Confessions - Thomas Creed

"Gets weirder," she says, and shows you another photo. "This is written somewhere at each scene, usually close to the body. Looks like they're using a soldering iron or something..."


Same room, same tiles. The victim's hand is visible at the bottom of the frame.


There are words in black on the tiles. Burned on, it looks like.


WHAT HAS FALLEN MAY RISE
 
When she mentions that it got weirder, he raises a brow and looks at the photograph. Same place again.


His eyes drift across the words and a shudder wracks through him, though he's not sure why. "That's not creepy and foreboding or anything," he says with a bit of a nervous laugh, suddenly feeling like the room's gone down a few degrees in temperature.
 
"FBI will be getting involved soon," she says, lifting the e-cig to her mouth and reflexively trying to light it. "But I thought, well, this looks like some occult shit..."


She lets that hang.


Once upon a time, Ros called you up like this - but that time, she'd had a few to drink herself. A very social call, if you will.


This definitely isn't one of those.
 
  • At her words, and looking at the e-cig, he finds himself yearning for a cigarette. "And you thought I might think of something," he finishes and smiles, but warmly. "I'm flattered... makes me hopeful there are more folks out there that don't think I'm a lunatic."


    He wasn't surprised, really. If anyone, Ros would be the most likely to back him. Or, at least, he assumes as much.


    "Let me have another look, I might have missed something," he states with a renewed interest, hunkering over the pictures again.
 
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The obvious implication is a pseudo-Christian cult affiliation - someone taking the story of the Fall or general demonic imagery, Luciferean myths really seriously. Which is unusual; most serial killers with a bent like that believe they're either possessed or on a mission from God, whereas you'd guess this guy believes he's executing a ritual. Purposeful beyond the murder, even if it's barely a step beyond.


Probably a textbook psychopath. Well, shit, what was textbook - it's a spectrum, these days. Still, you'd believe you're looking at someone unusually capable of hiding his illness, but likely still a loner. As for M.O... Ros didn't mention tox screens, but the only thing that makes sense is chemical.
 
A beat of silence passes as he thinks on all this, the begins to speak, quickly telling Ros of what he's found - almost rambling - and hoping that some of it might be to some use. It's been awhile since he felt this rush, the buzz of discovery, and before he knows it he has to stop a take a breath - almost gasping a little - as he realizes he's forgetting to breathe normally.


"Ahem... sorry about that. It's uh, well..." he stammers, embarrassed, and tries to cover it with a cough. "Been awhile since I've done anything like this."


Looking down at his hands, he realizes the shaking has completely stopped for a second. "Looks like I really couldn't turn all this off after-all. Like riding a bike," he finishes with a small laugh.
 
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"Guess so," she smiles. "I wish that narrowed it down more, but it helps. There was nothing in their tox screens, though."


She sips her coffee. Winces. Long cold.


"What's going on with you, Thom? I shouldn't've just shoved this in your face."
 
It's been a strange day, and I think I might be going crazy, Ros, he thinks to himself, but doesn't say it aloud. Rationally, he's certain he's not crazy. But strange stores, chilling figures and people with your face don't suddenly pop up in one day.


Probably just the lack of sleep and lack of a drink. Probably.


"It's fine. To be honest, it helped take my mind off of a shitty day," he says with a dry chuckle. "To be honest, not a lot. Just working and drinking for the most part."


There's joking in his voice, but there's also an undertone of seriousness.
 
"I thought you were working on the drinking?" she says. "I'm going to be generous and pretend that's what you said."


She sips her coffee, makes a face. Cold.


Waiter comes by, tops it up, asks for orders.


When they go, she stirs thoughtfully.


"Do you miss it?"
 
He chuckles a little. "I am now. Working on it, I mean."


A sigh follows. "I got roped in to getting some help from someone my boss knows. Ought to be a real blast."


The waiter comes by with refills and he sips his cup carefully and slowly, brow raising at her next question.


