Breach of Peace Page 2

  Khlid had to process what he said, then burst out laughing.

  “The local sheriff asked for an inspector for a case about stolen chickens?”

  Samuel smiled at the absurdity as well. The letter the precinct received from the sheriff had been oddly cryptic. The chief had debated for an entire afternoon whether the case was worth sending an inspector. Clearly, he had made the wrong choice.

  Samuel reached into Khlid’s coat pocket for a cigarette. “Over thirty birds, gone without a trace.” He lit a cigarette.

  Khlid lit up her own. “How the fuck do you steal and hide thirty birds?”

  Samuel blew out a puff of smoke and said, “I left my second there to figure out just that.”

  Khlid, in the middle of a drag, coughed it up with laughter. “You left your apprentice there alone to deal with farmers?”

  “He's a bright kid.” A mischievous grin sprouted on his face. “I'm sure he can handle it.”

  * * *

  Once they arrived back at the manor, any trace of humor had left them both. The steel chain had finally been cut and the boy was being placed on a stretcher. The chain had been locked tightly around a support beam inside. It had taken two officers and ruined several tools. Men from the medical team now worked to get the boy’s injuries documented and his cause of death confirmed. Due to the amount of trauma to the body, Khlid doubted it was the hanging that had ended his life.

  They watched, only a few meters away, as the examination was conducted on a table brought by the medical team. Several moments passed before Samuel said, “Did you order him down?”

  “Yes,” Khlid replied.

  Samuel was silent.

  “I know it—” She inhaled. “It might mess with some evidence. But I can’t leave a ch—”

  “You made the right call,” Samuel cut in. “We can’t be animals like them.” They stood apart now, but Khlid reached out and squeezed her husband’s hand, just once.

  A member of the medical team, dressed in an all-white uniform, came from the house with a tray of what looked like body parts. Samuel whistled and caught the man’s attention, waving him over.

  “The boy’s?”

  The medical man wore a mask, but his voice alone conveyed rattled nerves. “We believe so.”

  Samuel reached into his pockets and put on a pair of leather gloves. He began his own examination of the body parts, lifting one from the tray of the medical man in front of him.

  The man began to protest, “Sir, do you really—”

  “Yes.” Samuel did not even look up. “No offense, but once you start with those preserving agents, a lot is lost.”

  As Sam went over a portion of an arm, a foot, and something Khlid could not recognize, she stepped over to watch the examination of the hanged boy more closely. The two medical men rolled the boy over on their table, revealing several puncture wounds on his back. More notably, the child’s head lolled at an unnatural angle.

  Khlid’s stomach heaved at the sight, forcing her to look away. I can do this with adults, but Almighty...

  Averting her gaze from the brown-haired child, she decided to simply ask one of the two working what they had found so far.

  The woman maneuvering the child's body answered Khlid's questions. Khlid scribbled furiously—some of the medic’s insights were actually decent. The cause of death was almost certainly the puncture wounds on the boy’s back. They bled the most, and were messier than the rest. His arm had been severed at the elbow. Chunks of flesh, ripped away from the stomach and left calf, while gruesome, were not as bloody as might have been expected.

  “And the eye?” Khlid asked.

  “That we don’t know.” The woman’s voice remained cool and smooth. “No one’s found it yet.”

  “Thank you.” Khlid meant that in multiple ways. Medical teams were dedicated to saving lives. Being called to a scene like this was, she knew, doubly painful for them.

  She walked back over to Samuel. “What did you see?”

  “You’re right. This was for us.”

  Khlid couldn’t help but look back at the boy. “What confirmed it for you?”

  “That arm was ripped from its socket, not cut.” Samuel removed his gloves and dismissed the man with the tray. The medical man walked over to a chest filled with ice and began carefully placing the pieces inside. “One sick freak might do that for pleasure. But the whole family was done like this, or worse. You’re right, Khlid. This was the opposite of a crime of passion. This was a whole night’s work for a team of people.”

