Soul of Evil
Chapter 3
- Solace to a Finite Heart -
The sound of flowing water is reputed to have therapeutic benefits encompassing that, among others, the ability to soothe and calm the human spirit. As far as Harry was concerned it was all bollocks. The running faucet had filled the sink to overflowing, sending cascading sheets of water down the tiled bathroom floor. He gripped both sides of the washbasin, leaning heavily on it because he wasn't sure if he was strong enough to remain upright on his own. His reflection on the mirror stared back at him with bleary green orbs. His eyes stung, though not from dirt, but from unshed tears and the weariness brought by his drained emotions. It had been a long night, with the prospect of an even longer day to come. Kingsley was dead. And it was gruesome.
For a long time he had imagined himself to have gained a certain resistance to this feeling of loss. Years of losing those closest to him should have desensitized any notion of helplessness. Oh, how wrong he was. But he wouldn't allow grief to overtake him. Not yet. The monster was still out there, loose and active - two traits that should be rectified to reflect the opposite. No. There would be a time for grieving afterwards. Right now he had to calm down and think.
He blinks his eyes, and presses a thumb and forefinger into the sockets. Tired. With a sigh, he gathers water into his cupped hands and splashed the cold liquid onto his face. Upon finishing, he goes to the narrow kitchen and sets water to boil. This was a ritual for him. Every time he had to collect himself, he would retreat back to his apartment. Somehow he was able to extract comfort in the repetitious monotony of his abode.
While the water was heating, Harry padded into the bedroom and lay on the bed. It was mid-morning and the only source of light was the peeking sun filtering through the blinds of the room's solitary window, illuminating the ceiling and one side of the room but leaving the other half, with the bed, in shadow. He grunts as he loosens his tie, and proceeds to rub his temples with his thumbs. Then he regulated his breathing, taking very shallow breaths deep in the stomach.
By now the water would be coming to a boil, so off he goes back into the kitchen. It was seldom that he ate here, preferring to take his nourishment at Tim's bar that usually consisted of two parts booze and one part water with the occasional baguette and xoritzo he bought from the nearby deli, which explained the lack of food and kitchen appliance in this area of the apartment. What he did have in ample supply was coffee and tea, stocked in case he needed to stay sober. Of course, that didn't mean he was often drunk. Healthy drinking for the past three years have increased his tolerance level to the substance that he barely got toped no matter how much he drank. Coffee cup in hand, he enters the living room, where he settles on a solitary armchair facing the bay window at a slanted angle.
Three years ago he came upon this particular building at Villiers Street. It was a four-story apartment house of old architectural design, a bit on the rundown side but it nevertheless caught his attention. What attracted him was its superb vantage point of new London - a marriage between regal and grand architecture and the economical and unmerciful, often inarticulate and utilitarian, modern buildings. Across the river and beyond, bloodless, hulking cubes of aluminum and glass broke the skyline. It was this contrast that imaged his emotions back then, and in hindsight, it was his emotions that truly attracted him to this place.
He had been distressed to find out the owner had scheduled the building for demolition, sighting the lack of funds to maintain it standing. He bought the place, then and there. At that time there were four tenets, families, living inside. He'd never met any of them personally, only passing them by chance when he fancied a walk down the stairs, and it never occurred to him to start a conversation beyond the curt nod he gave each of them whenever the opportunity arose. And so, he was thrust into the role of an impromptu landlord, and, by standards, he was doing a bad job at it. Not once did he collect rent.
Four long, noisy sips and the cup was empty, save for the thick dregs. In his lonesome, an odd sense of déjà vu came upon him, that feeling of a ring closing in on him. A ruthless criminal for whom murder and mayhem would be an exercise, a vulgar superior whose insufferable behavior only rivaled his incompetence, and a ministry whose only care was to save face - everything was an analog of his seventh year.
He laid his head on the backrest of the chair, his fingers lightly pressed together, his eyes focused on the horizon outside the window, and he began to deliberately empty his mind, thought by thought, until he had achieved a state of neutrality and balance. The tight sinew of his body began to relax and soften. Once he was totally calm and the cogs in his mind were turning smoothly, he began to review the events of the past day. With the exception of Kingsley, eleven men had fallen: ten aurors and Antoine Spiel, and no trace of a fight had even ensued, the wards themselves were untouched. Not even deatheaters could do that, which spoke dividends about the killer's capabilities. Another thing that disturbed him was the way the killer treated Kingsley. Up until yesterday, every execution was pristine, even clinical, a characteristic that was prevalent even in the bodies he found in Wells. Instead, what happened in the alleyway was of a different nature - marked with savagery and deep-seated malice. He'd seen nothing like it. Kingsley's body was mangled to unrecognizable, as if a feral animal had attacked him, the face and back was almost stripped of flesh, the white bones exposed and pronounced. The scene itself was enough to render a grown man speechless in horror. And through it all, the only one who could tell him anything about what happened was a kid too shocked to even piss properly.