"I mean..." he starts, and stops, thinking. "Oh, who'm I kidding. Of course I miss it. It wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done, but there was a weird reward to it, y'know. Figuring out the puzzle. Sifting through the evidence for that one thing to tie it all together."


Frowning, he scratches his chin a little. "Unless you meant the drinking," he says with a light smirk.
 
She snorts a laugh. "I think the problem with the drinking is missing it, right?"


She holds her mug like a sacred relic, under her nose.


"You ever think about coming back as a consultant?"
 
He laughs into his coffee cup and takes another drink of the near-boiling liquid before answering. "Good point."


A beat passes and she speaks again.


"Honestly... I hadn't until tonight. With everything going on I really didn't think they'd be crazy enough to take me back in any shape or form."
 
She examines her nails, stretches her arm to the side. Nervous.


"Well... I might be on track for promotion to captain, and that means there's a chance..." she trails off.
 
He smiles into his cup. "Is that so?"


"Well, I couldn't think of someone I'd like to see more as captain. Though, if that means I can't call you Ros anymore publically, that might be a deal breaker."


He's trying to break up the tension, noting her nervousness. For some reason, it makes HIM nervous.


"You know if anything opens up, I'd be happy to help in any way I can if you'd have me. Even a desk job, if you want to scare off people using my face and oh-so-jolly demeanor."
 
She laughs, sincerely.


"You know, the precinct house does have a space for a volunteer desk officer. Civilian position," she says. "Although obviously it doesn't pay."


Her poker face holds for a moment longer.


"We'll see, Thom."


Her phone beeps. She checks the screen, grimaces; you know that face. She's caught another body.


"Fuck, I've gotta go, Thom."
 
He blinks at the position she offers and nods, going t say something when the phone beeps. That look on her face is familiar; he hates HOW familiar.


"I understand," he says sincerely, and stands. "If you need anything, or just wanna have coffee again, I'm around."


He lets a small beat pass. "And pay or not, that position might not be the worst thing I could do with my free time." He smirks a little.
 
"I'll be in touch," she says, distracted. Stops at the door. "Take care of yourself, Thom. Keep the demons out."


You're alone.
 
'Keep the demons out.' The words echo in his head as he exits the shop with a wave.


Maybe it had been the photos - the burned words on the tile - but he shivers a little as he walks to his car and reaches for the door handle.


His hand shakes again, faintly, and he glares at it.
 
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The reflection in the wing mirror isn't you. It has long eyes and round fangs and a brow like a mutilated tree.


You blink. Just your face.


You need a shave.
 
"Christ!" he stammers and backs up for second before the image is gone. He looks around, hoping nobody had witnessed his little outburst, and slinks to his car while rubbing a hand over his face nervously. The beard there is unkempt and needs to be shaped up a bit.


It'd be a good distraction to keep away from drinking, right?


Starting the car, he pulls away and starts heading home.
 
Hallucinations are symptomatic of delirium tremens. Surely it can't be that bad, right? No shaking to screw your hold on the wheel, no nausea.


Home is dark and silent. As you always leave it.
 
"Home sweet home," he says to no one as he walks up to the door and fumbles through his keyring.


Now that his hands aren't shaking - and since he's NOT drunk for once - he finds the key quickly and unlocks the door, reaching over to flick on the light switch.
 
Nothing out of the ordinary, just the detritus of your life.


The night is young, and all yours.
 
Leaning down, he unties and takes off his shoes and drops them next to the door, giving a light sigh of relief to be free of the damned things.


He could just turn in but it's early, he's starving, and he does want to trim up the mess of beard he's been growing to something a bit more tamed around the edges.


Brushing it down with his hands, he moves into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the fridge for something that isn't alcoholic... or fried. In the search he reaches up for a bottle of beer on instinct, then moves his hand to grab a can of Coke instead as he keep hunting for whatever might pass as a reasonable man's supper.
 
Frozen pizza has vegetables on it. It suffices.


No there's just you and the time from here until sleep.
 
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