4. Wormwood

“Wait!”

Rhys jumped as tiny arms squeezed his middle. Claude dug his face into his jacket, frame shaking as he begged them not to go in a tear-filled voice. On cue, his mother appeared at the entryway. Apologizing, she tried to pull the boy from Rhys but he refused.

“You never tell me anything!” He seemed to say between sobs. “Father didn't go away, he's dead — ”

“Claude, stop it. Let go of him — ”

“No!” He squeezed tighter. Rhys literally couldn't breathe.

The boy's mother was pulling with more force, almost scolding now but Devereaux stepped in, talking to her in a calm voice. “Good grip m'boy,” he commented, patting the boy's head before leading her away.

Rhys flushed in annoyance. He felt vulnerable as people took to staring. At least, he thought, adjusting his glasses, he stopped crying. Rhys put on his best consoling voice as he said, “Now Claude, what about your father?” He assumed it to be the heart of the problem.

The boy released him, wiping his tear-streaked face as he attempted to talk. Sighing, Rhys kneeled to be more at eye-level. He repeated his question in a softer tone.

“Father's dead, sir. No one told me. He also gave me his hat and now it's gone,” he replied.

“Did you misplace it somehow? Maybe your mother has it.”

He shook his head. “No! No, if she saw it she would throw it away like everything else that was his... So I hid it in my desk. She never checks my desk and she doesn't go in my room either. Today, the window was open and I'm sure, sir, that I never opened it! I swear!”

Rhys was sure he had the answer. “Claude, did you love your father? Moreso than your mother?” As predicted, the boy nodded. Smiling half-heartedly, he reached into his pocket taking from it a worn silver pocketwatch, showing it before unhooking it from the belt loop. Rhys took the boy's hand and placed it there, manually closing the tiny fingers around it. “My father gave me this as a good luck charm a long time ago. Like your hat, this is the only thing I have of him but I think it'll do you good if you keep it for now. When we solve this case, I'll have your hat by then and we can trade to get our belongings back, got it?”

The boy wasn't crying anymore. “Is that a promise Mr. Detective?”

Rhys briefly glanced at the house. At the doorstep was his mentor with the boy's mother, who had calmed down considerably. If Devereaux had the time to divert his attention from the woman, he'd shake his head at his apprentice. “I promise.”

Claude lowered his head but he was smiling. Seconds later, the boy hugged Rhys in thanks before running back inside. His mother followed bidding them goodbye.

Devereaux was looking elsewhere as he crossed the driveway. Rhys instinctively had his hand in his pocket, feeling for the watch that wasn't there. He was ready for a direct confrontation, an argument, maybe even a lecture on what not to do on the job. But Devereaux passed him in silence, signaling him over once the car was started. Once inside, Devereaux talked, but not on his possible blunder.

“You wrote the rhyme, correct?” he began, uneasy, “I want you to recite the last two lines. I need to clear something up before we get going.”

Flipping through the pages, Rhys calmed down. He didn't need a watch to succeed. Luck was only coincidence, not the working of a broken watch. He would be perfectly fine without it... He recited the lines.

Devereaux harrumphed before starting down the road. “I'm sure you've heard of the Bartlett case Rhys?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It may be difficult to believe that these cases are related somehow but — ”

“Sir, you can't possibly — ”

“Of course I do, or else I wouldn't have said it.” He paused. “It's uncanny Rhys. Of course, you wouldn't know since you weren't at the crime scene. A lot of things are withheld from the public you know, sometimes too many things. Eventually those dolts at The Galleon are going to publish that vandals are writing random names on people's doors! Believe it or not, they are not vandals and those names aren't at all random.”

“But the killer was convicted. He was working solo, he couldn't possibly have — ”

“Family? Or maybe you were going for Followers instead?”

The argument was at a dead end. Rhys wasn't at all knowledgeable on the case, not that he wanted to in the first place, he felt better off not knowing what happened and moved on.

