Topic: Death in the West End

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2007-02-12 14:18 EST
The young D'Mourir had spent his first year in Rhy'Din as a mercenary, smuggler, and effectively an assassin in a few circumstances; now he was a detective, and still a part of him feared the West End. It was where he conducted most of his investigations, where his informants were, and yet his office was conspicuously at the edge of its vast urban decay. With the overwhelming presence of death that was the crumbling buildings, the rubble in vacant lots and trash heaps in alleyways, there was the contrast of vibrant life, a contrast that was an obsession of Alain's. A more optimistic man would compare the West End to a thousand stars in a black night sky... but his optimism was running a little low lately, and he wasn't the only one. His business was flourishing most unexpectedly, his social life was improving, but the fact of the matter was,

Someone was extinguishing those stars two by two and leaving that night sky a little bit darker.

The murderer was killing his victims in pairs. Over a cup of coffee, Alain had discussed this with Cassandra. A man and a woman, a couple, were killed, and the woman had her tongue bitten off, while the man got a blade through his chin. What made the most sense was for the man to be killed first... unless both were quickly killed, and then the tongue bitten off. It would be easier the latter way, so when Alain first looked at the autopsy reports, that was what he supposed... until he looked at the case of the brothers. A crossbow bolt had been fired. The armed brother had been killed there, and dispatched first, while his slower older brother was left to watch. Then, the second brother was dragged off to a warehouse and killed... The murderer, he loved an audience, if only a small and short-lived one. Alain could see how the first double murder happened:

The man was ambushed, and dispatched efficiently enough, but with room still for the killer's... style. It was an experienced killer, no doubt about that. The woman, shocked, was left to watch... and then her tongue was torn out, partly eaten... but not wholly. No, the tongue became a paintbrush for the Scathachian poster nearby. So it wasn't cannibalism, exactly... not quite... but it was erotic. There had been a kiss... that seemed the only realistic way that could've happened. And it was close enough to leave all the oodles of evidence that incidences of cannibalism left.

He would go to the morgue, and garner what evidence he could. It was his first trip to the morgue, though... and rather unwisely, he went there with a full stomach.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2007-02-18 13:58 EST
Alain's first time dealing with a mutilated body, he vomited. It had been during the war. There was snow falling and steam rising from a split-open gut into the cold air. It was a soldier, cut up by one of the city's many freedom fighters and left to die. When the man finally died and Alain stopped being sick, he wept quietly in disgust with himself.

There were no tears the next time, but nausea purged his system before it would let him anywhere near the West End serial killer's victims. He was almost as pale as the poor woman's body when he was finally able to approach her with a handkerchief clasped over his mouth.

Neatly arranged on the examining table, set out for the detective in advance, were all the remains of the woman's body, including her severed legs and partially devoured tongue. He suppressed a shiver as he drew closer. Deep down, beyond the increasingly cold mercenary spirit of his, was a primal knowledge that he was looking at evil; the only way it could be any blacker, is if he were looking the killer in the eyes. Something he hoped would never happen, but knew it ultimately would.

"Turn her over."

The man who had been picked to assist Alain silently did as he was told, turning the body over so the young man could inspect the Devil's handiwork carved into the skin of the back. The inverted Scales of Justice. There was something here, he'd known as soon as he looked at them... but what?

It was someone who understood the symbolism of the Scathachians. Someone who could twist their own imagery for evil purposes. It haunted him, that image - in his dreams the previous night, he had watched a dark figure escape out his bedroom window, and when he lifted his sheets to get out of bed and pursue, he saw, dark and red, those inverted scales etched into his chest. He tried to scream, and felt blood in his mouth... and then mercifully awoke.

Alain shook his head in an effort to clear it. Succumbing to nightmare would not reveal the killer's identity any faster... but he knew what would. He leaned as close to the body as he dared, drew out a plastic bag... and with a gloved hand, picked up the tongue and dropped it in. He coughed and retched as he took care of the grisly task, but his guts had nothing left to offer. He gave the legs a cursory glance, thanked the assistant quietly, and quickly left.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2007-03-17 17:33 EST
The West End cases had exacted a heavy toll on the detective.

