The body was pale. Alarmingly so, like marble, the bruises blooming like flowers under the alabaster skin. Oliver wasn't surprised by the morbid version of a blue sky that lay half buried in the dirt. An arm outstretched, a knee bent inward, the man was strewn out like a discarded rag doll.
Whoever he was, he wasn't himself anymore. Whatever made him blush or cry or love or feel anything at all didn't exist outside of a beating heart. The victim was nothing but a shell for a ghost, if you believed in that sort of thing, which Oliver Holt certainly didn't. He'd seen enough death to know that the spirits of the dead didn't linger, and why would they? There was nothing for them here, in the cold and the wet of the forest floor. The world didn't slow down to mourn its dead, it merely moved on. It was the only thing the world seemed to know how to do with any semblance of ease. So, Oliver moved on, careful to watch his steps.
Take nothing but photos, leave nothing but footprints.
He'd managed that long enough; his film camera sturdy enough to survive the harshest of winters, or thickest of summer heat waves. His film never jammed or warped, never faded or scratched. He was an old fashioned guy, he supposed, looking around at the two officers using digital cameras to gather evidence, but there was something about the film that made everything clearer.
He'd pass the photos off to his boss, Alice, and they'd be filed away by a rookie cop or evidence clerk. Oliver didn't tell them, of course, that he kept some for his private collection. He wasn't one of those perverts with a sock drawer full of dead bodies, he just liked to make sure that cases like this wouldn't be forgotten. He would chip away at them from time to time, making sure that the case files matched up with the evidence, and that everything made sense, if it ever could. Death was a senseless thing, picking off people like old scabs. No rhyme or reason sometimes, there could be no logical answers for a question that didn't have any logic, after all.
Drifter Pines didn't have a lot of deaths that weren't old age or car accident related, but this one was special. Special wasn't the right word, really. Intriguing was too glamorous, and Oliver groaned as he thought about the extra security he'd need to take to make sure his film wasn't stolen once word got out. And given the way the area was getting more and more congested with lurkers, it already had.
His boss would suspect a cougar or a wolf given the nature of the scene; the chaos, strewn clothing, and fresh claw marks that dug deep into the flesh of the victim. It was a fair enough assumption, and the evidence would support it, but Oliver knew there was more to the story. The victim was a witch. Or a hipster. It was getting harder and harder to tell lately, with everyone wanting the aesthetic but none of the commitment. But he'd heard rumors amongst the town - whispers in the grocery store, scary stories around bonfires at the beach - of a local coven. They weren't into dark stuff, from what he gathered, but rumours were a risk that like matches, so often turned to wildfire.
Drifter Pines even had its own occult shop, though whether there was any validity to its claims of finding your true love or curing death, Oliver was doubtful. He'd seen what real magic could do. Had felt it a little over a year ago when he first crossed into Hollow Hills; a buzzing under his skin, a current that made every hair stand on end until it suddenly stopped. He'd researched that evening, for anything that could explain the burning, and after clicking out of an unruly amount of ads for chlamydia testing, he'd found that protection spells could be cast around towns, but only by very powerful witches.
The victim had ceremonial tattoos, too, which further cemented Oliver's witch/hipster theory, so Alice had called in an occult professor from Hollow Hills. How an occult professor could make any money in their Podunk county, Oliver didn't know, but he was curious to meet him. Henry something, he hadn't caught his last name, but he'd learn it soon enough.
He took another photo, this one of a boot-print - size eleven most likely - and made a mental note to plaster it once he was finished with the primary set of photos. He turned back to the body, a man in his thirties, and stared.
It was the eyes that haunted him most, the milky irises, empty of colour and life. It didn't matter whether you had green, blue, brown, or any combination of the three, everyone's eyes were the same when Death beckoned. Oliver vaguely recalled some old sermon he'd caught the ass end of while on a road trip with his late mother, the preacher's voice booming through the speakers as he enunciated,
"We are all the same in the eyes of the Lord!"
Oliver gathered that they were all the same in the eyes of Death, too.
"Take a couple photos of the tattoos, too, please, Ollie," Alice said, her round-rimmed glasses on the brim of her nose as she examined the vic's arm. He'd already done so, but Oliver obliged anyway. Alice nodded in thanks, her white head bobbing more than necessary. She was in her late seventies, and Parkinson's was starting to take its toll on her. It was unknown who would replace her when the time came, but Oliver doubted they'd be as thorough as Alice. It was probably to ensure that no one thought she was going senile, but Alice was one of the hardest workers on the force. She ran the local funeral home too, and had been kind enough to let Oliver stay there.
It was eerie, living in a funeral home, Oliver couldn't deny that, but the rent was free. He helped wherever he could, whether it was preparing dinner or that week's corpse for burial. He cringed at the comparison, but only slightly. He was used to it all by now. He was young, maybe too young really, to be so accustomed to death, but that was his own choice. After his father's death, Oliver swore that he'd do whatever it took to ensure that no one else would suffer the same fate. If that meant hunting outside of the norms of reality, so be it. He was alone now, and being alone was better than running the risk of losing everyone he had ever loved - which he had already done - so hunting was the next best thing.
