A man at the front desk turned to look up at me as I approached. "I'm looking for Detective Aguirre."
"Just a moment," he said as he swiveled in his chair to look at the desks behind him. After a couple seconds, he turned back toward me and picked up the phone. A few minutes later, a tall man with bronze skin and black hair that swept neatly from his forehead came up to the desk and looked at me.
"I'm Detective Aguirre. What can I do for you?"
"Ah, hello." My throat was beginning to feel thick. What was I going to say? "I was hoping I could talk to you about Curtis Pope. Are you the Detective working on his case?"
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yes, how did you know that?"
"Oh... the newspaper," I said as I reached into my bag and pulled out the article. The Detective nodded and gestured for me to follow him past several cluttered desks to one in the back that was remarkably neat compared to the rest. Behind it was a dry erase board with photographs pinned to it. There was a small pile of files and a can of Dr. Pepper on his desk. He pointed to a chair, and I slid into it. This was the first time I'd ever been to a police station, and it looked exactly as I'd imagined.
I swallowed before I began. Talking about Curtis was uncomfortable, and my ramped adrenaline was making me a little nervous. "I was wondering if you could tell me how Curtis Pope died."
The Detective looked surprised again but shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't discuss the details of his death during the investigation."
"So there is an ongoing investigation into his death?"
He paused for a moment to consider me and smiled slightly but didn't respond. "Why do you wish to know? Are you a friend or relative?"
The thought made me grimace inwardly. "No. He attacked me a few months ago."
He stopped and then leaned back into his chair. "Curtis Pope attacked you? When?" he asked. His voice was even but sounded slightly suspicious. His eyes moved over me critically. I suppose he was trying to decide if I looked crazy.
"Early March." He watched me for a few more moments. I didn't speak. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and reached down to open a drawer on his desk. He pulled out some kind of form and a pen.
He was going to take a statement from me. Naturally. Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to speak with him, but it was too late now.
"What is your name?" he asked. I told him.
He asked me my basic information— address, age, how long I'd been in Portland. "And what is your occupation?"
"I'm a translator."
He smiled in surprise. "I don't get that one very often. Spanish?"
I laughed inwardly. People guessed that all the time. "No, Hungarian." He looked at me with a stunned expression.
He returned to the form in front of him. "Why didn't you report the attack when it happened?"
He leapt straight to the most difficult question. I looked down at his dark, faded jeans and black Allen Edmund shoes. He was fashionable and fastidious.
"I don't know what to tell you. I wanted to forget the whole thing happened and I mostly did. I don't know how much help I'll be to you. I don't remember much."
"Well, just tell me what you do remember."
I looked back at him. He looked was open but concerned. My body relaxed slowly, and the room felt warm and comfortable. My heart skidded as adrenaline rushed under my skin. My fingers gripped the arms of the chair, holding me in place while I tried to force my mind to focus.
The Detective's eyes slowly trailed along my arms to my face, mapping the tension but didn't say anything. He watched me change from nervous to relaxed to anxious and tense in a few seconds. For reasons I couldn't fathom he wasn't looking at me like I was crazy.
I told him about the attack, the few pieces I had pulled together since that day... what little I could, leaving out the most important information. I looked past him at the dry erase board. There was a photograph of Curtis along with other photographs of women. I assumed those where the women he had killed. They were young, pretty, with long light brown hair. They all looked like me. Clearly, he was a hunter with a particular preference. Aren't they always?
"It happened very quickly, I didn't get a strong look at them."
"Them?"
"Yes," I nodded. "There were two. But I didn't see the other man. I don't think he ever touched me."
"Why did they run away so suddenly?" he asked.
"There was the sound of people approaching. He called me a bitch and ran off."
"If you didn't get a good look at him, how do you know it was Curtis Pope who attacked you?"
"Because I ran into him again a few weeks later."
That stopped him short. "You... what? Where?"
"At a café on Couch Street. I was leaving, and he was looking for a table. I have to admit I didn't immediately recognize him at the time," I answered. I was beginning to feel like such a fool. It had only been a few weeks. How was it possible I didn't recognize him?
Because in the last few months being stabbed to death in an alley was the most normal thing to happen to me... the last normal thing to happen to me. Curtis Pope was the least of my concerns, and I'd allowed myself to forget about him. I wanted to forget about him.
"Did he say anything to you?" I couldn't tell if he believed me or was humoring me.
"He was... ummm... flirting with me. Tried to get me to stay." I hemmed for a bit trying to remember Curtis' face in the café. "I don't know if he didn't recognize me or was just pretending not to. But he did seem like he was trying to place my face. I don't know... he made me uncomfortable, so I left right away."
"When was this?"
I pointed to the date written on the board. "The evening before you found him."
The Detective's eyes widened a bit. "Are you certain?"
I nodded, "Positive." He sat back and thought to himself for a moment. My eyes strayed back to the board. There were other photographs. Most of them looked like locations and evidence. One was of graffiti sprayed across some kind of metal wall.
"Curtis Pope approached you only hours before he died?" I nodded. "But you didn't recognize him as your attacker at the time?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not. I recognized him as the man from the café immediately when I saw the article in the paper. It took a few moments to realize he was the same man who attacked me."
"Until that time did you have any indication that you were being followed? Did you ever seen him?" he prodded. I shook my head. "Did you notice anything or anyone else strange at the time?"
I shook my head again. "No."
He shook his head and exhaled slowly. "You fit Curtis Pope's victim preference perfectly. If he was stalking you again, then I think you are a very lucky woman. Someone may be looking out for you."
A cricket in the back of my mind chirped at me. I was afraid I knew exactly what had happened to Curtis Pope.
