Number 9

As the body count rose, so did the desperation. Written for Journey/Genres April 2025

Number 9

"This is worst one yet; damn root cellar too. Hope you don't mind some eight-legged spectators in there with ya."

An angry curse hung in the misty morning air, as the grizzled law enforcement veteran ducked beneath the yellow tape and slowly walked through the soft glistening grass toward the deteriorating entrance. It resembled a lopsided coffin cover, which seemed to fit, since it was the final resting place of their latest victim.

"Details?" He dared to ask.

"Young male, no signs of a struggle. No ID. No weapons. A few footprints that the CSI team are gathering but not much else," the young officer read off his notepad.

He was about to toss out a discouraging remark to the young man as he slowly started to survey the landscape before him but, just shook the words out of his head and carried on in silence.

The area before him was, for the most part desolate and depressing. A once modest cottage had graced the horizon, the charm now decidedly absent; all that was left was the hole under the ground that had morphed into a lone crypt. The terrain around him felt eerie - the icy morning dew, the sun trying to shine through sorrow laden fog, and the ghostly figures of officers all dressed in black veiled by the mist; they dotted the horizon line like pallbearers waiting for directions from the mortician - him.

The taste of the air outside was earthy and crisp; a morning that once had held the promise of a better day now turned sour. But as he broached the cellar entrance, he was instantly hit with the smell of death; decayed flesh mixed with faded cologne, accented by stale vinegar and stale dill from a lone broken jar of homemade pickles.

But it was the smell in the air that instantly seized him; held him in place a few seconds longer. It was familiar, oddly comforting; almost...familial. The cologne it was...

"Concrete on the first step is broken. Careful."

The voice broke his thoughts and forced him back to the moment.

"Thanks."

By the third step, his stomach tightened, and he was suddenly alerted to the intense coldness that started to assault him from every angle; if he wasn't alone, he would have visibly shivered. The natural, outside light started to fade, replaced by alien-like silhouettes cast on the crumbling cement walls created by the flickering yellow bulb that dangled from a loose chain in the middle of the room.

"Jim," the second in command of the scene greeted with a heavy frown.

"Adam."

"Whadda we have?"

"This isn't where the killing took place," Adam replied as he gestured to the white sheet in the darkened corner a few meters away. "No signs of a struggle, no castoff or splatter or spray. One other set of footprints but nothing else. This was just a body dump. Another young one. Same as the others."

"Damn."

"Only bright spot, no rigor yet so we aren't that far behind this time."

"Still not close enough. I want the next one alive. Both of em. Tired of this."

He had been called a veteran, a seasoned detective, and sometimes a legend; but for a few tormented minutes, NYPD Detective Jim Wagner, found himself held in place by a force so powerful he was sure his sidearm would have to empty everything in its chamber, before it broke the force field to set him free.

A slight scurry brought him back to reality and forced him to divert his gaze away from what he thought was a print on the way to the body a few feet away.

"Adam. What aren't you telling me?"

"You might not want to view this one."

"Have to, no matter...the cost," he whispered before he finally headed toward the quiet corpse. "Damn spiders," he growled as something scurried over the body and into the shadows. His disdain for the eight-legged pests always garnered a snicker from his team. He could face down a band of thugs without blinking an eye, but a small insect gave him a cold shiver.

The closer he got to the body, the further from the entrance and the stranger the soft echoes started to sound. The walls were damp; clumps of roots had started to break through the dissolving concrete. A small stack of broken jars with rotten pieces of fruit the rodents left, mixed with the scent of strong mold, blended with the smell of death, offered a potpourri that would make the ordinary person instantly vomit.

"Oh God...no," Jim whispered, as he lifted the end of the sheet, and gazed upon the distinct size 8 sneaker that displayed a few tiny, dried spots of blood.

He took another deep breath, knelt by the mid-section of the body, and dared to reach out and gently pull back the cover from the young man's face. But before he did, he knew; the cologne had given away the identity before it was confirmed.

An angry curse instantly escaped his lips as he quickly replaced the cover, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Jim, I'm sorry," Adam offered in remorse, as Jim remained hunched in place. "Was hoping...we were wrong."

"I want this bastard. No matter the cost," Jim seethed in contempt, as he looked down at the ghostly outline of the young man's covered face. "Sorry Evan. Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"You tried."

"Not hard enough!" Jim hissed, as he slowly stood back up. "He was right. Evan knew his attacker and I just brushed it off as paranoia or...or maybe I just didn't want to face the truth."

"Jim..."

"We had his call! He gave us the clues! He..." the veteran detective growled with intense hatred.