Devereaux started again —

“Rhys, later I want you to look over the entire case file, take it home if you prefer not to come to work the next day.”

“Not come to work? I don't understand, sir.”

“It's a tough case. I don't expect you to browse it as you would a newspaper. Every detail is critical and I need you to be on the same page” — he looked at him briefly — “You will have three days Rhys. Three so you can figure out what you need to know. At the end of those three days, I'll visit and we'll go over what we learned.”

“Sir, isn't that a little... unorthodox?”

“Yes, but necessary. While you go over the files, I'll be gathering clues of my own. In short, Andreev wants to stay in secrecy and I'm the only one he'll willingly allow into his house on short notice.”

Rhys nodded. It was better not to pry.

“As for now...” Devereaux said slowly, considering what to say, “I want you to observe. We're paying a visit.”

“To whom sir, if I may ask?”

“A sick man,” was Devereaux's reply.

3. Claude

Claude Redfield — age eleven — was sick and tired of being bullied by Billy-Desmond Donovan. He was so sick that he had to spend the whole day, even during lunch and recess, near a teacher at all costs — though Billy would get him sooner or later. But today, Billy was gone, absent, and Claude was delighted to go somewhere around campus for a change without the fear of getting backed up into a corner or being chased through the fields. Of course, even though Billy wasn't at school, he might be out and about in the streets — in which Claude ran all the way home.

He was breathless when he arrived at the front door, fumbling for the key in his pocket. The key triggered the lock and Claude rushed in. He slid to the floor slightly relieved, his hand hung loosely from the doorknob. He thought that if Billy managed to do the impossible and get inside then he'd be able to make a break for it. But he was safe. Claude smiled wide, almost breaking out in laughter if he wasn't so tired from running.

Soon, his mother was at his side helping him up and straightening his clothes. “We have visitors Claude dear, detectives. They want you to help them.” Dabbing his damp forehead with her handkerchief, she pushed the boy closer to the guests.

One, the older of the two, had wise dark eyes and a carefree dimpled smile. A brown fedora — similar to the one his father gave him — was on his lap. The other had nothing in particular that stood out but Claude knew he was an officer from his gray coat. He was younger, almost like he could be Claude's brother — he did have the same color hair as he did, honey blonde — with glasses to boot. His eyes were a different story though — a grayish color, a pretty faded blue. Given the similar face shape too, the man reminded him of the storybook angels. Claude immediately took a liking to him.

The older man introduced himself as Devereaux. Claude shook Devereaux's hand, mustering a weak smile as he introduced himself in turn. The adrenaline was going away, returning him to his former self — the shy boy comparable to a newborn fawn.

“Good... Quite a grip there young Claude.” Satisfied, Devereaux gestured to the man beside him, taking him by the shoulder. “And this is Wormwood, my apprentice-assistant. You may call him Detective as well.”

The man made a face when called “Detective”, his brow scrunched momentarily in confusion to which the older man laughed.

Is he shy too? Claude asked himself. He held out his hand — a gesture many had given to him when he was scared or embarrassed, a gesture he hoped would help him too.

Rhys took the boy's hand, it was trembling like a leaf but it was kind. Rhys hardly noticed himself smiling. Devereaux's remark was unnecessarily unpredictable and in that one second, he let down his guard. This boy must've known since he returned his smile — something between the both of us, he seemed to say. Rhys soon was under control. He reminded himself that his mentor was watching him.

The mother gave the boy a congratulatory pat, leaving the room afterward to fetch snacks and refill drinks. The boy then seated himself across the two twiddling his thumbs.

“Claude, I'm going to ask you some questions. They're not too hard but we want an honest answer, understand?” Devereaux's tone was level, if he were outside, his hat would be on his head — Rhys thought it to act as a switch from Devereaux to Detective Devereaux.

The boy nodded. Rhys steadied his hand on the notepad.

“Claude, you go to the same school as Billy-Desmond Donovan. Do you know Mr. Donovan personally?”

