Project Purple

32 - The Detective

Inter-departmental Cooperation was a rude joke.

It not only failed to get the station cops to take more interest in the duties of those around them, but Rigor figured it was increasing his workload three-fold: They had him doing the humdrum duties of the others, simple, time-eating chores Rigor could do in his sleep, and when he got back to his desk, he'd often glower at the sloppy paperwork another detective had scribbled on a missing individual. Then he'd have to locate the person who had submitted the form and do the whole thing again.

It was a couple of days after the incident at the Falafel counter of the Food Court, but the hushed conversation still ran through his mind like running water-Were they starting to figure out their little mess? Were they conspiring with one another, making alliances like the TV reality shows?

But they were playing this game as captives, like slaves, with misbehavior punished by something far harsher than a spanking, all in some kind of live-streaming-kill-the-Pilgrims snuff video for history majors?

It didn't make sense. Why go to so much trouble? If you wanted to kill a bunch of foolish people, just lure them to some remote cabin in the woods and do it there.

This was different from some schlock B-horror movie; there was a great deal of money in this; it was supposed to have some instructive value. But what was the lesson? What possible enlightenment did you bestow in systematically murdering folks you'd abducted?

Rigor looked absently out the window of the precinct, as the late afternoon gave way to the stars. He lingered, helping 300 to navigate one the new interstate information sharing website.

For the first time in his life, Rigor was afraid to go home. He was vulnerable there, afraid of what he might find waiting on his 'wall'. It was like teetering at the edge of some sadistic whirlpool, some wicked vortex that wanted to suck you right in.

But there was still time to pull out, delete it all; turn his back on her.

Rigor went home and he jumped. He jumped headfirst.

'You like to watch, don't you?' flashed on his home laptop, something from FB Messenger.

Then the new five-second clip:

The Goatwench, cowering on that same shabby floor, in the same bare-bones space of the hut. This time she's outright horrified; her hands pressed over her ears with crude force, trying to muffle the agonized shrieks coming from somewhere outside the hut-Someone or something getting butchered out there, and the shrill, piercing yowls, relentless. The dying outside was slow and inhuman.

Rigor studied her, recoiled on the dirt floor, unable to escape the dreadfulness. He clicked the video again. And again. And again.

Once more the depraved question came up: 'You like to watch, don't you?'

Rigor typed into his Mesenger: 'You're bad people. You're going to kill them all, or just watch as they tear apart each other? Which one is it?'

'You don't understand,' came the reply.

'Persuade me. Let them go.'

'Will you be her angel?'

Rigor studied the words on his screen. It wasn't a game-It was much bigger than that. Rather, it seemed some kind of project.

There were intricate dimensions to this project, he knew that-Every aspect of the Goatwench's circumstances was being meticulously observed, minutely documented by a glut of busy, little squirrel-like scribes. Were they expecting the results to yield some kind of great insights, as if all the suffering was condoned, because it helped people in the future?

That was the question: Why would torturing these poor people yield any kind of functional results?

Another image, a still shot, came up-And it was the most alluring picture he would ever get of her, his Goatwench, unkempt, in a dirty pilgrim dress, standing in some muddy animal pen, looking off into the distance with a weary, melancholic yearning.

Another message flashed: 'She needs help. Donate $10,000 to the below.'

A ten-digit account number popped up-no doubt some shady offshore Caribbean money launderer. It would take forever to trace that, and looking at her condition now, Rigor knew in his guts he no longer had the luxury of time.

'She is unharmed and still healthy at this time. But every day you wait, her condition deteriorates; her odds for survival drop exponentially. With your kind donation, you will support her; you improve her chances.'

In the video, she was visibly thinner than in the still. If someone didn't do something, the way things were going she'd soon look like a toy skeleton-one with useless alliances.

Rigor knew something of the ill-fated Donner wagon train party that got lost in the Sierras in the 1840's-They'd fallen into their own feral tribes, governed by self-preservation and brute strength, with the cold, and the antagonisms, and the starvation.

When would the psychic deadening creep in? When would they turn on each other? Was that what these lunatics wanted to chronicle?

'You are her angel. You are her only hope. Her situation is a trying one. And she needs your help to get through it.'

Rigor read the words with a sneer, but tautening nerves tingled the nape of his neck. Everything had turned upside-down. She had been his angel-Now HE was supposed to be her angel?

'I promise to print some money real soon. Do you really think I'm so dense? You can offer no guarantees.'

The reply came right back: 'That is a fundamental aspect of her situation - There can be no guarantees. But your money provides her with support.'

'Define support.'

'Do not take this as condescension, but it is not relevant at this stage of your understanding. We must know now- Will you be her angel?'

They had him over a barrel; infatuation with someone would do that, all right.

He scrolled up to the picture of her in the animal pen again ... There was something about his Goatwench, all that mystifying variance going on behind those eyes. She was grubby, worn-out, besieged, in need of help. And Rigor wanted to be with her-not in any carnal way; he just wanted to be there.

Stupid as it sounded, she had become family.

'Who are you?'

The immediate reply: 'We know you want to help. If money is a problem, there are other ways to assist.'

'Why me?'

'Learning those answers now will not help her, Detective. Your Goatwench still needs a patron, an angel. WILL YOU BE HER ANGEL?'

'The kidnapping of, and transporting across state lines of any unwilling person is a federal crime, which brings in the FBI. Are you interested in a sit-down with these nice folks?'

Silence on that end, and Rigor quickly regretted the empty threat. He hadn't learned of the linguistics professor's disappearance yet. That may have made a difference. Maybe not.

The warning bells were ringing like crazy, but he couldn't help himself.

'What's her name?'

'You're good at finding people, but you won't find Herietta Dobie-not without our help.'

Henrietta? The name seemed so contrastedly perfect.

He waited a minute, went to the window, looked up at the stars, then looked around at his apartment, spotless and barren, as always.

His cat looked up at him with all the love a mechanical device could asemble. Then it purred.

He typed: 'Yes.'

And leapt into the dark.