He relied on his work... too much. The satisfaction of seeing a job through, of using quick thinking and his guts to bring the bad guy down. Word would get around, and people would look his way and know, whether they approved or disapproved of what he did, that he did it well. It gave him the swagger that made him quite the charmer, that brought him to one bed after another, a whole other level of accomplishment for him, and when someone criticized him for it? He didn't care. What he did, he did well, and that was all that mattered. He had his lovers and his friends, and he couldn't think much about acceptance. About being judged.

It was a fragile happiness, and when you play with something fragile? It's bound to break.

The West End serial killers had eluded him, and it had broken his confidence and exhausted him at the same time. His professional, social, and sex life all seemed to be suffering at once. Amalia had returned... and what Alain had become, apparently, rapidly succeeded in alienating her. Shannon became cold with him again. He had made some progress with Cassie... but it felt hollow somehow, his feelings torn between two women, and he wasn't sure how either felt about him. His family members had disappeared, Marty only occasionally sighted. The DNA test from the murdered woman's tongue didn't pan out. He had identified some patterns, but certainly not enough to predict where the killings would take place... no, in that sense, the best he could tell, the killings were random. And the patterns he'd recognized, others had seen as well.

He was surprised Kitty still paid him for this.

All he had to go on was a woman in Club Blue who had been spying on Brian Ravenlock, which seemed to freak him out, and when Alain went her way... she freaked out, too. It was not a very good lead, but maybe the people she was spying for... maybe they would know something.

Weeks had gone by and he hadn't been able to find her, but still, he kept on trying, letting his social and sex life go to hell, hanging only onto this meager scrap in his professional life.

It was all he had to go on, and it showed. He didn't sleep. He stayed out late at night searching and spying. People told him he looked like hell - those who cared to say anything to him, anyway.

It was all he had to go on, so he couldn't give it up.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2007-03-18 15:13 EST
Catharsis

Exactly what the D'Mourir had needed.

Early on a Saturday evening, at the bar in the Red Dragon with Cassie and Erin, Amalia had strolled on in. Alain avoided eye contact, and the best he could tell, she didn't notice. Erin invited Amalia to sit with them with some clear wicked design, she acted like she didn't hear... Alain figured Erin was doing it to antagonize him, for some reason. He couldn't figure out why, but she'd done a few things like that to him before. Maybe to put him at a distance?

All he knew was, it pissed him off. He went upstairs. They'd said he looked like shit anyway. That he needed to rest more. Cassie stopped him a little while before he could go up, and he didn't know what he was doing. He felt dizzy. He told her he needed what he was doing, staying out late, working this beat almost to the point of collapse... and then left her.

When he got up to his room and saw the picture of him, Shannon and Amalia... all three of them happy... felt just how unreal to him it was, like a dream that never even happened... he felt sick. He wanted to throw up. He saw the autopsy sketches spread out on his bed, and he almost lost his lunch. He swept them carelessly off his bed, sank onto it... and sank into despair.

As far as he knew, Amalia no longer cared for him. He never felt certain around Shannon. Erin maybe hated him for getting too close. And the case... the way he saw it, it was all this case's fault. He could no more save the killers' victims than he could save his friendships, spare the people he cared about from... what... himself? No, from the storm that seemed to gather around him. The war, the broken family, Amalia's feelings and a complicated unrequited love, Shannon's expectations, an impossible and deadly case... it was all too much for one man to handle.

He texted Cassie. She came up and held him, and he wasn't sure what he said. He wept, in the hallway of his suite, clinging desperately to her hand. For twenty-five seconds he became the little boy whose beautiful mother had died a slow death from illness and had let himself cry then, but made himself be strong for his sister at the funeral.

Suddenly it was over, Cassie was telling him it wasn't his fault and it made sense... and when Shannon burst into the room to rail on Cassie, Alain was as shocked as anyone would be. But he was strong enough once more to deal with it.

