Page 10 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Maybe it was a rat,” Dean corrected himself. “Vapid little rodent,maybe? Either way, you’re not known for your social decorum.”
Ingrid made a dismissive humming noise, then calmly walked toward an older couple that had just sat down at the other side of the bar.
“Wait!” Dean called out. “I didn’t answer your question!”
Ingrid twisted her neck around lazily. “You had your chance,” she said, not breaking stride until she was standing in front of the couple, getting into her tired routine.
“Welcome in. What can I get?—"
“I’m a crime scene investigator!” Dean yelled across the room. The older couple flinched at the volume of his voice, maximized to cut through the music. “That’s what I do! Photographing them, analyzing evidence! Sorry, I just didn’t expect you?—”
She swatted at his words. “I’ll be right there, detective,” she said, and continued her rounds.
It wouldn’t have taken her long with how drunk the crowd already was, but she found herself speeding things along. Ever the opportunist, she thought that if she could befriend someone in law enforcement, her case against her stalker might be paid more attention. Not to mention, whatever stories a crime scene investigator had were far more distracting than another night of taking drink orders.
At least that’s what Ingrid told herself. The possible “in” it would give her, that’s what interested her, notwhowas telling her those details. No matter how confusingly intrigued she was by him.
“Have you heard about what’s going on lately?” Dean asked her when she returned to his corner of the bar. “You know…” He lowered his voice. “The body?”
“The girl in the suitcase?” Ingrid threw her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the TV hanging above her. “Saw it on the news, yeah. People here wouldn’t shut up about it.” Even with how occupied she’d been, Ingrid couldn’t miss a young woman being stuffed into a hard-shell travel case, her hands and feet amputated to aid the fit, then dumped like garbage not twenty minutes from where she lived.
Dean stared intently at her, gauging whether or not Ingrid was disturbed. It was far from the typical barstool conversation, but what he saw in her was not disgust, nor hesitance.
Leaning in, he said, “I’ve been working those cases for the last month.” He paused, taking stock of himself, the slump in his posture weighed down by exhaustion. “That’s why I look like this.”
“How many are there?” Ingrid asked.
“Six now. The second was just a few days after. The third, fourth and fifth murders were a few days after that. And the sixth—we were there this morning.”
It was a serial case, that was a given. So Ingrid followed up with, “What’s his MO? The hands and feet? The suitcase?”
Dean’s head sloped, mouth quirking up. He didn’t seem secretive now. If anything, he seemed relieved to share the information. “That’s why it wasn’t in the news.” He checked his phone with a click. “Not until about five minutes from now. Even we didn’t know for sure, so we kept it within the station.”
Ingrid took two small steps to her left, snatched the remote from a little metal shelf hanging off the column separating the inside and outside of the bar-top, then aimed it upward until she found the right channel.
The daytime anchor was narrating footage of a traffic accident, while a box of text at the bottom flashed updates:two injured, stable. Ingrid checked the digital clock next to it, making sure she had time before it was switched to the nightlytimeslot. She did, but not long to scoop what insider information she could get from the…what was he again?
“Are you acopcop? Or just a… sorry, I forgot what you called it.”
“An analyst.” Dean corrected, trying to hide a smile. “But technically, yes, I’m a cop. Spiritually though, I’m a nerd.”
“Oh.” Ingrid flicked an eyebrow up. “So you’re only half an egomaniac. Got it.”
“Not a fan of the authorities?” Dean asked.
She shrugged. “I give them credit where it’s due. Theycanput together evidence at the same rate as stay-at-home moms with internet can.” Her hand went to her chest in mock-gratitude. “When did they figure out the connection?”
“Last night,” Dean responded. “The latest cadaver was posed the same as the others.” He glanced up at the flickering light from the TV to see that the introduction montage for the nightly newscast was playing, with that repetitive music and the flood of bright graphics. “They were all postured in the fetal position.”
Ingrid scrunched her face. “It took you six bodies to make thatconnection? That they were all posed the same?”
“It sounds a lot easier than it was. The first had to be posed like that just to fit. We were more focused on the hands and feet. If the killer wanted to make it easier to discard, then why leave the rest intact? We thought it might be a calling card.”
“Pretty sure it’s harder to cut off a head than hands and feet,” Ingrid said casually. “Both ethically and physically, I mean. That’s probably why he stopped.”
Dean looked disgusted. “Ethically?” he asked. “What’s ethical about cutting off someone’s feet?”
“Nothing,” Ingrid said. “But it’s less personal. Less invasive, too.”