He brought the cup against his lips to take another sip only to find it was already empty. He stood back up and headed for another refill. There was something he had missed. The safe house. How did the killer get in? How did he bring down ten well-trained aurors? They would have spotted an assailant a block away, not to mention the wards would have reacted. Somehow the killer got close enough to ambush them. That or… Harry came down to one distasteful realization: it was possible; it was even likely, that the killer was also an auror.
*****
As soon as Harry stepped into the Department Office Stewart was already by his side. The younger man was saying something and Harry barely heard any of it. He was more intent on reaching the elevator before someone else had the chance to use it.
"Sir?" Stewart said, trying to gain his attention.
A woman was about to enter the parting doors of the lift but Harry beat her to it and punched the button to the basement level. "Sorry. This is taken." He hardly looked at the woman when he spoke. Stewart, on the other hand, was apologizing profusely up until the doors closed.
"Sir?" Stewart tried again.
"M-m."
"The Minister came by earlier. He wants you in his office as soon as possible. I told him-"
"He can wait." Harry knew what Scrimgeour wanted. Over his short career, Harry would occasionally be called to the minister's office. In all those times, he'd been handed full control of a high profile case. This one was no different. Of course, this wasn't a show of respect to Harry's competence. The whole thing was a two-pronged fork. On one side, if he solved the case, the ministry would be saved from embarrassment. On the other side, if he failed, the ministry would have a scapegoat to put all the blame on. "Is Tonks here?"
"Yes, sir. She's talking to Spiel's son right now."
Harry nodded. It was good to have Tonks back. She'd be perfect in talking to the kid, probably the only one he'd trust to do the work.
Once they got out of the elevator, they were met by a medley of odors; the stale smells of the Forensic Medical Department. The smell of these halls was the product of a heady mixture of potions, floor wax, paint, soap, dust, acrid ink, and finally the strong stench of coffee boiling in a pot for weeks, maybe even months.
This was the sanctuary of Old Man Richard Bartram. Legend has it that he'd been here even before Mad-eye Moody joined the department. So far, no one has come forward to debunk that pseudo fact. The door to Bartram's office is open, and he is talking to one of his assistants while he examines a list on a clipboard, holding it close even though he was wearing glasses as thick as butterbeer bottles. He barks at the assistant to do something by noon and starts scraping the nib of a quill on the clipboard, then cocks a head toward the door. "Who's that?" he demanded.
"Harry."
"Well, come in then! Merlin's sake, don't hover. Coffee?" The old man traces a hand at the ledge of a table until his fingers graze a cup. Dipping a finger into it and finding it to be quite wet, he deduced that the cup was his. He once again follows the edge of the table to find another cup, and finding one, turns it upside down. A few cigarette butts fall to the floor. He fills the cup and thrusts it at Harry. "Only one cup left, I'm afraid. Does your young friend want one?"
"No. He's fine," Harry answered. He had a feeling Stewart did not share Bartram's minimum standard of hygiene.
In his own right, Bartram was an epic character in the storied history of the department as Moody and Harry were. He is famous, of course, for his cauldron. The contents of which could hardly be identified. Being an Englishman, there is no doubt that the pot once held tea. Over the years, Bartram found it too troublesome to remove the cauldron from the fire so he just kept adding water and tea and later on, coffee, and after that, who knows? Needless to say, the taste and texture of the brew was ghastly.
Like Harry and Moody, Bartram was a bachelor who logged in copious amounts of man-hours deep in the bowels of the department. And as such, he imposed upon himself duties that far encompassed that of a normal staff pathologist. His authority expanding whenever a vacuum was created by a departing man or a new need arose and the position had yet to be filled. The whole department would collapse if this man were gone for more than a day.
"I suppose you're here for the body."
"Yes."
Another cup of coffee, the old man shook his head and motioned for them to follow. The temperature in the back room was frigid, more than usual. Now it was apparent why Bartram took two full helpings of his brew. "Nasty business, if you know what I mean. You might not like what you'll see."
"It can't be helped."
