Chapter Text
A winter wonderland: that’s what he’s sure it would be called when nearly a foot of snow blanketed Union, powdery cushions on every available surface, gleaming and tempting to play in for any passerby. On most days, he’s sure that would be the case. It wouldn’t be odd to see people stopping to have snowball fights and children squealing in delight making crude snowmen. He’s almost sure that even the heavy, gray overcast above their town wouldn’t diminish the joy snow would bring, nor would the chill keep away eager souls from attempting to have some fun.
But blood and gore? That would deter them.
He sighs, looking at the scene before him, brows furrowing over his bruised eyes. For the twelfth time in a row-Jesus fucking Christ, already twelve times in a row-the scene is practically soaked in red. Forward and back spatter bloodstains pattern the area, covering vast inches of the sawdust-covered ground and bare walls around them. The force of the impact that made those blood splatters had to be great, of that there is no doubt-if the victims’ bloodied limbs and heads weren’t indication enough, then the leftover blunt instruments certainly are. Broken support beams from the unfinished room above fell on both victims, the steel reinforcements weighing in at several metric tons crushing them like ants underneath a steel-toed boot. It seems almost laughable that these two bodies, the late foreman and senior project manager, are now frozen in their moments of death, the dull look of horror locking their features in a resin consisting of rigor mortis. He’d heard one of the officers joke it was an act of revenge by OSHA, but he can hardly see the humor in this.
Two people are dead. Two innocent people, who were leading mundane but peaceful lives, are never going to be seen again, aside from the law enforcement that has to endure watching their horrible, mangled postures and faces be covered by the plastic of black body bags. Afterwards, the corner will have to deal with unpacking them and observing the terrified expressions they assumed at the moment of their grisly demise. Fuck, their loved ones aren’t going to be able to have open caskets either. No mortician would be skilled enough to erase the horror that has gone down.
The long, pained sighing is already leaving him without him noticing, up until he registers the soft footsteps behind him. “Quite a shit show, ain’t it, Leo?”
He barely has to glance back at her to know she isn’t smiling, despite the blithe tone she’s taking. Long ago, he realized it’s her way of coping, to stick to observation and reasoning rather than giving into some emotional meltdown bubbling underneath her skin. Instead of answering her immediately, his pencil continues to scribble on the notepad. Another cursory glance at the scene reveals something he hadn’t noticed before-a small but visible wipe at the right corner of the foreman’s pooled blood. “Tell me about it, Jess,” he deadpans, cocking his head and squinting at the wipe. “Two more men have died since the last incident you handled. This is what, the twelfth murder? Fucking fantastic streak this maniac is maintaining.”
Senior Homicide Detective Jessica Teague isn’t agreeing with him outright, but she does say, “I’m surprised you’re still maintaining the position that this is a murder, Leo. You know as well as I do this place wasn’t up to code.” She sighs, shrugging as she adds, “This construction company is going under, and this could easily be deemed a freak accident. An act of karma, with Fate biting back hard. You know that.” His lips pull tight with a scowl, tired eyes only narrowing more.
“I’m shocked you won’t consider it murder,” he bites, his tone low and scratched. “Jess, what the hell do you call several terrible deaths in a row that the dead folks didn’t choose to have? What else can you call it, other than the result of a serial killer’s murder spree?” She shrugs again. Her expression reads as one who’s at a loss.
“Serendipitous events?”
“Be fucking serious, why don’t you. There’s nothing happy or lucky about these people dying.”
Jessica shakes her head and in an instant, her features age, adding numerous years to her thirty-three-year-old self.
“Reeves,” she starts off and oh boy, does that sit sourly in his gut when she chooses to use his surname. “I get that. But you can’t go insisting every unfortunate time someone dies, that it’s got to be all related. What sort of connection is between construction workers and a librarian who bled to death from several dozen cuts? How can you justify the man run over by a semi being killed by an unknown person who would have apparently caused a lawyer to drown in his own bathtub? Look, I get there’s something weird going on these days, but all these deaths can’t be interconnected by some string on a cork board.” She cards a hand through her dark blonde hair. “I didn’t even bring you here to discuss that.”
“You brought me in for a fresh perspective,” he counters. “That’s what I’m doing here.” Jessica’s glare is icy but Leon’s too busy to spare her a reaction.
“Leon fucking Reeves, lay off for one goddamn second! I can easily have your access here removed, so I’d appreciate you stopping with your foul mood and sarcasm!” To this, the former Union homicide detective stands up from his slouch to turn a glower against the one Jessica mirrors back. “For fuck’s sake, Leo, I asked you to come here to provide some damn support, and to also get you off your miserable ass for once!”
