“Tell me that’s not supposed to be funny.”
“Okay.”
Kwon bent down and unzipped the body bag. “Name’s Jeremiah Simpson. Ring any bells?”
Curran frowned. “Wasn’t he the pedophile that judge went real easy on over in Cambridge? Got herself disbarred for it, too, I heard.”
“He was. You guys would know more about him than I would. But judging from how the uniforms are talking, this guy wasn’t the nicest dude on the planet.”
“Understatement,” said Curran. “If I recall the case right, Cambridge PD busted him for ten counts of sodomy on children, a handful of kiddie porn possession charges, and they suspected him in the deaths of at least four kids. They never had enough evidence to press those on him though.”
“Dude’s dressed like a woman,” said Kwon. “Even down to the bra, for crying out loud.”
Curran nodded. “That was his thing. He apparently thought that he projected a less threatening demeanor towards kids as a woman.”
“Piece of work,” said Kwon. “And he’s got the same marks as our friend from the other night.”
“Nothing.”
Kwon nodded. “Exactly.”
Curran glanced around. Through the trees he could see Jamaica Pond’s icy glacial waters. “But what’s he doing over here?”
Kwon shrugged. “Someone mentioned he’d been paroled recently. There’s a school up on Moss Hill. Maybe he was scouting it out.”
Curran frowned. Pedophiles deserved to die. On any other day, he would have been thrilled to see a piece of garbage like Simpson end up in Kwon’s body bag.
But now.
“He was looking for victims.”
Kwon nodded. Looks that way.”
Curran looked at the sky. The sun had already descended and the first tendrils of the night had bled across the sky. It would be dark in fifteen minutes. The cold November winds blew through the trees and rustled the yellow crime scene tape strung from light pole to light pole.
“He must have lived around here.”
Kwon glanced up from writing something on his clipboard. “What makes you say that?”
“He was found like this? Just out and all alone?”
“Yeah.”
“No car nearby,” said Curran. “We’re a bit isolated here. Maybe he was out for a walk. That’s when it happened.”
“No identification on him,” said Kwon.
“We can get his address from his parole officer.” Curran dug into the cigarette again keeping the tip bright red. Another damned death.
“I can do the PM right away if you want,” said Kwon.
“You don’t mind?”
“I’m still backlogged, but I know it means a lot to you.” He stood and placed his hand under Curran’s elbow. “What the hell is going on here, man?”
Curran tossed his cigarette and watched the tip burn out as it hit a puddle of brackish water. “Wish I knew.”
“No theories?”
“Lauren has one.”
“How about sharing?”
“She’s done some research. Found out there have been recorded instances of this activity in the history of the Roman Catholic Church.”
“Yeah?”
“Book she found says the culprit is something called a Soul Eater.”
Kwon stopped walking. “You aren’t freaking with me, are you Steve?”
“Wish I was, pal. That’s what she found out.”
“Great.” Kwon sighed.
“For a science geek, you’re taking the prospect of supernatural involvement pretty well.”
“First of all, I’m not a geek.” Kwon crossed his arms. “And secondly, I’m not devoid of interest in stuff like this.”
“You dig the occult?” Kwon never ceased to amaze Curran.
“Not like how you make it sound,” said Kwon. “But my upbringing in Korea was surrounded with myths and legends. Some of them weren’t all that far-fetched.”
“Yeah, but something like this living in the modern world?” Curran shook his head. “Seems like it’s way out there to me.”
“Even today, sometimes we have to go on faith rather than facts.”
“You’re starting to sound like Lauren.”
“Great minds,” said Kwon. “So this thing…what’s it doing this for?”
“We’re still trying to find out.”
Kwon sighed. “I hate it when things aren’t all neat and orderly.”
Curran tried to grin but it failed him again. “Welcome to my world.”
By the time ten o’clock rolled around that night, Curran’s eyes felt sticky and hot. Darkness covered the rest of the floor at police headquarters. And in the room where Curran sat, the only illumination came from the dull glow of his computer screen.
Eerie shadows drawn out to funhouse lengths stretched across the room. Outside, cars whizzed past on Columbus Avenue, their headlights streaking across the walls behind Curran.
Kwon hadn’t gotten to the post mortem on the transvestite pedophile yet. A relative of the mayor had died from an apparent stroke and Kwon had been tapped to make sure.
Curran meanwhile had spent the last few hours composing requests for information about strange deaths. He’d sent them to all the various bulletin boards used by the police network around the country.
He belched, and in the silence of the room, the croak seemed to echo off the walls. Remnants of the barbecued rib dinner he'd gotten from a take-out place around the corner at the foot of Mission Hill splayed across his workstation in the form of a plastic container, an empty can of orange soda and several piles of sauce-stained napkins.
Curran rubbed his eyes. He needed sleep.
I wonder what Lauren’s doing, he thought. He smiled halfway and then tried to shut the image of her from his mind.
His email alert dinged.
He clicked on the icon at the bottom of his screen. At the same time, he heard a series of tiny scrapes echo across the linoleum floor behind him. Curran smiled. Harry was back. The homicide detectives had nicknamed the gray field mouse some months before, feeding the little guy bits of candy bars and sandwiches.
As a way of saying thanks, Harry had doubled his size and become increasingly friendly. He’d appear at odd times of the day looking for more food. And the shock of white fur on his head always made him look like he had a Mohawk hair cut.
But Harry didn’t usually scrounge this late at night.
The mail window popped open. Curran saw the response had come in from the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department. He frowned. Another big city?
He watched as the words blossomed on to his screen.