Is he going to get punished? The thought flashed like lightning. Finally. Billy was going to pay. “Yes, sir,” he said, “He's a bully. Everyday he calls me names or chases me around or tries to pick fights. The teacher tells him not to but he does it anyway. He's a bully Mr. Detective, he bullies everyone but he picks on me the most.”

His mother came back, setting a filled tray on the table before taking a seat next to her son.

“And do you know of this Ms. Redfield?” Devereaux said.

“Oh yes. I've had calls about it. He was even reported to the headmaster but it began again after a couple of months.” She paused, sipping hot tea. “I don't think they ever wanted to deal with him in the first place. He might've been a troublemaker but his family says otherwise.”

Devereaux nodded thoughtfully. He faced Claude again. “My boy, what would you say if Billy suddenly...disappeared?” His mother shot a warning glance, looking between the detective and her son. “What would you say would be the cause of his disappearance?” Rhys tapped the notepad — bothersome pen was running out of ink...

Claude thought for a moment, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet and he suddenly thought of his father. He'd been dead for a couple of years and he wondered why since he didn't do anything wrong... As for Billy, he tortured many kids and stole from them — stole from him too, a flashlight his father gave to quell his fear of the dark. It would be nice if he went away...

“That would be Miss Murder's job Mr. Detective. She takes all misbehaving children haven't you heard?” His remark wasn't at all accusatory. He wasn't so sure of himself whether that was what the detective wanted as an answer but he felt that it had to be said. Despite Billy and his prominent family, he was a troublemaker and Miss Murder liked troublemakers — or so he heard.

Devereaux quirked an eyebrow. “Miss Murder... My boy, where-ever did you learn that?”

“From — ”

“Detective, it's nothing but a rhyme the kids sing when playing. It's a game — ”

“Is it?” Devereaux shifted in his seat. “Nevertheless, I want Claude to explain it to me.” He looked at Rhys briefly, a signal he knew that this was possibly important — good thing he had a spare pen. “Go on. Recite the rhyme for me, please.”

Clearing his throat Claude said —

“Murder sees and Murder does, Murder does not spare any-one.
Children too she takes under her blade and they come back the child you never knew , it's said —
Writing in mirrors is her passion, pretty reversed words in orderly fashion.
Murder, condemn her not for her sins, for if you do you shall never win.”

“A horrid rhyme,” his mother commented with a scoff.

The two detectives looked at each other. His mother refused to look at him. Claude didn't know what he was doing wrong, he was just doing what they said!

Devereaux rose, his hat to his chest. “All right Ms. Redfield, I believe that's enough this afternoon. You are quite the hospitable host if I may —”

Leaving? Why didn't anyone finish what they talked about around him? The last time they did that... Why, his father later turned out dead! This was all unfair.

While Devereaux talked the boy's mother, Claude jumped out his seat and dashed for the stairs. Rhys wanted to stop him but he didn't know what to say and, even though he was busy, he knew Devereaux was noting the way he handled himself — to see if he could keep his mind clear. If a detective were to get too involved... Rhys couldn't help but look at the stairs, hoping the boy would still be there. But he wasn't. Claude was well out of their sight and Devereaux was at the door. They were leaving, and it bothered him that it didn't feel right.

. . .

Claude slammed the door behind him. They always leave, he thought over and over. They never say anything. He was at his desk, rummaging through the drawers. Never, never, never... His hat was gone. There was no other hiding place, he kept his hat right in his desk...

Claude froze. He felt that sensation in his knees, wobbly — weak — he was about to topple over when he clumsily crossed the room to the open window. It wasn't supposed to be open. His mother told him to keep it closed always! She couldn't have opened it... Rushing out the room, his mother was just retreating from the door.

Who was going to console him now? Who would he look to when there was nothing else... It all troubled him deeply as he didn't want to know the answer; yet, he knew it and it pained him so much. His father was gone and would never come back. His belongings were sent away and sold except for the fedora — this particular boy's treasure.