It’s quiet for a few beats, as they stare each other down. Jessica is talking slowly, like she’s stepping through a minefield-she may as well be doing so, with how Leo’s head is aching terribly and his anger burns. “Leo…look, I’m just trying to help you, while getting help for myself. The UPD is already scratching their collective brain until it’s raw, trying to figure out what’s going on. Adding more fuel to the uncontrolled fire isn’t helpful. We’re stressed out and you know that-you’re probably the most stressed-out son of a bitch I’ve ever known.”
That’s…not something he’s prepared to counter and the open hurt on his face shows that. Jessica places a hand on his bicep, her eyes assuming that tender look she adopts whenever she shows empathy to others who are suffering. It’s not something he wants to have on him-it comes off far too close to pity, in his mind-but he knows understanding is something he craves. It’s something he wishes he still had, aside from the damn oversized trench coat he’s wearing…
Her voice continues that gentle lilt, the softness never leaving her gaze as she explains, “You’re a damn good pair of eyes, Leon Reeves, the best I’ve ever seen. Nothing gets past you. But I need you for something bigger than just observation.”
Leon is very quiet when she says that, with his brow furrowed and lips pulled tight in a line. He breaks off the staring contest they’ve been assuming for some minutes to look at the floor, though it hasn’t changed from being caked in dried blood-of course it hasn’t, but it serves as something else he can focus on at the moment. He’s noticing that the forensic nerds have moved on, already collecting all the data they deemed as important, giving the green light to everyone else for the bodies to go. Even as they stand there, field grunts are moving around them to begin the preparation for corpse removal. He’s not sure if biohazard is going to be called in for remediation-the place is condemned, more or less, and it was a construction site rather than a finished building. Maybe it’ll go straight into demolition. Either way, Jessica is making it clear solving this case isn’t his prerogative.
“I’m not talking to the Chief, you know that. I’m not taking back what I said.”
“I figured as much,” she says softly. She’s shaking her head, causing the loose curly strands of her braided hair to bounce with the movement. Her hand-the left one, he gathers at once, once he spies the ring finger with the strip of white, a contrast from her olive tan skin-is removed from his arm to fold her own across her chest, her black shoe tapping on the wood flooring beneath them. “I don’t expect you to. I agreed with what you said, about the fact of him holding you back. You’re a better as a freelance agent than you are as a bootlicker to some shithead like him.”
It’s an appreciated show of words, but Leon doesn’t let himself smile when Jessica gets down to business. “Chief Ramirez can go suck eggs for all I care. I don’t need you to go interacting with him at all. What I do need you to do for me, is to use that big, glorious brain of yours, and figure out what’s going on with that speaker.”
At the mention of “speaker”, Leo tenses. His eyes narrow with suspicion, a flicker of interest growing in his dark irises. “Wallace?” he asks her. Jessica nods and though it brings him a measure of pleasure to know he’s right, the potential trouble is rearing its ugly head in his mind, causing Leo to bite back a cuss. “Of course. Of course, it’s fucking Wallace. Goddamn it, of all the people in town, he’s the person on your radar.”
He pockets his old notepad and pencil in his coat pocket, patting it briefly with fondness before he turns his full attention to his former UPD partner. He doesn’t hide his expression behind a façade of tiredness and boredom-for once, he’s feeling curiosity for something other than a string of unsolved murders. Leon’s tone is vapid, but his thoughts are betrayed by the glint of focus in his stare. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’re pissed about something having to do with him. So tell me: what did ‘Old Father Ted’ do this time that’s got you so feral?”
This time, Jessica is the one sporting a narrow glare, but it isn’t aimed at Leo. “Aside from the usual shit? The guy is acting very strangely, or rather stranger than is usual for him. Every instance we’ve received a report on him sits unwell with me and the rest of the precinct. You know he’s cooking up something, what with how many people are attending his sermons.” The word “sermons” is said with enough venom that Leo has to arch his brow. Man, does she hate this preacher.
Granted, he’s not fond of the weird chaplain either, but the anger Teague possesses comes off almost murderous at times. It’s a little mean for him to then cock his head, his grin sardonic as he jabs a finger at her in warning.
“Sounds like an unhealthy amount of paranoia you got there, Jessy. You can’t arrest someone just because he preaches bullshit that comes off well.” He knows she knows that, but he takes a little bit of glee from how she grouses at his barb.
