Tales of Steampunkery

Mercy Killings (#PunkWars: Steampunk Vs. Dreadpunk)

Over the years, Thorn had been called to various crime scenes. Airship crashes. Factory accidents. Even a handful of cold-blooded murders. Indeed, he'd seen his fair share of dead bodies.

But never one quite so disemboweled as this.

The longer he gazed upon it, the more horrific it became. The victim's face was intact, but her chest had been sliced open and her ribs broken to reveal the viscera and organs inside.

Well, not exactly inside.

Most of the vital parts had been pulled from the corpse—intestines, lungs, liver—and tossed haphazardly about the alley in which the poor woman laid dead.

It was the most gruesome thing he'd ever seen.

He turned away and pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it against his nose to ward off the metallic scent that permeated the bloody alleyway. Pacing back to his fellow officers, he cleared his throat and attempted to compose himself.

"Any leads?" he asked Damon.

The young constable swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the alley before returning to him. "Nothing official," he said, his voice strained. "But there's been some speculation."

"Speculation? Is that how the police force functions now?"

Damon winced at Thorn's biting tone. "I'm sorry, sir. Forget I said anything."

Thorn's shoulders sagged, and he let out a long breath as he tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket and flipped open the portable typewriter on his wrist. "No, it's not your fault. This is just a tad jarring. In my ten years on the force, I've yet to see something quite so horrendous here in Bellfolk. And I was on call for that explosion at the gear factory last year. So tell me, what are these speculations?"

Damon took in a deep breath. "Based on the barbaric and primitive nature of the death, some have a conjectured that the perpetrator comes from..." He swallowed again and whispered, "The Dreadful District."

The words echoed off the brick walls, and Thorn's fingers froze. "I'm sorry, did you say the Dreadful District?"

Damon nodded.

Thorn closed his eyes and held back the curse that was at the tip of his tongue. It made sense. While there were, of course, criminals in Bellfolk, none were capable of such an atrocity as this. Only someone depraved could commit this sort of crime. And the only place that could produce someone quite that twisted was the Dreadful District.

"Did anyone actually see something that could back up these speculations?" Thorn asked, opening his eyes and typing Dreadful District into the wristwriter.

Clearing his throat once more, Damon nodded to the dismembered corpse. "Other than the organs thrown about the alley?"

Thorn's face twisted into a grimace as he ripped the very short piece of paper from the wristwriter and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. "Thank you, Constable. I'll be certain to look into this. In the meantime," he glanced over his shoulder and repressed a shudder, "call for a doctor. Perhaps someone who specializes in dead bodies can shine a little light on this tragedy."

Damon's face went so pale that he resembled one of the monstrous creatures rumored to haunt the Dreadful District. "You mean a forensic doctor?"

"I doubt a physician would be much good in this case."

"But the only forensic doctors are...they all reside in..."

Clapping a hand on the young man's shoulder, Thorn gave him a firm but sympathetic glare. "This isn't a request, Constable. It's a command. And I'm not asking you to actually go there, I'm just having you send a message. And do it quickly. I'd like to get started on this investigation."