboratory, pulled out a body, carved holes in the chest, and put flowers in it. The prank wasn’t even that funny.
No, this was sabotage. Someone didn’t want him to find the killer. Either it was one of the officers who wanted him to fail and thus discredit his profession, or it was someone associated with the killer. Maybe the killer himself.
Virgil tossed the flowers and note into a trashcan, unable to enjoy the thud of their impact. This was his fault.
If he’d examined the body earlier, the sabotage wouldn’t have been an issue. He would have already determined the type of spear. Alternatively, if he'd made drawings and measurements of the body, he could still have made educated guesses about the shape and size of the murder weapon. His brief probing of the wound had become hazy in his sleep-deprived memory; he could only recall jagged edges.
Useless. This latest failure wasn't even the saboteur's fault; it was Virgil’s.
A notebook would have helped. Something similar to the one his therapist used when taking those voluminous notes during his session. Virgil decided to purchase one today.
Of course, it wouldn't help with the evidence he had already missed or lost. Nothing more could be gained from the body. Virgil covered it and rolled it back to cold storage.
Now, the investigation depended on tomorrow’s interviews. His stupid mistake had eliminated all the other leads.
VIRGIL DELAYED RETURNING to his apartment until late that night, in case anyone had decided to search his place again. He wanted to give them enough time to finish before he arrived. Discovering them in the middle of the act sounded like more danger than he wanted to handle at the moment. Although he certainly deserved to be impaled or stabbed for his succession of failures on this case.
When he opened the door, his place seemed quiet. No rustling, no muffled cursing. He tossed his new notebook onto the couch and collapsed beside it.
After purchasing the notebook, he had spent most of the night in the corner of a cafe, filling out the details of the investigation so far: the place of the murder, the victim's family, potential leads, whatever information he could remember. The simple act had organized his thoughts, though he still had a dearth of leads.
He'd retrieved the Blasphemer's Week prank note from the trash. It might serve as a handwriting comparison if the note's author were involved in the murder, but it was probably useless. His only avenue of investigation now was the funeral tomorrow. Manikas' family needed to yield important information, especially if he wanted to find the murderer before the chief's deadline.
Virgil didn't want to arrive at the funeral late, as he had for his therapy appointment this morning. Since there would be no sleep without a pill, he decided to take it in the next few minutes instead of wasting hours trying to fall asleep without it. He also decided to shower tonight, since he likely wouldn't have time in the morning, and everyone today had commented on his smell.
Virgil pulled himself from the couch and strode to the bathroom. Tomorrow was his last day on the case. If he were to have any hope of solving Manikas’ murder, tomorrow had to go perfectly.
Chapter 08
MANIKAS’ FAMILY MEMBERS had chosen, for the funeral, a pleasant, peaceful venue that styled itself as the Elysian Fields. The moniker seemed to match: the place had lush grass, leafy trees, the occasional colorful marble statue, and scattered marble benches. Soft music composed of harps and chimes wafted through the summer air from hidden speakers. The bright blue sky and calm breeze further added to the atmosphere of paradise.
Paradise didn’t fix sleep deprivation. Virgil failed to stifle a yawn as the mourners gathered before the tallest tree.
No coffin for today’s service. Normally, the deceased would be displayed, complete with coins in the mouth, so all attendees could verify that their loved one had made the journey across the River Acheron. These attendees would have to wait another day for that visual confirmation, partially because no one had coined Manikas and partially due to the smiley face on the deceased’s chest.
The relatives, all dressed in formal black togas, stood near the tree and the fire pit. They would occasionally turn toward each other or glance over their shoulders to the section of the field where the officers and Virgil had gathered. Chief Dimitriou had ordered his officers to keep a respectful distance and demeanor, so Virgil held his hat and the officers held their spears while standing at attention, maintaining blank expressions due either to professionalism or boredom.
When Virgil had first arrived, Kostas had suggested that Virgil take the place of the corpse in the service, since it was his fault Nicholas hadn’t been coined. The other officers had chortled, though they had kept their mirth to a respectful volume. Chief Dimitriou silenced them, but only after they had almost quieted of their own accords.
“Service is starting soon.” The chief nodded toward to the relatives under the shade from the tree.
A final pair of stragglers joined the family. Virgil suppressed a sigh and shifted his stance. In this moment, he would trade his life for a chair.
At least the funeral was a convenient opportunity to interview the family afterward. And during the service, Virgil could observe them to see if they moved in a way indicative of someone who murdered a relative.
Though he didn’t recognize everyone in the first two rows, some looked familiar. Is that Manikas’ father, Paulus, or... No, that was the mother, Clymera. Those stout figures to her right in military uniforms must be Boris and Alexandros, Manikas’ brothers. The main suspects.
The music faded and, from behind the collection of officers, Patroklus strode forth. He crossed the flowing grass with great solemnity, arms folded across his chest and hands hidden within his sleeves. His red robe rustled in the thin breeze as he walked past the rows of relatives. Upon reaching the fire pit, over which was mounted a dead bull, he produced a torch and lighter from his robe. He lit the torch and set it in the pit. Flames and smoke arose, and the smell of cooking bull floated through the air.
Patroklus walked to the base of the tall tree. When he turned to face the crowd, everyone stopped speaking.
“Welcome, everyone, on this day, the first day of Eris,” he said in a soft voice that nevertheless traveled to the most distant attendees. “Let us begin with a prayer.”
Why does the priest, or anyone else, bother with prayer during the week when people believe the gods aren’t listening? Maybe it was habit, or maybe they thought their words would somehow reach the intended recipients. Or maybe people thought the gods had some kind of prayer mailbox and could sort through missed messages at their leisure.
The relatives and the officers around Virgil bowed their heads. Patroklus paused a moment, stared directly at Virgil, then bowed his own head. Did he notice, even at this distance, that I didn’t close my eyes? Virgil decided to pretend to pray to avoid dangerous accusations of impiety, but he kept his eyelids slightly open so he could observe the other attendees.
Patroklus began. “All-powerful Zeus, though you cannot hear us now, as you are engaged in activities more worthy of your attention, we express our honor and praise to you. You keep our city-state alive through your mercy and vigilance. You keep us strong and safe. You make the Greek Alliance the strongest power in the world.”
Does Patroklus really believe that? Does he think anyone here believes that? The Alliance hadn’t dominated the world in centuries. None of the relatives seemed to have reacted, though.
“Ares, namesake of our city-state and the one to whom we look for guidance in the conduct of our lives, we honor you. Your haste for violent action inspires us and gives us the might to conquer our enemies.”
If Ares really existed, he had been sleeping on the job. It had been over a hundred years since the Alliance had won a war. Patroklus should have offered him a sacrifice of caffeine or something. Virgil shook his head. Dangerous thoughts, even during Blasphemer’s Week.
“Hades, who rules our final destination, we honor you as well, as is fitting for this occasion. Though you are mysterious and ill-tempered, you will be our keeper for eternity, and we do not wish to offend you. We dedicate this ceremony to your name.”
Heads rose and eyes opened. None of the attendees had acted suspiciously during the prayer. Virgil had hoped for something useful.