  “I saw the same on the trunk of the body. He was probably killed quickly from being stabbed repeatedly in the back.” She finally decided to button her coat completely to fight the chill. “I suppose calling that a blessing would be inappropriate.”

  “Yes, it would.” Samuel sighed and then did something they’d both been avoiding: he walked toward the entrance to the manor. Khlid let out a long breath of her own and followed him in.

  * * *

  Once inside the manor, Samuel stopped abruptly, stiffening. Khlid assumed the sight of the brutalized girl had gotten to him. If that was the case, she could hardly fault him. Even the most experienced inspectors struggled with harm to kids. But Samuel was not looking at the girl splayed across the floor—he was staring at Inspector Chapman.

  Chapman was tall, dark, and what any woman would consider handsome. He pulled off the bald look extremely well, and the uniform seemed to carry extra authority on his shoulders. Unlike most members of the force, he also bore many tattoos. Intricate designs littered his arms and hands, blending into his dark skin. With his coat off and sleeves rolled, the ink was an immediate draw for her eye. Khlid found herself wondering if the ink went past his forearms.

  Samuel and Chapman had the same kind of rivalry schoolboys did. It had started all the way back in basic training. It had even come to blows. Twice.

  “Does he really get under your skin that easily?”

  “Why is he even here?”

  “You’re lucky it’s just him.” More annoyance slipped into Khlid’s voice than she intended. “As soon as they heard a royal family was murdered, half the inspectors on the force tried to glom on to this case. They wouldn't stop badgering me until the captain actually ordered them to stop.”

  “So why did he get through?”

  “You know why.”

  Samuel only grunted in response and walked over to Chapman.

  Chapman glanced up from the body of the girl briefly to say, “I’m busy, Sam.”

  Khlid could hear the displeasure in Samuel’s voice as he said, “Have you found anything?”

  “Busy.”

  “Chapman.”

  Chapman sighed and stood up. He removed his leather gloves, walked over to a nearby table, and dropped them there. He pulled a roll of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and took a long drag before turning back to Samuel. “Yes.”

  Samuel let out an exasperated sigh, looked back to Khlid leaning on the doorway, and pleaded for help with his eyes.

  She smirked and said, “Oh, you cracked this egg; you deal with it.”

  Chapman tossed her a grin. Khlid did not mind Chapman half as much as her husband seemed to.

  Samuel struggled with the fact that while Chapman was arrogant, younger, and clearly sloppier at the job as a whole, he was undeniably a better inspector. Chapman had the highest rate of solved cases in the history of policing. Not just the highest in her precinct, either—the highest on the entire continent.

  Samuel squared his shoulders. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “If we must!” Taking in the room, Chapman made a sweeping gesture with one arm that nearly smacked the cigarette out of Samuel’s hand. As he did, Khlid noticed a slight tear by Chapman’s right jacket pocket. “Where to begin?”

  He made a show of looking at the corpse of the girl, to the bannister above, and back to the girl’s feet. Chapman then squatted low and stared intently at some blood smears before stepping over
the body and walking into a small study.

  Khlid followed him in first. Grunting in displeasure as his wife reached Chapman’s side, Samuel hastened after them.

  By the time Samuel entered the study, Chapman was already sitting in an armchair, posing with a book he’d plucked off the nearby shelf. He sat there pretending to read for several seconds.

  Samuel let out a cough.

  Chapman looked up from his book feigning surprise. “Yes?”

  “You were going to elaborate?” Samuel said. “Or am I meant to infer your thought process from the obnoxious show you just put on?”

  An air of competition filled the room. Chapman made a pistol with his fingers and shot an imaginary bullet at Samuel. “Spot on.”

  Samuel narrowed his eyes. “Well, I saw the girl’s neck bent pretty severely.”

  “Correct,” Chapman responded. “But not just her neck.”

  “You gestured up to the bannister,” Khlid cut in. “You think she was thrown off?”

  Chapman exhaled, letting the book drop to the floor. “No.”

  Both Samuel and Khlid paused.