He wasn't proud of his side job, didn't take any relish in it, but it did give him a welcome feeling of ease. To know that gradually, the monsters that loomed under beds and in thick forests were going the way of the dinosaurs. He'd have to check in with Elliot in the next month or so. Give him the rundown of the case. Hunters weren't keen on involving themselves with witches, but it was worth noting.
With the daylight quickly fading, Oliver took his last few photos and began to mix the plaster for the shoe cast. It didn't take long, the plaster was already fairly easy to use, but he took his time filling the print, making sure that every spec, every square inch of the boot-print had been flooded by the white paste. It would take about an hour for it to dry, so he told an officer to keep an eye on it and to take it once it was done. He had to help Alice load the body into the van before the reporters arrived.
The basement of Alice's house also acted as the mortuary, and Oliver was thankful that given the way the house was designed, they only had to dip down the driveway and open the double doors to get inside. No stairs required. With the bright fluorescents and stainless steel equipment, there was no escaping the fact that the basement was a place for the dead. Various containers of formaldehyde and other sorts of colorful embalming agents were stacked neatly on the shelves above the sinks, and the floor was so clean it shined.
The Chief would be by soon, and that meant questions, and grunts, and more questions that would remain unanswered until the autopsy could be performed. But before anything, they had to identify him. Once the victim was up on the table, his body growing more cold and gray by the hour, Oliver dug through his pockets for anything that could be used to identify the man. A rogue receipt or credit card, something. But there was nothing. The only thing the man had were the clothes that covered him, and the wounds that would never heal. He was dead and gone, and they couldn't even care for him the way they would anyone else. They would, of course, but without a name, the victim was just a lost soul. It felt impersonal to clean someone's body, take their blood, take the things they were buried in, and not even know their name. It felt like stealing. As if they were robbing him of his final piece of dignity with every photograph and brush of a fine tooth comb.
An hour went by easily, and by the time he and Alice were done with the autopsy, the man was looking a little better. Still lifeless, but better now that his wounds had been documented and stitched, and his eyes shut tight.
It was the knock that alerted them to the Chief's arrival. Chief Terry was a good man, if a little obtuse. A man of few words to begin with, Terry didn't say much during the questions other than a few 'pleases' and 'thank yous'. It made sense why he'd been Chief for so long. He was calming; strong and silent, an anchor in a storm. He ran his fingers over his moustache as Alice spoke, the salt and pepper hairs falling flat against his upper lip as he thought.
"So. Animal attack."
"Yes, Chief."
"What about that boot-print?"
Alice looked at Oliver then, her brow furrowed.
"Already taken care of, Chief," Oliver replied, "Adam's got it in with the rest of the evidence. We should know more tomorrow."
The Chief nodded, keeping his gaze on the body.
"We got an ID yet?"
"No, sir. But he looks familiar. Most likely a local."
The Chief nodded again, his expression flat, but Oliver knew that behind the pale gray eyes held worry and despair. He wondered if the Chief suspected otherwise. If he too, believed something more nefarious was going on in the deep woods of the Drifter Pines forest. If it would branch out like a virus to the town itself.
"And that, uh, professor. What's going on there?"
"Should be arriving shortly."
"And he's here to tell us about the tattoos?"
"Yes, Chief. To help with the identification."
"Hm... All right, then. Call me with the information when you get it," Terry replied, tipping his hat in goodbye.
With Alice working her way through the evidence, Oliver headed upstairs to make them some food. Alice would have to take her medication soon, and it was always wiser to take it with food than without. He settled on something simple and quick. Sandwiches. Cucumber sandwiches in particular, as they were Alice's favorite, and one of the few vegetarian sandwiches she could stomach easily. So, Oliver peeled and sliced half a cucumber, enough for himself and Alice, and then got to slicing a fresh tomato.
He had just laid a slice of cheese on top when he heard a car pull up in the driveway. He licked the mayo off his thumb and peered out the window. A couple, both in their forties, got out of the car. The man, tall and lean with glasses, looked grim, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, while the woman, also tall, with dark hair and furrow to her brow, got out of the driver's seat. She carried herself with confidence, and Oliver couldn't help but wonder who she was. The two didn't seem like a couple in the marital sense of the word, but they walked side by side up the front steps and onto the porch as if they'd known each other their whole lives. He answered the door before they could knock.
"Hello?"
"Hello. I'm--"
"Henry?"
The man seemed surprised almost, and then nodded solemnly. He went quiet for a second before introducing the woman by his side, "This is Claire. She's a colleague of mine."
Oliver gestured for them to enter.
"Please, come in."
They stepped over the threshold, and the woman's gaze shifted to every corner of the room, as if expecting something to jump out at them at any moment. Vigilant, Oliver thought absentmindedly.
"My name's Oliver. Oliver Holt. I work with Alice." The professor didn't say a word to that, and Oliver half wondered if maybe he'd dreamt saying his introduction instead of actually speaking it.
