Dark Purpose - XI

Part 1

XI.

                In lieu of spending his time wasting away looking at the same photos at the station Cairn decided that he would spend his time at the library. There was something he wanted to look into, the occult linkage, if there was one, to the shrine building of the killer. That seemed unique enough an occurrence to warrant some history around it. With his plate empty for now of radio and television engagements, Cairn was free to spend most of his day perusing the books and old tomes of the public library.

                Littering the table before him were records of ancient occult practices, accounts of voodoo and savage magics, memoirs of puritans and religious examinations all opened and flipped to one page or another. One book that caught his eye, for its resemblance to the current affair and its supposed occult origin was the Book of Eibon which according to the supplemental text with it was only a part of a larger tome lost to time. In it were the exploits of one wizard in his rituals of sacrifice to his deity. While it was intriguing it didn’t point directly to what he needed but he felt he was on the right track.

                Different accounts related to the book and other occult texts in the same vein, spoke to a secret cult of adherents to a series of gods all stretching out into the voids of space. Cairn had never heard of or been exposed to such cults in his work.

                “Actually…” Cairn said, letting his mind wander in memories. Skimming over text and looking for key words he stumbled upon something that sparked a memory. The one who killed his school mate all those years ago had a symbol etched upon his face. It was burned forever in Cairn’s brain but swept away to the recess of his mind. The same symbol was referenced in the tome and described thus, as an ancient rune depicting the Order of Dagon with an eye encompassed in a triangle surrounded by flame.

                “Perhaps I have had my run ins before.” Cairn said reading on. The cult, known for its clandestine machinations, seemed to go defunct hundreds of years ago. Although the murderer in his past was very much an adjunct of that cult. Perhaps all that was perceived to be lost to time is not lost at all.

                Further reading lead him down a rabbit hole of occult fury and those who sought to combat them. Sadly the accounts he had were few and the books referenced little. One prominent text was only housed in two places in the world, a university in Massachusetts and a museum in London. It was as if this Order and its Gods were even a mystery to the historians of the ages. One might even perceive them as being a hoax or false outright but Cairn couldn’t be so naïve. Being witness to the murder of his youth, and the current bloodshed in a similar ritualistic vein pointed towards it being true. And if the Order was real then perhaps this ‘Union’ referenced as the adversarial splinter cell was real was well. Cairn wondered if The Union was working even now, thwarting dark deeds in the shadow out of the world’s eye.

                “Looks like I’ve got some searching to do.” Cairn set off carrying all the books referencing the Order or the Union and checked them out. He’d do much better reading this with a bottle of wine in his own home, whence he could dictate his notes into his recorder. The idea of having to jot down all his notes made his wrist hurt. Thankfully, he was granted all the books he sought to borrow and made his way home. The prospect of delving deep into the world of the occult made him a little giddy. Knowledge was knowledge no matter the context.

The Butcher sat alone in the dark contemplating his failures. His mind, as it was when the lights were out and the night began, was aflame with words and thoughts all vying for control. How could he fail like this? How could he let them go? How far behind would this make him? He wanted to pace, to let his mind rest but his body was frozen in fear from his failure. Looking at his hands he drove a mental spike in this thoughts to the root of the issue, the final shrine left to be built. It looked so beautiful sitting in its resting place, far from prying eyes, far from the light. He knew that he would be pleased. A new vessel, a new form to take, stitched together by these hands. These weathered skilled hands. No amount of blood or toil would dissuade these hands from doing their job. The Butcher sat silently breathing slowly counting down the minutes as he tried to reform his plans. He would need to capture two more, the last two to complete the vessel. Only a few more pieces left and he would be finished. No more screw ups, no more missteps. He had little time left.

               

Angela hated interrogations. She was ready to go on vacation but part of her report needed her to sit in on the closed room discussions. Erika had already finished her own papers and sent them in. Angela was weary to do the same but figured the sooner she jot down a few notes she could turn them in and be done with it. Done with this assignment, done with this town, and on her way to Spain for a good week of rest. Erika and Angela both decided they’d see Spain before accepting a new assignment. It had been years since they had set foot there and she most of all missed the aura it gave off. For now though she was stuck behind this glass pen in hand lazily jotting down the butcher’s remarks.

                Of course the man would deny the whole scenario. Stating he was discharged from his job for mental health reasons and put on administrative leave with a pension. That part was true, as in the report Erika found that detail was included. However he had no explanation for the shrine found in his closet. He claimed the door wouldn’t “open” from when he moved in. It was something he found peculiar but didn’t care much about after a while. These claims were quickly refuted when the handwriting in the journal was compared to his own hand from hospital records as well as the fact that the candles were newly melted and the animal bones newly acquired, within the past month. In the first hour he was adamant of his innocence but by the second hour Angela could tell he was starting to break.

                She noticed that between each verbal answer his lips would move inaudibly and his fingers would start to draw on the table.

                Angela turned to her side where a guard stood and spoke quickly.

                “Go in there and smack his hands. We don’t need him attempting to conjure anything.”

                “Right.” The guard stepped out of the observation room, entered the interrogation room and rapped the man on the knuckles. The Butcher yelped.

                Angela spoke into the intercom link.

                “Answer the questions, keep your hands and lips still. Or I’ll have him do it again. Do you hear me?”

                The Butcher looked to the ceiling and around the room then nodded.

                “Good. You may continue.” Angela sat back and resumed her aloof demeanor. The faster this guy confessed the faster she could get the hell out of there.

                By the third hour the guard was made to hit The Butcher five times to dissuade him from messing about. Angela could tell that he was getting angrier and angrier with each tap to his knuckles. She hoped that he’d finally snap, accept his guilt and ask to be returned to his cell for his trial. But thus far he kept to his story, the he wasn’t actually the killer. He did however admit to the shrine in this closet being his.

                “How many times do I have to say it!? I didn’t kill any women!” The Butcher screamed leaping up from his seat.

                The guard at his side who had been smacking him threw his arm around the man’s chest and tackled him to the floor. Angela and the interrogator leapt to their feet to see the scuffle unfold. The Butcher wrestled with the guard so intensely that his shirt was coming undone. Lifting the criminal off the floor by his arm pits Angela could see that his shirt had been torn enough to expose most of his chest and skin. She hadn’t had a chance to see the damage she had done to him the other night when she bit him and wanted to get the chance now to revel in it.

                “Turn him around please.” Angela said over the intercom.

                The guard obliged and spun him around. Angela’s face went white.

                “Oh shit.”

                There was no bite mark.

The Butcher, with a renewed resolve, stood and exited his room. Walked down the hall and back into the street. He had to finish this soon, or lest he be a failure forever.

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