  Khlid spoke first. “Chapman, you think this girl jumped on her own?”

  Chapman met her eyes for the first time. “I know she did.”

  “How?” The light of intrigue replaced the competitive edge in Samuel’s eyes. He took a chair across from Chapman. “How do you know the girl jumped?” He emphasized the word “know” heavily.

  To his credit, Chapman seemed to forgo the stage-play for the time being. He replied simply, “Blood smears. The girl dragged herself several paces from where she landed. Why not walk? Her legs were broken. If you’re thrown from a bannister, it's extremely unlikely you’ll land cleanly enough to break both your legs. Much more likely if you jump.” Chapman emphasized the word “both” in an imitation of Samuel, who either let it go or was too deep in thought to notice.

  “So someone chases her upstairs. In a desperate attempt to get away, she flings herself from the bannister. Lands on her feet, but wrong…”

  “She never had a chance to land right.” Chapman was leaning back in his chair with fingers steepled. Khlid could tell he was comparing Samuel’s mental conclusions to his own.

  That was the damned irony: when these two worked together, the results were amazing.

  “Ah, yes,” Samuel replied. “Ladies’ shoes hardly make for secure footing.” Samuel leaned back in his own chair as he put together the rest of the scene. “She lands from the fall and snaps one or both of her legs. Unable to get up, she desperately tries to drag herself to the door. Whoever is chasing her catches up, breaks her neck, and begins the mutilation.”

  Chapman furrowed his brow. “What makes you think the neck was first?”

  Samuel leaned forward. The fact he had caught something Chapman missed brought the light of competition back into his eye. “One: it fits a pattern. The two guests, the men found in bed together, were killed quickly. The little boy outside killed with rapid stabs to the back. That alone would lead me to believe the girl was as well, but on top of that, point two: the blood on her is wrong.”

  Khlid kicked in, “The gore is all localized, Chapman. She wasn’t fighting when they tore her apart. The blood smears lead up to a relatively clean site. How did you miss that?”

  Chapman let out a grunt and said, “I was just getting there when the smell of your husband interrupted my cogitations. Overwhelming everyone with your cologne is not a substitute for bathing, did you know that, Samuel?”

  Samuel gritted his teeth. “I've been on the road.”

  “Oh, you’ve been gone?” Chapman stood. “Well, we have a manor to investigate. How about you two take the upstairs and I’ll take the cellar. Meet in the middle, about, I don’t know…” He rolled back his sleeve, consulting a non-existent watch. “Lunchtime?”

  As Chapman had risen, his coat opened just enough for Khlid to notice the holster at his hip, empty. Samuel rolled his eyes and began to walk from the room. Khlid grabbed him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Samuel looked at her, confused, but Khlid’s eyes were fastened to Chapman. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew she was about to catch him in a lie.

  “Why is your coat torn, Chapman?”

  Chapman paused imperceptibly before saying, “Ripped it last night in a chase. Horrible timing, really. The bastard got away and everything.”

  Khlid held his gaze as she stepped forward. “It must have been a remarkably fast suspect, Chap.” She gave him a sickly-sweet grin. “Everyone knows you’re the fastest one on the force.”

  “Hm.” Chapman was always ready with a retort, yet he paused. “Guess he must have been.”

  “Hm,” Khlid said, and took her husband forcefully by the arm, all but marching him out of the room.

  2

  The Madness

  The rest of the house was like a museum of gore and death: bits and pieces of the victims had been left on display for Khlid, Samuel, and Chapman to find and examine. If the two children had been left as a signal flag, then the matriarch and patriarch of the family were what they signaled.

  The wife was found in the master bedroom, her arms and legs bound to the canopy bed, each limb now bent in a stomach-turning fashion. Naked, skinned, her insides distributed across the room. Her heart lay on the dresser in a pool of blood. Her femur had been roughly torn off and left on the floor. As with the other victims Khlid had seen so far, there was surprisingly little blood. She had been dead before they really got to work on her.

  A particular blood stain on the pillow caught Khlid’s eye. She leaned in close to peer at the woman's cheek.