Kingsley was held in a separate room. The staff did a god job in cleaning the body. However, it only revealed the true extent of the damage. Harry initially thought Kingsley was slashed to death with a blade of some sort. What was in front of him was made by no weapon or spell he had ever seen. Kingsley's back was a pulsating, seething rip, like something had erupted from inside out. What did his friend encounter in that alley?
The old man put on a pair of gloves and a mask, then approached the body from the other side across Harry. "No marks of bruising. No puncture wounds. No magical residue. We've managed to contain the wound by lowering the temperature a few degrees. But as you can see, just barely." Bartram paused. Harry's jaw was clenched and his hands were balled into fists. "Do you want to continue?"
"What did this?"
Bartram's lips stretched into a thin line.
"Please."
Bartram finally relented. "His blood is boiling. The blood vessels along the spine up to the head had literally burst open. And it isn't just that," he pointed to a singed area of skin around the wound then to the protruding vertebral column, "whatever did this was hot enough to melt skin and bleach bone. It's quite a feat leaving the flesh uncooked." He stopped as if in deep thought. "You won't be closing this one easily." His voice revealed bitterness at the ending and Harry understood the significance of that. It was the old codger's way of telling him to be careful.
"Is there anything else?" Harry asked.
"Not until we finish the postmortem."
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"You want me to hold the press release?"
"For a couple of days." By departmental practice, information concerning murder, suicide, or rape cases is not released to the newspapers until Bartram had finished his examination and the next of kin are informed. It was a custom of Harry to go about his business before the prophet made a carnival out of the case. Besides, he owed it to Kingsley to tell Lissa.
At this point, both of them had just noticed Stewart taking a closer look at the body, wand out and about to poke at something under the curved spine. In fact, he was too close.
"Boy! What are you doing?" Bartram boomed.
"I saw a sliver. If I could just-" The moment his wand touched a quivering vessel, hot blood sprayed out, catching Stewart on the face and shirt.
Bartram was livid. This was his territory, and no one does anything here without the old man's consent. Harry grabbed Stewart by the collar and rushed the younger man outside while telling Bartram to notify him once the autopsy was done.
"That was stupid!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I thought I saw something-"
"It's all right. Just don't do that again. C'mon. I hope you've got an extra shirt."
*****
"Have you heard of Harry Potter?"
The boy looked at Tonks with innocent eyes and tentatively bobbed his head up and down.
"Would you like to meet him?"
"I can?"
For the better part of the morning, Tonks had spent her time talking to Jason Spiel and this was the first time she had heard the boy utter a word. It was good judgment to take the boy out the medical ward. Somehow, the fussing of the healers increased the boy's apprehension to open up.
No one could really blame the kid. She herself was still reeling from what happened to Kingsley. They've been partners the longest and the news was just too hard to take.
She sucked in a breath and put on the best smile she could muster. "M-hm. See there," she said, pointing at a desk, "that's where he works. And when he comes back, I'll introduce you."
"Promise?"
"Now, why would I lie to such a cute boy like you?" she said before placing a kiss on Jason's forehead. She watched the boy fish out a crumpled note from his pocket and extended a hand to Tonks. "Is this for me?"
*****
Harry opened the door to his office followed close by Stewart who was already unbuttoning his stained shirt. Both were caught unawares by the sudden scream coming from the boy that clung desperately at Tonks, tears streaming down his cheeks and trying to burrow his head deeper into Tonks' bosom, a finger pointing at a shocked Stewart.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare him," Stewart pleaded, scratching the back of his head.
Tonks gathered the child into her arms and rushed outside, glaring at Stewart as she passed. All the while, the boy kept crying up a storm.
"Don't worry. She isn't angry with you. Just your timing," Harry said, to settle Stewart's nerves. The greenhorn was having a string of bad luck.
Moments later, Tonks returned with a scowl on her face. "Have you two any idea how long it took to get him to talk?" She leaned on her desk, a hand gently rubbing her forehead. "That may have been the only chance we had to find anything out of him."
Harry raised his eyes toward Tonks. He'd been looking at the drawer that held his stash of liquor, contemplating if it would be wise to take a swig, just to numb him for the rest of the day. "Why?"
"The mother's flying in today. She's taking Jason with her overseas."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Don't you get it? She doesn't want anything to do with us. Spiel never told her he was a wizard. That's why they broke up. That's why… that's why…"
The outburst from Tonks was unexpected. The last time Harry saw her this way was when they thought Remus had died. "Stew, go tell the minister I'll see him after lunch." Stewart was about to say something but one look from Harry changed his mind. He silently went out and gently closed the door.