She tried to punch Cassie, and it wasn't fair. Cassie was stuck in the middle. Whatever Shannon was mad about, she should be hitting Alain for, probably. It turned out Amalia had gone past Shannon in tears, and Shannon was sure it was Cassie's fault... she shouted this, and Alain shouted right back at her. Cassie backed off, Shannon hissed hateful words, and Alain stopped her, berated her, and asked Cassie to leave. He felt awful doing it, but her staying would only make things worse.

Then Shannon hugged him. She was afraid he was going to leave. Something about the look on his face, he wasn't sure what she was talking about... but he was strong again, and he held her, and told her he loved her, and that he wouldn't leave.

Cassie was right. He was no good on the case exhausted, worn thin. He'd told her he was depressed, and maybe he was still... but this catharsis made him feel stronger again. He would fight the darkness that had stolen into the West End, and remembered that there was still light. Hope. Good things in his life.

After all, Leslie was taking him out to dinner soon, and that would be a nice change of pace.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2007-06-21 19:33 EST
Leslie had postponed the dinner date, and much had happened since then.

New murders were cropping up. The city itself had gone mad, and late one night, head in his hands, staring helplessly over a desk covered with folders, one for each potential separate killer... Alain despaired over what had happened to Rhy'Din. No sooner did the normal people of this city extinguish their lights than these killers owned every block. They had only to wait for the perfect moment, a long gap in the patrols of guards and Scathachians... The detective knew all about moving in the shadows and sneaking up on a mark by now.

Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and the lights buzzed and flickered, and the folders on his desk seemed to multiply. They were spinning... spinning out of control, as the city devoured itself...

This was how Alain ended his nights on days a fresh body was discovered. That day, it was someone cut with a razor, a special case in which the line between a professional kill and an indulged fetish were blurred.

He forced himself to calm down with deep breaths, and drew a flask out of a desk drawer. Poured himself a double of whiskey with a hand that was shaking at first, but had steadied by the time it was done.

There was always the other side, the light at the end of the tunnel. As vicious as the kills were, it was not an army in the street killing thousands. It had been a violent year, and yet Rhy'Din slugged on. People went to market, and in some parts of the city, the young were out after dark... though rarer now were the small groups. Generally five or more in a group for the longer walks. Most who walked a long while alone now, had some secret business on these streets...

He threw back the whiskey double. He had gone on vacation with Cassie. They were in a relationship now. Funny, that love could find a way even in the darkest of times... though he would not soon admit that love.

There would be a breakthrough, sooner or later. Meanwhile, Alain had a job to do. There were anywhere between three and six killers, though he could only conjecture direct contact between two of them - the first and second murderers to make their mark on this city. But what was the plan? To bring this city under? In some ways, the city had gotten stronger. No... there was something to do with the Scathachians, at the center of all of this... he was sure of it, and it was something more than identifying them with justice and authority... but what?

Just one more shot, Alain told himself, and glowered out his office window at distant lightning as he poured.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2007-07-11 11:43 EST
A couple tugs from his flask kept Alain warm on a surprisingly chilly morning. Whereas for so many months, the case had only gotten more complicated, with no leads to speak of... now it had taken off, with two solid leads, two people he was almost sure were involved in some way in the West End murders. Krysira of the Black Wolf Guild, and Kya Robichaud, an insane baroness who had been a suspect in two separate murders in the past. If she had in fact committed those murders... well, it wasn't very difficult to figure out the fresh kills she was guilty of. They'd tried to implicate the Nightblades in the crime... and then the Guild Hall had burned to the ground, and what Brian's people found suggested they burned it down themselves.

Hell of a way to move out.

Another cold wind stirred from the sea as the sun peeked over the horizon, and Alain tugged on his jacket collar, standing on the corner by an antique bookstore. A two-hour patrol for Kya had turned up nothing. He would have to do a stakeout by her house to watch her come and go, and maybe follow her from there.

Krysira, then Kya, had made suspicious contact with Alain, without his prompting, without any prodding from him. They came to him, and the leads dropped into his lap. They acted suspiciously, and a combination of going with his gut, the information he had, and new information from Issy implicated them both in the murders. And yet...