Hopelessness rose in him, pulling him deeper in like the tide but he couldn't stop, couldn't let them leave...

The boy fled out the door in despair.

2. Devereaux

“Botheration!”

James Elias Devereaux was not very pleased. The combination of agitation and lack of sleep made him slam the phone into the receiver. Early calls only meant trouble — he retreated into his room, gathering the necessary clothing, it was consequently windy today — and it would be something big unfortunately, a scandal for example. Yes, Devereaux wasn't pleased. And he had a feeling he'd only get more bothered by stepping outside if he wore his hat so he held onto it instead. Detective Devereaux was never seen without his hat, not even once.

At least Wormwood's there, he consoled himself, locking the front door and getting into his car. Having to turn the key several times, Devereaux was about to burst. He cursed Quinn for his stuttering. Why did such a bothersome fool be the one who called him? Why not someone more coherent and experienced — Quinn was new and young and clumsy. He was glad that his assistant was more competent then Quinn — so much like he was when he had a mentor.

Devereaux was reasonably sleepy. He always slept past midnight and awoke sometime around ten. It was eight — or nine, his mind was fuzzy — and his way of coping was venting his frustrations. He turned the corner, right on Market, just as Quinn said. Or it could've been Markettie Avenue — which he had missed the turn for — Quinn's stuttering couldn't be helped...

It turned out to be the right place. The oaf did something right for once, he thought. Devereaux parked a ways farther than the crowd gathered at the yellow tape surrounding the house. Several officers were stationed to keep the crowd at bay. Devereaux entered after showing his badge, placing his hat smartly on his head.

Rhys was yet to be found even as Devereaux entered the household. He'd find him sooner or later though. Now, he was at work and friends came second. But as colleagues, they would meet when the time called for it.

Meanwhile, the house was in a state of disarray. Portraits and frames had fell and shattered upon impact, vases and knick-knacks were thrown — seemingly stomped on with a heavy boot. Cameras flashed in the distance and behind him. Behind they took photos of the door. On it was the name “Gilligan” written in what Devereaux guessed as blood. Hands at his hips, he looked around, strolling further in to the kitchen to find the photographers round the corpse of a dog. He stopped, looking at the shape of the animal —

The corpse was ravaged beyond recognition. It's eyes, it's mouth... The eyes were gone — gouged — and it's maw was sewed shut with thick black wire. Devereaux turned away. The sick bastards. He'd seen this before, seen it all years ago on the case that made his mentor retire. Andreev was a tough man and probably went through worse cases in the past, but it was something about that particular case that made him go, giving his title to his apprentice. That was three years ago.

Devereaux continued his search. On the ground floor was the dog in the kitchen and a bedroom where a forty or so male was in the same condition. The shape of the room and the bruises on the body indicated that he fought back. Devereaux stayed there awhile, the officers in the room didn't pay him any mind. They were looking at the man's face, at the missing eyes, a flashlight shining on the lacerated flesh.

“Find the eyes, that'll lead you to the killer,” Devereaux deadpanned from behind.

The officers exchanged looks, finding the detective's humor ill-fitting for the situation. They resumed their work, leaving Devereaux off to wander upstairs.

He passed what was the parent's bedroom but didn't go inside, what he was worried about was the state of the child or children — he had no way of knowing for sure yet. Upon entering, Devereaux spotted Rhys, scribbling away at his notepad. There was no one else in the room.

Devereaux clapped him on the back in greeting as he kneeled close to the boy's body. His back was to the dresser, his hand loosely gripping a yellow flashlight. It was still on, strangely enough.

“Is this the only child in the house? Tell me what you wrote.” Devereaux examined the body accordingly.