Harry knew the minister wouldn't like his reply and might take it out on Stewart but, right now, his immediate concern was Tonks. Problem was, it was Tonks who usually knew what to say in these situations. Him? He knew next to nothing. A few steps later and he found himself standing in front of Tonks. He still wasn't sure what to say. And she was quietly sobbing now. "We'll get him… for Kingsley."
She snorted, a crooked smile graced her lips. "You're terrible at this, you know."
"Sorry."
"Oh, you."
Harry found her arms around him in a tight embrace. He gingerly returned the gesture.
"I miss him, Harry."
"I miss him too." After a brief silence, he added: "Will you be okay?"
When they parted, she was rubbing her eyes but was otherwise all right. "Yeah." It was then that she remembered what Jason had given her. The crinkled note was on her table.
"What's that," Harry asked, glancing at where she was looking.
"Jason gave it to me before you two came in." She opened the note, half-expecting a drawn picture with crayons. Instead, inside was something she'd come to be familiar with in the course of the case. The message belonged to the killer.
*****
The historic railroad hotel next to Liverpool Street Station, The Great Eastern, has had its share of guests since it opened its doors in 1884. Politicians, celebrities, athletes, and commoners alike, but none rivaled the number of robed aurors that now stood outside Guestroom 87.
With the location and number of rooms available, the Great Eastern Hotel was a favorite haunt of transients, including those that just want to make a quick getaway from the bustle of the city, and in some cases, just to get away. It wasn't at all strange to find a room reserved or paid up for months on end. No one here asked questions. Especially when a `do not disturb' sign hung on a doorknob outside a room.
It was to such a room that the killer's message led them, where aurors now prepared a breach. Harry watched as aurors lined up on both sides of the door, ready to spring into action at his command.
"There's no sign of wards, sir," Stewart reported.
If past track were to be relied upon, the killer did not need that kind of protection. And in another angle they were considering, that if the killer was muggle-born, there was the prospect of the door being booby-trapped by a non-magical device. However, he believed that wasn't likely, muggle-born or not. He was beginning to form an idea of the killer in his mind. Beginning, even, to understand his character. He believed the killer wouldn't stoop to such things. Still, hearing that there were no wards did not put Harry at ease in the very least. Harry closed his eyes, deeply weighing the situation.
"Everyone's ready, Harry," Tonks said from behind.
Decision made, he gave the signal.
An alohomora spell unlocked the door but it did not swing open. The lead auror pushed harder. The door remained stubbornly closed; a sticky, ripping sound could be heard from inside. A final kick, and the door gave way. Like a shot, the stench of decay rushed at every one present, making those closest reel and gasp for air as the offensive smell assaulted their senses.
With a hand covering his nose, Harry charged inside. The room had been sealed by duct tape. Door, windows, exhausts, every conceivable hole was plastered. The air was so thick and humid it made the act of breathing a labor in itself. His eyes were equally irritated; they felt like they've been submerged open in muddy water. And the very dust made his skin cringe.
Everything else in the room seemed untouched. From the bed to the closet to the curtains, no one could tell if anyone had ever been there before. Except, from the faint sound coming from the bathroom: a faint buzzing could be heard inside along with the sound of a dripping faucet.
"Flies," Stewart's muffled voice, the lower half of his face covered by a handkerchief, came from across the room. He was pointing to the bathroom.
The buzzing got louder as Harry got closer to the lavatory, and indeed flies were present in excess. Peering in, he could see the source of the foul smell: a man was lying in a tub a third full of rancid water, face down with his back open for anyone who entered to see. The state of decomposition was far advanced. By estimation, the body had been in there not less than a month.
*****
"If I'd have known you'd come for a visit this soon, I would have put a new pot for you," Bartram announced when Harry came in. The old man was scribbling away on his desk where stacks of parchment defied gravity with their height. Bartram grunted, a sign he had passed gas. "Monthly report," he explained.
It looked more than a month to Harry. He didn't point that out, however. If anyone could sympathize with Bartram, it was Harry. They both shared the same aversion to paperwork, often letting weeks and months pass by before signing a single memo. If it weren't for Tonks, his team would be backlogged with paperwork for years.
Harry took the seat in front of Bartram's desk. The nib still scratched furiously on the parchment and Harry wondered when the old man would emerge from his sisyphusian task.
"The minister should promote you already if he's going to pull this stunt over and over again," Bartram said, with not a hint of taking a break from signing papers. Then he continued: "Right, sir? Boss? Whatever you want to be called."