"Thank you, Ms Landauer. I may be in contact with you if I need any more information."
I stood up to leave, and my eyes drifted to the photograph of the graffiti again. Strange. The Detective saw my expression and turned to follow my gaze.
The lettering was sprayed with red paint onto a chipped burned yellow surface. It looked like a metal storage unit or machinery.
the Destroyer shall come upon every city
no city shall escape
"That's an unusual reference," I said as I pointed out with my chin to the photograph. The cricket in the back of my mind was chirping again.
"Do you recognize this?"
"I think so. It's from the Bible. I can't remember which book."
"Jeremiah," he answered quickly.
"You're familiar with it as well?"
He nodded slightly. "We have identified it from the book of Jeremiah, but not its relevance." His face was drawn.
"The quote is from a prophecy about God's punishment and the destruction of the Kingdom of Moab," I said.
"What is Moab?"
"It's a place in modern-day Jordan. They were descendants of one of Lot's daughters... or so the story goes anyway."
"Lot?" he interrupted. He looked more and more confused. "You mean as in Sodom and Gomorrah?" I nodded. "He had daughters? I thought he just had a wife. The one that was turned into salt."
"Yes... That's the Sunday school version." I was impressed that he knew that much. Few people do. No one ever knows the rest of the story. I wasn't surprised since most people tended to learn these stories as children and teachers would want to leave the rest out. "After they escaped from the cities and Lot's wife was punished, both of Lot's daughters got their father drunk and seduced him."
The Detective's eyes widened in disbelief.
I shrugged and continued. "Well, they thought the world was over, and they would never get husbands. They wanted children, so I suppose they saw their father as the best option. Moab was the son of Lot and his eldest daughter. As their ancestor, the land was named after him." I looked back at the photograph. "Moab was eventually conquered and destroyed."
"Interesting, but I don't think whoever wrote this was talking about Moab or Lot's daughters."
"I don't either. It's focused on the Destroyer," I continued as I pointed to that word. Its script was larger and more elaborate than the rest of the text. "Many believe the Destroyer to be God's Angel of Death. It's about God sending the Angel of Death to punish."
An ominous feeling was creeping through me. "What is this from?"
He turned to the photograph without looking at me. "We found it written next to Curtis Pope's body."
I couldn't say anything for a moment. My adrenaline surged again. Everything seemed to keep coming back to Azrael. "You probably shouldn't have told me that."
He turned to look at me, as if for the first time. He blinked and smiled. "No, probably not. You're very familiar with this for a translator."
"No, I'm not. I did a lot of research recently for a book I was translating. Some of this was discussed."
"You must be an excellent translator." A second or two passed as he watched me than a warm smile spread across his face. I smiled a little shyly in return and turned to leave. He held his hand out to me, "Thank you for coming in." His fingers felt firm and strong and strangely familiar as they wrapped around mine.
Fog drifted in front of me, chilling the air. Detective Aguirre was standing on the sidewalk in front of an expertly manicured Victorian house. He stood quietly watching a car drive away down the street. He put his hands in his pockets and turned toward the house with a grim face.
I let go of his hand. "Thank you for taking the time to talk with me," I said as the vision broke.
"Of course."
I left the station and turned onto the sidewalk. I had learned far more than I wanted to know. I was sure I knew exactly why, if not how, Curtis died, but I wasn't sure how I felt about it. I wanted to be honest with myself, so I finally admitted it. Mostly I felt relieved.
The biblical reference to the Angel of Death was the more disturbing and pressing concern.
I pulled out my phone and dialed quickly.
"Miss me already," Leif's voice teased through the phone.
"Desperately." I paused to collect my thoughts before I continued. "Have you read the paper this morning?"
"No, why? Am I in it?" He was in a playful mood.
"No, you're not. Did you know Curtis Pope is dead?"
"I'm afraid I didn't," he answered coolly. "And who, Ma biche, is Curtis Pope?"
"The man who killed me."
There was a slight pause from Leif. "How do you know this?"
"There's a picture of him in the paper."
"Alright, let me get it." I waited a few minutes while Leif hunted down his newspaper. I heard pages rustling in the background. Finally, I heard a faint grunt. "There were two. But I didn't get a very good look. They were busy running away. Are you sure that's him?"
"Yes, I got a much better look at him the second time he found me."
Leif sucked in air and grunted again. "Are you telling me he tried to attack you again?"
"Attacked? No."
"But he was following you?"
I nodded to myself as I answered. "I think so. Probably. To tell you the truth, I don't know what his intentions were. Mostly I think he was trying to charm me. I never got the chance to find out. A few hours later they found him floating in the Willamette River."
There was a long impregnable pause.
"But that's not what concerns me at the moment," I eventually continued, breaking the silence. "Someone scrawled a cryptic message about the Angel of Death near his body."
Leif cursed softly in French. "Are you at home?" All playfulness was lost. He was suddenly stern and commanding.
"No."
"Go home right away. I'll meet you there in about an hour," he ordered and immediately hung up the phone. I pulled my phone away from my ear and slipped it back into my pocket.
It only took me ten minutes to drive home. One of the blessings of living in the Northwest District, almost everywhere I needed to go was nearby. The spaces in front of my apartment were taken, but I finally found a spot around the corner. I sailed out of the car, closing the door and pushing the button to lock it in a fluid motion.
Electrical tendrils blossomed between my shoulder blades accompanied by the smell of warm burning metal.
I had only a moment of confusion, wondering how Leif was able to arrive at my apartment ahead of me. Something fluttered in front of my face, and cold hands grip me from behind.
Dun dun dun.
Who do you think it is?
TEASER: "You want him to watch."
What's going on there?