  Samuel appeared next to her. “They haven’t gotten the cellar open yet. It appears to be locked from the inside. The first officer claims he heard movement down there. The lot of them are spooked.” Noting his wife’s preoccupation, he leaned in close to look at the same markings and stain that had caught her eye.

  Samuel’s brows shot up. “Well, shit. Is that a bite mark?”

  Khlid nodded. “Someone bit this woman’s face and spat the flesh out on the pillow.”

  Samuel took a step back from the bed and rubbed his neck. Khlid turned from the body and gave her husband a once-over. His shoulders were tense, his brow fixed in a furrow.

  “You okay?”

  “I will be. Have we found any trace of the husband?”

  “Well.” She pulled out her notes to add a few thoughts. “From what you’ve just told me, I’m guessing we might find him in the cellar.”

  “That is what I feared.”

  “Why is that?”

  Samuel grinned. “Chapman is trying to get it open. If there is a panicked man down there…”

  “Ah.” Khlid closed her notes. “We should get moving.”

  Chapman hated when things would not open for him. He tugged on the cellar door, harder this time, but it still refused to budge. “Damn fucking thing.” Chapman looked to Rollins. “Do we have anything that goes boom?”

  Behind him, Rollins let out a cough. “I don’t believe that will be necessary. May I, sir?”

  Chapman stepped back, holding his arms wide. Rollins took his place, crouched down, and pulled a lock-picking set from his coat pocket. After a few seconds of trying at the keyhole, he stood up straight and let out a confused “Huh.”

  “Problem?” Chapman asked.

  “It’s not locked, sir.”

  Chapman’s eyebrows went towards the ceiling. “So the door is barred. That can only be done from the inside. That confirms the man who claimed there was a noise. Crowbar!” Rollins jumped at the sudden volume of his voice. “Do we have one coming?”

  An officer by the door called back, “Yes, Inspector.”

  Rollins’ hand unconsciously rested on his service revolver as he said, “Some manors do have secret exits, sir.”

  Chapman let out an exasperated breath and said, “Rollins, you’re good at your job, but there is a reason you’re not an inspector.”


  The other officer bringing the crowbar halted at the statement, and gave Chapman a reproachful look.

  Chapman caught the look. Self-admonishment flickered across his face. He turned to Rollins, now frowning deeply at the door. “I’m sorry, Sergeant.” Managing sincerity, he added, “I was well out of line. You know I wouldn't say it if it were true. I often say things I do not mean because I think they are funny. That, in hindsight, was not.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Chapman could tell his words were not enough. Rollins had tried for the rank of Inspector many times in his career. Each time, he had fallen just short on several key tests—the ones designed to assess deductive reasoning. Rollins never did all that badly on the tests; just enough to guarantee his superiors would never promote him.

  Chapman doubted there was a secret way out of the manor. If there was, whoever had locked themselves down there would have taken it by now, and reported the murders themselves. But seeing the hurt still in Rollins’ eyes, Chapman let it go.

  The crowbar arrived. The officer holding it stubbornly tightened his grip at Chapman’s first grab, his eyes warning that underlings stick together. The message imparted, the officer released the crowbar at Chapman’s second tug, and Chapman got to work.

  There were often tensions between inspectors and the regular members of the force. Many officers resented the way the Empire lauded inspectors as the holy hands of justice. A few of the more political officers had even denounced the wide leeway inspectors had to convict and sentence suspects without a formal trial. Some had gone so far as to write articles in the Imperial papers denouncing the practice. Chapman knew his stupid remark to Rollins would be brought up at the next union meeting—he had repeatedly been cited as an example of the inspector class’ arrogance.

  Fuck me and my stupid fucking mouth.

  Chapman stepped back to the thick—oak, maybe—door that had been giving them so much trouble. He took out some of his tension by levering the crowbar hard enough to crack the wood. “Rollins, a hand?”

  The sergeant stepped up and they both opened the door with a surprisingly loud crack!