"It's very nice to meet you, Oliver," Claire replied, glancing at her partner with trepidation. An awkward silence fell over them as Oliver led them into the kitchen so he could grab the plates of food and Alice's medication.
"Follow me. The mortuary's downstairs."
Keeping a hand on the railing, Oliver stepped down the creaking stairs, careful not to spill anything on the way down. Henry ducked his head to avoid hitting it off the ceiling, but once he stepped down onto the floor, he was able to stand easily. The woman, Claire, said nothing as she followed, and Oliver wondered if the two were always this odd.
He led them around a corner and into the main room, where Alice continued to stitch and document the body. Oliver was thankful that the victim was covered, at least from the waist down. It wasn't easy, seeing someone you knew lying on a table like that, much less with wounds that dug so deep they shattered bones. Alice looked up, surprised by not one, but two guests. Seeming to have found his voice, Henry stepped forward, his hand outstretched,
"You must be Alice Gensberg."
"Nice to meet you, professor. Wish it was under better circumstances," Alice replied kindly, making sure to wash her hands before shaking. Oliver handed her her sandwich and pill, which she took graciously. "You'll have to forgive me, medication's a nightmare if it's not done in a timely manner."
"Of course," Henry replied, keeping his gaze anywhere but on the victim. The woman, Claire, seemed unperturbed by the body that lay between them, and Oliver couldn't help but watch her in curiosity. Death didn't seem to frighten her - or at least, dead bodies didn't. She was far less disturbed than Henry, who kept wiping at his damp eyes.
"I'm sorry. The last time I had to do this was... Very difficult."
"You identify people often?" Oliver asked, his tone ambiguous.
"Isn't any time too often?" the taller man replied, and Oliver nodded in agreement. Henry wiped at his eyes once more before turning his gaze towards the victim. His jaw clenched, and he breathed out through his mouth as he spoke.
"Curtis. Curtis Walker."
"You knew him?"
"He was a practitioner. A witch," he replied, seemingly ignoring Alice's question. He and Claire were quiet as they examined each individual tattoo that resided on Curtis's limbs and torso.
"You can tell just from the tattoos?" Oliver asked, curious. Henry nodded before lifting Curtis's arm, and there, inked onto the pale flesh was an emblem. Belladonna braided into a wreath, and inside lay some symbols Oliver didn't recognize.
"He was involved with your local coven," Henry supplied, and Alice nodded.
"We figured as much. Just wanted you to confirm for us."
"And you believe it was an animal attack?"
"You think a human could do something like that?" Alice replied with a chuckle. It wasn't a rude one, just one of genuine surprise. Henry smiled.
"Of course, of course. I was just wondering what kind of animal you believed it to be?"
Alice adjusted her glasses and took a second look at the wounds across the victim's chest.
"I would say either a wolf or a bear, judging from the size and the depth."
"A wolf?" the woman asked, and Oliver blinked. Why would she be surprised by that and not a bear?
"I'd say so. We'll know more once the DNA comes back. But that'll take a few weeks just to be sure. In the meantime, I imagine the Chief plans on setting up a hunting party," Alice explained. Claire swallowed thickly, though if it was from the smells or something else, Oliver wasn't sure. "You folks were from Hollow Hills, yes?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Bit of a drive for you. Do you have a place to stay?" Alice asked.
"We do, yes. I'm friends with a few of the locals."
"Ah, perfect. The Chief will probably want to talk to you in the morning about what to do about the coven."
Henry stopped, and there was something that seemed to shift inside him at the mention of the coven. Oliver could swear his eyes flashed gold from behind his round glasses, but he kept his gaze neutral. He couldn't be sure it was real and not just a trick of the harsh fluorescent lights.
"I'm sorry?"
"The witches. You'd think they'd take better care of their own, the poor folks."
"And how would you suggest that, doctor?" Henry asked, and Oliver felt a hint of malice in the older man's voice, like lightning readying to strike. Oliver inhaled, clenched his fist around the edge of the table.
"Don't mistake me, Professor. I'm not blaming this poor soul for his demise. But it is well known around here that wolves are less likely to attack if you're in pairs."
Henry nodded curtly, embarrassment blooming on his cheeks with a blush. Claire squeezed his arm gently, and this seemed to calm him. He patted her hand in response, a silent 'thank you' brushing past his lips.
"Is that all, doctor?"
"That's it, Professor Beauchamp. Unless you can tell us anything else about the victim?"
Beauchamp, so that was the man's last name. Henry Beauchamp. It suited him, somehow. Carried an air of dignity, if names could carry much. Henry shook his head, and then paused.
"Do you get many people you can't identify?" he asked.
Alice sat back, a little surprised at the question.
"Not many, no. Most folks here we've known for years. But that coven, they keep to themselves."
"Have you had any other remains show up in the last year?"
"None that I can think of. Why?"
"No reason. No reason at all."
But there was very much a reason, Oliver could see it in the sadness of Henry's eyes, in the way his throat was tight and jaw was clenched. He intended to find out what the reason was. Tonight.