"Only Stewart calls me `sir' around here," Harry chuckled. He had just finished meeting with the minister and he was feeling slightly better. Not a whole lot, but better. As he expected, the minister had given him the authority to do as he pleased with the case. Robards stood there to the side without as much as a peep. "Besides, it's only temporary."
"Should be permanent, if you ask me. Then you can do something about these blasted reports. Don't they know I'm old? My hand is aching from all this writing!"
"You could always get a secretary."
Again Bartram grunted. Appalled that Harry would even suggest the thought. "No way I'm letting prying eyes in my ship, boy. Didn't they teach you anything in training?"
"A lot, actually."
"Hmph! Aurors today are soft, in my opinion. Excluding you of course."
"Of course."
"These yellows think they know everything. They don't respect the old ways."
"Yellows?"
"It's what the French call their rookies. Jaunes. Yellows."
Harry's expression says he still doesn't get it.
"Yellow… the color of baby shit," Bartram explains.
"Ah."
Bartram shoves the routine papers and memos away with a growl and starts rummaging through his drawers. When he had finished, a dossier was in his hand. He tosses it toward Harry. "Your bather's name is Robert Spencer, historian, aged 42, time of death is one month, three weeks and five days. Everything else's in there."
"Is there anything you left out from the report?" As insulting as the question might seem, it wasn't. Bartram had the habit of leaving out bits of information in his reports, so he could finish them quicker. Moody had been kind enough to tell Harry about this fact when he was still new to the department.
"A great deal. I could tell you things with differing importance like the true purpose of Stonehenge, or how half-giants came to be, but I suspect your interest is more restrictive than that. All right. How about this? Your bather was already dead for hours before he was opened."
In the past weeks Harry felt as if he'd been handed a jigsaw puzzle to solve, only the pieces didn't belong to the same set. Now the killer had sent another piece of the puzzle and a picture is starting to form. But of what? It felt like the murders were a countdown to an end he had no idea of.
This last murder only added to the confusion. They were led to Room 87 of the Grand Eastern Hotel where they found a body that was in the M.O. of the killer. Aside from the body, there was nothing else in the room. There was a glaring difference from past murders however - the killer did not leave a clue. Did that mean this was his last kill? Clearly not. The time of death does not correspond to that conclusion. Or is this kill the first? Then why wasn't there a clue pointing to the second victim? And what of the bodies in Llanwrtyd Wells?
"Well? What do you make of it?"
"I - I'm not sure," Harry answered. Something was terribly off.
*****
After a quick briefing of his new team and relocating the office to the larger conference room to accommodate more work, he sent everyone home except for those he picked to work the night shift. Adamant as he was to keep going through the night, it just wasn't possible. People needed rest. And to some, like Tonks, time, even if a bit, to mourn the passing of a friend. He himself was close to burnout and he still had a lot of things to go over and more things to do. He also had an errand to keep.
It was closing time in the National Museum and Harry had busied himself with looking at the painting Kingsley was so fond of while waiting for Lissa to get off from work. This was where the lovers first met and continued to meet everyday. It was sick irony it would be here that he had to tell her of his passing.
He idly thought about his own state. Would someone tell Hermione he loved her when he died. That somehow death would allow him to accomplish what he failed to in life. Remus or Tonks, probably. But what would that accomplish? More sorrow. No. He refused to bring that upon her. Not on Hermione.
The Angel of Pain stared down at Harry with sad eyes and he thought that the painting could see into his soul. The angel unfurled her wings, black and sleek, like stormy clouds set in the sky. She presented herself to him - burnished skin the color of bronze, glowing like heat; hands bedecked with talons, curved and polished; her tresses, silvery in hue, pure and perfect; and the pike that impaled her, exiting where her heart would be. She continues to look at him with her sad eyes, eyes the color of ashes. He tried to understand her but couldn't. Perhaps that was her true pain. The inability to express herself. To never express her love. And maybe, that was his fate as well.
Harry shook his head, suddenly not feeling well. He was drifting again, something he trained himself not to do but continued to do regardless. Guilt began to invade him. It was for Kingsley that he had come here. Not to pity himself. Turning around, he found himself facing a smiling Lissa.
"What a surprise Harry. You came with Kingsley?"
Harry inwardly braced himself for what he was about to do, his stomach churning even as his mouth began to open.
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Immensely sorry. It's been a long wait, myself included. It's hard to settle in another country and I'm still adjusting. Can't say I'll update soon but I'll try to write more if time permits. `nyway, ja ne.
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