“Yes, sir, the only son aged twelve. It was a break-in. A disturbance was reported around 5 - 5:45 am. By the time officers came to investigate, the bodies of all, including the family dog, were dead. Like the other victims sir, the eyes were gouged — which we haven't found as of late — and mouths stitched with an approximately 1cm inch cord, black. Things are still being sorted out so there are no specifics as to what kind of cord it is or where they could have acquired the material” — Rhys turned the page, clearing his throat — “The case with the boy is quite different, sir, the boy is the only that is — er, was — hacked into pieces and sewed back together.” Rhys shifted on his feet uncomfortably. His fair face was agitated, as if he wanted to vomit. Devereaux urged him to continue. Rhys straightened his glasses.

“What I've gathered so far is that the slices were clean, right at every specific joint and bridge — this brought me to the conclusion that the killer has some anatomical knowledge. However, the cuts, as you can see on the right arm are disorganized but controlled — as each cut is shallow. A...common form of torture to make the victim more agreeable.”

“And your thoughts on this murder?” Devereaux titled the head up. If there were eyes, it would look straight ahead — the bathroom. He crossed the room as Rhys talked.

“A sick man, sir. I don't know what rational person would do this.”

The door was partially open. There was nothing in particular about the room, except for the sink and mirror.

“Have you seen this yet Wormwood?” he asked absentmindedly.

“I have sir.”

“This supports your 'sick man' theory doesn't it?” He was thoughtful, leaving the room with his hands on the lapels of his jacket. “'This is an example' it says, right there, all the letters reversed and written in that boy's blood.” His assistant was speechless. “Well right you are my apprentice, we are dealing with a sick man of sorts. I suppose a congratulations are in order. But this sick man is elusive it seems...of course what kind of sick man would he be if he weren't right in some parts of his head?”

“Sir?”

“Yes?” A deputy was at the doorway, anxious.

“There's a report on Travis Park, another marked house. Name written on the door just like this one.”

Devereaux nodded. “Fetch the address and we'll go there personally” — he glanced at the boy — “Something we should've done when this house was marked. We can't let this happen again.”

The deputy left. Devereaux looked at Rhys now. It wasn't a surprise that the boy was silent. His feet were lodged in reality, unchanging, and he came off as a bland person — a logical person. There was no chance of him admitting that a “sick man” could pull off a murder on a scale such as this — he might admit to the possibility, yes, but he would never believe it unless the killer killed in front of his eyes. Naïve and logical — Devereaux had a gut feeling that Wormwood would make a good replacement — that was why he chose him specifically.

“Hear this out boy. This sort of crime is never random, always planned. In this world, your eyes are exposed to the sickness of humanity, constantly. And you have to be the one to make it right, it's difficult but you're learning — which is good.”

Rhys nodded. He was troubled, obviously, but he kept such a stoic face that others may not even notice, except for Devereaux.

The deputy returned with the address and the two left the house.

1. Billy

Billy had just beaten his arch-nemesis to a pulp when a distinct crashing woke him. Disappointed that it was a dreamt victory, he vowed to make it reality when it was light out. Resigned and content, Billy shrugged the noise as something done by the family dog — he was a clumsy oaf after all, moreso than Billy himself. Pulling the sheets up to his chin, Billy closed his eyes.

Creak, went the door, the window, the tree branch outside, anything that wasn't Billy's problem. It was rather windy out too for there was a scratch here or there, the drip drop of wayward pebbles and dirt or the bathroom faucet (which his father promised to fix eventually) and there was, of course, the muffled barking of Isha, the dog.

It was a fine day, a calm day, but as night fell, the winds grew vicious. They said a storm was coming and St. Lenali, being very near the coast, was always the first to know. Billy knew Isha was downstairs in the partition in the kitchen so there was nothing to worry about except the incessant barking. He shrugged it off. He didn't want to go downstairs, his parents can deal with it, or his uncle for that matter.

But no such thing happened — Billy opened his eyes — everyone in the house was sound asleep. The lazy bums... Billy was about to quiet the dog himself when — another crash. Footsteps, light — a rhythmic patter of shoes on wooden stairs. It stopped. They were in the hallway, standing, reveling in the sudden quiet.

