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.