"Jim..."

"He might be a murdering bastard, but he's no liar! He told Evan he was next. Evan told us."

"Evan..."

"Is dead! Bag this whole damn place, and when they're done, bulldoze it."

"Yes...sir."

Jim glanced around the dank, musty tomb, desperate to find something, anything; that one elusive clue that would lead him to his killer. Nothing. Again. The killer was always one step ahead of them; that made him paranoid - the killer fed off that. Jim suspected everyone, even his team at one time; as just when they were about to close in, their killer would slip away, not to be heard from again until another body was found.

But he had cleared them all, some cursing his name for not trusting their loyalty. He didn't care; he had passed the point of obsession with the fourth body. Evan...he was number 9. There couldn't be a ten. He had sworn on his badge on bringing their killer to justice before the 10^th was surrendered.

He looked back at the sheet covered corpse and cursed under his breath once more. How could their killer be so meticulous? So masterful at covering his tracks? So...elusive? It haunted him. But he was determined before he officially retired that he would solve this case. He couldn't go into his golden years with one cold case on his file. It wasn't going to happen. He'd die before he'd allow that black mark to be his legacy.

Jim slowly headed back outside and stood for a few seconds before he started to slowly turn in a circle, his dark eyes, sharply closed, as he surveyed the landscape around him.

He knew the killer was watching. He'd always get a photograph or taunting message a few days later - just to rub in the fact that it was Killer 9 and law-enforcement 0.

"Where are you you evil bastard!" He whispered under his breath with as much contempt as his weary frame could muster.

"WHERE!" He shouted angrily; drawing a few curious glances from the local junior officers who gazed upon the senior NYPD leader in wonder.

Jim hated to lose his cool, he always regretted showing even the smallest moment of defeat. But the case had started to wear on him; the days had turned to weeks, turned to months and it would soon be a year.

The first was random, a poor innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time. As the body count grew, the victims started to become more and more personal - until...body number 9 - Evan. Was he himself going to be number 10? Would it end with him? Or was the killer someone he knew well? Someone he suspected, but could never quite bring himself to acknowledge the truth.

The truth - it was personal - to him.

Who's life had he ruined to have someone come at him with such hatred, such contempt? What event? What arrest? What case? What...he knew. He just hated to face the truth.

"WHAT!" Jim shouted once more as Adam approached with a perplexed expression.

"Go home Jim, I got this now. This is getting too personal."

"Adam," Jim started sharply as he turned and glared at Adam with a pained expression.

"I know who Evan is to you," Adam whispered as Jim's brow instantly furrowed. "If the brass finds out, this case will be over for you."

"The records are sealed."

"Records can be opened. You know that. If it means bringing this bastard to justice, they'll open every damn lock they have to."

"Adam..."

"I got this."

"He's here," Jim whispered as his fingers started to trace the outline of the badge in his inner pocket. "Watching."

"I know. Just wish we knew where."

Jim turned and cast his dark gaze in the direction he was sure they were being watched from. He would be right. But as always, as soon as he'd tell the team where he thought the killer was hiding, they'd arrive to find a cigarette butt, no prints no saliva - nothing to use to confirm his identity and he'd be in the wind again.

But Adam was right. It was personal to Jim. He had angered the wrong person, and both feared the killings would end with Jim's death.

I know you're out there! I'll get you if it's the last thing I do! Jim's mind yelled with silent venom.

In the distance, as predicted, a set of taunting eyes stared right back, a sinister twist started to turn chapped lips into a crooked smile and long cigarette-stained fingers fondled a familiar picture.

"You were damn close this time James," the killer muttered as he twisted on his belly to make his escape. "Too damn close."

Under the cover of his homemade camouflage, he crawled to where his car waited, pulled the door open and then gently closed it. He offered only one haunted sentence as he started to take his leave - his mind plotting his next move. His next and last kill.

"Til we meet again...brother."

Jim could have sworn he heard a car race away in the distance and cursed as he pulled a tattered picture from his wallet. The same picture the killer had in his possession.

"Sorry Evan," Jim whispered, as he gazed upon the face of a young man beside him in the photograph, a young man with a broad smile, and trophy in his grasp - the caption below them read: 'Happy Father's Day. Love Evan.'

As he let his eyes linger, he felt them slightly water over a secret. A secret he had worked so hard to keep, a secret that was about to be exposed. He'd take the hit, his career over, he knew it. But it didn't matter. The killer had already taken what he valued most.

What was left?

A fight to the death between brothers. But which one of them would be number 10?

Story Count - 1951 words