Psychopomp

Psychopomp

~ a short story

The smell of the same blood. The same chilled breeze from the window. The marbled eyes on the bodies.

Detective John was used to these grisly ends. He looked down to his hands.

The CSI’s brushed under the doors and took samples of hair, fingernails, saliva. At the center of their bustling lay a family of four, violently slain with eyes open. At the edge of the contingent a large man bulged through. John watched him from behind.

“Alright, everyone out! Leave the scene. We need quiet!”

John watched their pinched up faces and sidelong glances as they walked by him. He was a special consultant to the FBI, who headed the investigation into the latest batch of serial killings. Only now he’d added a live crow to the show of his theatrical appearance at the scene of a gruesome killing. One perched on the his shoulder, black wings shuddering and voice calling, trained to herald his movement in the game of exotic crime. The legendary sleuth’s reputation preceded him.

“Detective” John waited at the threshold of what would soon become his scene. Out on the morning suburban lawn and driveway, the retreating rookies stood by and watched alongside the vets.

Finally, everyone past, no one but Commander Crawford remained in the door. Detective John sauntered through as Crawford relented from the room as well.

John took a deep breath, waggled his toes. They’d left him to perform his special feat: assuming the mind of a killer. His unique insights pursued these criminals for decades, catching them by becoming them. His relationship to the FBI went back to his childhood, a frequent visitor to his home.

Going back even further, to the dawn, he’d solved more than ten thousand murders. All that time he hunted wrongdoers. The ages were kind to him, his face and name never changing. John. A force of immortal justice.

John held his breath. 

This particular kind of investigation was a first, however.

John exhaled and looked at the bloody scene in silence, the bodies he put there. ~