...and yet the Queen of Spades, the card he used for the original killer, could only be associated with the Joker, the killer who had crucified that man in the market, who killed that horse and driver and put the horse in the driver's seat in a coach in front of the Sanctuary, and who probably was involved with the "Agatha incident." Alain smiled grimly - he quickly recognized a peculiar sense of humor to the Joker's kills. Hence her designation.

Kya and Krysira may have set him up to put these clues together... but what seemed more likely to Alain, was that they had gotten arrogant. Careless. Which meant neither of them could possibly be the Queen of Spades. Krysira had the protection of werewolf-like creatures that had once attacked the Sisters and were the probable cause of several other deaths, so that was a definite cause for arrogance... and while leader of the Black Wolf Guild, a thieves' guild, she preached chaos and destruction in Rhy'Din, not the ideal setting one would think of for someone who needs an economy making money for her to steal. Kya and Krysira had both made contact with and shown an interest in the very same people - the Sisters, Jewell, and S.P.I. - and he felt they were undoubtedly associated...

But what was the link to the Queen of Spades? What was the association of Kya or Krysira? Was there any? Had the Queen of Spades only adopted one copycat killer, and the rest of the copycats had allied themselves separately? Somehow he knew two alliances felt wrong.

If he followed Kya, he would likely found Krysira. And if he followed Krysira... maybe, just maybe, he'd find himself a Joker... or the Queen of Spades.

Alain heaved a quiet sigh and turned away from the sea, strolling back to the office.

Alain DeMuer

Date: 2008-02-22 12:57 EST
Sunrise

Chase's healing had done its job. Still, his body ached all over, and screamed with pain whenever he slipped and put weight down on his left side. He limped his way carefully to his bedroom window - not his bedroom in his home on the second floor over the Silver Mark Pub, but his old room at the Inn, his "study." He couldn't have made it home last night in his condition.

Not after Krysira had cut him to ribbons, anyway.

It was Alain's fault. He'd set up the hit on himself using Scorpion and his less-than-savory connections in RhyDin, who contracted the Black Wolf Guild to take him out. It was telling enough the Black Wolf Guild was doing assassinations now.

Even more telling the way Krysira had antagonized him, the things she'd said, during the summer. Those words half a year ago were all he needed to act on his hunches, all he needed to convince himself he was right, and his gamble paid off - but the payoff was more than he'd bargained for.

He leaned forward and rested his arms on the windowsill. Listened to a dog barking that reminded him of Jean, his Eurasier. Cassie was still sleeping, and he knew lighting a cigarette would wake her. He knew he had an old pack tucked away in a desk drawer, behind a set of old volumes on demon-cults. The books ended up being little more than the paranoid ravings of a Greek Orthodox fanatic, but he kept them on the off chance there'd be an ounce of truth in there.

He'd seen a tattoo on Krysira's thigh when they fought in the back alley - a crude skull adorned with ram's horns. When he staggered back into the inn and it occurred to him he might be dying, and the rest of the world was dim and surreal to him, he sketched that image the best that he could - so that if he did die, it would survive him.

Things got fuzzier from there until he'd gotten healed, but at some point Issy arrived, and somehow the sketch ended up in her hands.

She was shaken by it, visibly, and that shook Alain in turn. He hadn't yet gauged how Cassie was taking it. The tattoo was the mark of Bha'al-worshippers, a cult he'd read about in passing, in one of the many books now stored in this room. They were apparently rivals of the Scathachian Sisters, but Issy had said little else about them.

There were countless benefits to maintaining a room at the inn, and so Alain stored most of his books here, as well as notes and copies of notes on his "deep" cases - the Marketplace bombings (and the Benefactor) and the West End serial murders, primarily. His "little black book," a compilation of his thoughts on the latter case and tentative profiles of what he'd decided were separate but associated killers, lay on the edge of his desk. Beyond it, "Moste Violent Cults in Historie, Myth and Legend," by Friar Fitzpatrick the Silent.

He placed a hand against the wall to support himself as he crossed the room and collected the volume, as well as the sinister little black journal. There was enough light filtering through the curtains now to read by. He sat gingerly on the bed and stroked Cassie's hair absently when she murmured sleepily. Then he opened the book in his lap, balanced the journal on his knee, and read.