Burglars? Billy thought. Then another thought came like lightning — Isha? The dog's barking had stopped. The boy covered himself with his sheets, clutching his sides as he shut his eyes tight against whatever was going on.

He told himself it was a nightmare, only a nightmare. And like his earlier dream where he came out victorious, he too would survive this predicament. His courage fell.

His door made an odd click, the knob slowly turned round till the door was pushed — coloring the silence with a whisper of air.

Billy was afraid now. The footsteps grew closer and closer till they stopped right at the foot of his bed.

Billy gulped. If it was true, if there was some thing standing at the foot of his bed, watching him cower and shake... It was inevitable —

He was going to die.

It wasn't fair. He was only twelve! He still had a lot to live for, more arch-enemies to beat up and many a lazy day relaxing under the sun, the beach. His whole life was ahead of him and he couldn't let a phantom decide his fate.

Clutching the flashlight under his pillow — a souvenir from the first kid he beat — he crossed himself before he threw the sheets from his body. In that split second he decided to make a run for his parent's room. Jumping out of bed with unfortunately weak legs, he gripped at his dresser for support, swiftly putting his back to the wall. Panting heavily, he shined the flashlight upon the room.

He relaxed. Empty. Still, he wanted to make a run for it. But the open door put a damper on his hopes. Were they still here? Were they ever even here? It was nighttime, early in the morning, four by the looks of the clock he had on the wall...

A series of crashes could be heard downstairs — probably the rows of porcelain figures in the glass case in the hallway. He never liked them as much as his mother and every time he touched them she would absolutely explode. He had his fingers crossed on his mother saving the day — she was an intimidating woman after all and had the senses of a hawk.

Nothing.

The crashing and banging about resumed. And somewhere among it all, was the shout of a man that sounded too much like his uncle when he lost a game of cards — angry and desperate. He wasn't shouting for long and the eerie quiet returned.

It occurred to Billy then that he could hide, yes, under the bed or in the closet. But his legs refused to move. He slid to the floor, the flashlight rolling from his hands. He buried his face in his arms as he held his knees.

“This is a dream. This is a dream...” He repeated this in a breathless trance-like fashion. It wasn't working. The footsteps started up again, speedy steps that he sure that they stood a few paces in front of him, and his heart, oh his heart, was about ready to burst.

Seconds later, wiry hands gripped a tuft of Billy's hair, making him rise to his knees. An acrid smell stung his nose and the warm flesh of his neck was met by the flat of a damp cold blade. He froze, eyes glued shut.

A lump was in his throat and he croaked out in pain. His head stung, feeling suddenly like a pincushion overflowing with needles.

“Open your eyes.”

Billy couldn't focus with his searing headache. They pulled with more force. Billy screamed. He was thrown to the floor, clutching his aching head.

“Open your eyes,” they said again, not at all impatient.

When Billy refused, the blade met his arm. Shallow consecutive slices made him loosen his grip. The pain melded together till it was a large burning, stinging sensation that worsened with every slash. He braced himself, holding his middle with the ravaged arm. It burned. There were only a few seconds of reprieve before they resumed the assault; bashing his head repeatedly with the hilt of their weapon.

Silence.

“Open them,” it said again, eerily calm. It sounded like a woman.

Scared and bloody, Billy opened his eyes —

"A story to die for."

Disclaimer: Little Miss Murder is my creation (though redundant the title may be).

The supposed summary -

Detective James Devereaux and Assistant Rhys Wormwood have some problems in the coast city of St. Lenali. A series of murders have taken place and all lead back to the brutal killing of Sophia Bartlett and her family. Though the killer was caught and convicted, the murders mirror the killer's methods, even down to each gruesome detail. Sooner than later civilians report seeing a child similar to Sophia and vanishing quick into the night. These sightings multiply, putting the town in such a state of panic and fear that Devereaux has no choice but to open the Bartlett case again.

I'm not promising any updates soon, but I'm hopeful. :)