Tortured Dreams Read online

“You think our killer has a copy of this book and there is no way to track it because it isn’t likely to be a library book,” McMichaels turned the page.

  “That would be correct. Worse though, the obscurity of the book, the fact it isn’t in English, the complexity of the German; your killer is probably brilliant.”

  “All of them are anymore. That’s why we came to you,” Reece opened the folder back up. He took out another picture and handed it to me.

  It was a close-up shot of a hand. On the hand, drawn in blood, was a hieroglyphic. I frowned at it.

  “It isn’t Egyptian or Sumerian.” I pulled the picture closer to my nose. McMichaels handed me a small magnifying glass. I held it over the photo.

  “Oh, that’s bad,” I looked at it closer. It wasn’t a hieroglyph, it was a pictograph.

  “Why is it bad?”

  “It is the symbol for death, not death as a state of existence, but Death the being.”

  “You recognize it?”

  “Vaguely, I have seen it only a few times in my studies. It was used by a Germanic tribe. They sacked Rome, you might have heard of them, the Vandals. For the most part, Vandals didn’t give a shit about reading or writing, so pictographs are pretty rare. Sorry, that was bitchy sounding, even to me.”

  “It is a lot to take in, Doctor,” McMichaels dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  “It is, but that doesn’t give me the right to treat you like a child who isn’t paying attention to a lecture,” I frowned hard at the pictograph.

  “Shock will do that to you,” Reece assured me.

  “Anymore of these symbols?” I put the photo down.

  “Loads. He seems to be sending a message. A few have been translated, most haven’t. He is gloating about how smart he is with them.”

  “Sure it’s a man? Women are quite capable of torture and more likely to have a flare for the dramatic.”

  “Sexual assault on the females that were found drawn and quartered says it is a man.”

  “Semen found?”

  “No, but something very odd was.” Reece looked at me with a strange look. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

  “It can’t be any worse than the impaled photo.” I told him.

  “We found excess amounts of yeast. We are guessing he has a yeast infection.”

  “Or not,” I gave a twisted smile as I said it. “The ancient Greeks created dildos out of bread.”

  “Not this type of yeast,” Reece smiled back. There was a moment of connection, I suddenly felt very comfortable with both of them. Since this never happened, it struck me as odd.

  “Ok, then. So the guy has a problem and needs a doctor,” I said.

  “Unlikely he even knows he has it. Men can carry it without knowing they have one,” Reece told me.

  “Really?” I looked at him again and adjusted my opinion. I had known that, but it wasn’t exactly something most guys knew.

  “I have a medical degree,” Reece answered the unasked question. “I do most of the autopsies.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed, Doctor,” I continued to smile despite the horror and death in front of me.

  “No one ever does,” McMichaels rolled his eyes. “He always looks like he is coming off a drunk. Several days of drunken debauchery to be exact.”

  “That is exactly what I thought when I met him today,” I told them.

  “Back to the photos and less on my attire and appearance,” Reece chimed in. “Want to see the other symbols?”

  “It is unlikely I will know any of them. This one I know only because of my studies in Medieval Europe. The Vandals helped shape history when they sacked Rome.”

  Undeterred, Xavier Reece handed me a stack of photos. All of them were close up shots of different symbols on different body parts. When compartmentalized like they were, you didn’t even realize that you were looking at dead body parts.

  “Egyptian,” I tossed a photo to him.

  “Very good,” he said.

  “I almost became an anthropologist. When I decided that would be boring, I considered becoming an Egyptologist,” I told him.

  “Sumerian or Assyrian would be my guess on that one,” I handed him another photo.

  “This one is Celt,” I frowned at it. “Or rather, Pict. There aren’t many experts on the Picts.”

  “We found one in England,” McMichaels told me.

  “Good, because my translation would be rough,” I looked at a different photo and my frown deepened.

  “What?” Reece asked.

  “This one is not from a language or at least not a real language. It has been described a few times.” I got up and went to another book shelf. I selected the book I wanted and flopped back into my worn out spot on the couch.

  “I don’t remember the page,” I handed it to them. “But Lovecraft goes into great detail about the Mark of Cthulu. An educated guess tells me that’s the mark.”

  “We’d been having trouble with that one,” McMichaels said.

  “That’s because you’ve been asking anthropologists, archeologists and historians. You’d need a lit professor for it,” I told him. “They’d be more capable of giving you all the details. I’ve read Lovecraft many times, but Cthulu is either the Devil or some sort of Demon. I’ve never really figured that out.”

  “Latin?” I asked looking at the word that was scrawled on another arm.

  “Yes, there is some Old Greek, some very Old Russian, but the weirdest one is in Aramaic.”

  “Aramaic? Are you sure?” I took a deep breath and held it.

  “Yes, we found someone to translate it, sort of. We are still looking for an expert, but it seems to be about the deadest language on the planet.”

  “Check the Vatican,” I let out the breath. “In theory, Christ spoke Aramaic and as far as I know, the experts in the language are all priests. It isn’t spoken or written any more. I have no idea where your killer came up with it.”

  “I don’t think the Vatican will let us in to question a priest,” Reece smiled at me.

  “True, but one of the big Archdioceses might and they might have an Aramaic scholar. I’d check the East Coast for it, maybe Boston or New York.”

  “Irish Catholics? Isn’t that a bit stereotypical of you?” McMichaels asked.

  “Perhaps, but I don’t consider Irish Catholics to be a bad thing. Besides, an Italian Catholic would work. After all, Vatican City is in Rome.”

  “What else do you see?” Reece asked.

  “I see some more archaic German, but I’m no help there. I learned German from a former East Berliner. I speak High German with an Eastern flare. I can give you insight into Vandals, Visigoths, Franks, Norse, and other Germanic tribes, but most of them were not real literate or concerned with it. So it isn’t like there is a Rosetta Stone.”

  When I got to the last picture, I stopped and stared at it. In plain English, written on a leg was “Revelations 22:22 – And mankind came unto the Lord and begged his forgiveness. And the Lord heard them. He sent forth a Defender of Mankind. And then mankind began to question the Defender and went back unto the Lord and asked ‘why have you sent him. He is evil, we dream of him.’ And the Lord said to them ‘he is wicked, defending mankind is his punishment’. And mankind said ‘take this evil thing from us. He cannot help us.’ And the Lord said ‘nothing can help you.’”

  Chapter 6