“Yeah, I know that. Jesus fuck, do I know that. That piece of shit knows how to spew it, and it shows. But that’s not just it, man.” Leo cocks his head as his one ally in the UPD clarifies, “He’s got some dude running around doing tasks for him as of a few weeks ago, though I’m not sure what those errands consist of. Strange fella if we have to be honest. We of the Union Police Department have no idea who he is, much less where he came from, but he’s been put on our radar too.”
“Really?” he blinks, frowning but not as hard as he had been before. “You’re serious? A newcomer to our little town of Union is already on the police shit list. How the hell did the guy manage to do that so soon?” Leon is actually intrigued by that-Union is as sleepy and peaceful as they come…or it did before bloody crap started hitting the proverbial fan in earnest. To get police attention, especially within a matter of weeks, would mean…
Jessica understands what he wants to ask without him putting it into a direct question, sheer puzzlement affecting his mind. She gives him a hand to wade through the muddled thoughts by stating, “He’s gaining a rap sheet-small offenses, but they’ve been ramping up recently. He’s gotten into scuffles with others, including police personnel. Comes off really unlikable, from what people have told me, but he’s also charming too. I say that because the bastard has been able to weasel out of our grasp each time he’s brought around for questioning, through chatting up people or just being damn slippery.”
As interesting as it could be, Leon still lets his face turn into a scowl. “So let me see if I got you straight: you called me here not because of what I can do to help with these cases, but because you want me to look into your despised pastor and some fucking loser he decided to hire?” She nods. He can’t help his scoff. His own head shakes as incredulity and a bit of anger sets in.
His voice is sharp as he argues, “Jess, that’s bullshit! I don’t have time for stuff like that-need I remind you that I’m a consultant, not some rookie cop you can throw on the beat!? I’ve got my own work to trudge through and I certainly have better things to do than chase a shit tip like that!”
The look that Jessica gives him in response is aggravating to see, yet it’s something she’s entitled to show given the time they’ve known each other. Her brow his cocked high on her forehead, her eyes lidded and unimpressed, while her mouth pulls of a bit of a frown. “Oh really? I had no idea. And what exactly are those things you’d rather be doing, Leo?”
Oh, the fucking nerve! He growls, his teeth biting into his cheek as he keeps himself from launching back verbally at her. Immediately, he falls back on his habit, his hands fishing into the inside pockets of his beige trench coat to grab the pack of CBD cigarettes. The green and white box get slapped, Leo using one hand to grip the body of the box to hit its butt against his other, open palm. Once he’s sure it’s tightened, he withdrawals one slim stick to place between his lips, willing himself to not bite hard into it like he wants to. But he has enough grace to mutter out a “thanks” when Jessica does him a favor, saving him from having to rummage for his zippo by offering up her own torch, her weathered fingers flicking her own lighter on for him to make use of.
It’s a small gesture, but it’s a common one that has become a part of the core reasons they’re friends. Granted, bittered people like them were probably destined to become such fast friends, even in the two years since Leon moved in from Krimson City-the fact she smokes just as much as he does is just icing on their bullshit cake. Jessica probably smokes even more when she’s stressed out, and by god does the job require some nerve smoothing every so often. As such, he’s learned he can rely on her to have her light or some extra rolls on her if he’s out. This doesn’t take in the truth she’s as dependable as they come, and has had a fondness for him from the beginning of their acquaintanceship. He blearily remembers her saying something a time back, about how he reminded her of someone she once knew. She remind him of other people too, he supposes, though he doesn’t want to think about that too much.
After all, it hurts, thinking too much about the past. It burns and tears badly to think about Krimson, about his old post and that man these days, that not even the old coat he wears daily offers comfort against the sudden, lingering chill that shoots through him.
Still, he has to shake off the desire to ruminate when Jess starts talking again, her voice low as she pulls back her light and flicks it shut. “Theodore Wallace has been a person of interest for some time, ever since watchdogs and relatives of those he’s indoctrinated started giving us leads to be wary of. No cult leader is trustworthy, be it a recognized religion or not.” Leon snorts, but Jessica presses on, as if she didn’t hear him. “He’s upping the ante, Leo, I can feel it. The guy he’s got hired on certainly isn’t void of suspicion either.”
There’s something she’s not saying here, and Leon sees that, so he decides to break the ice himself, to pull her fist forward and reveal whatever hand she’s got going for her in this gambling game. “…Suspicion? Suspicion, as in…he might have red palms from shaking too many dead hands?” The senior detective of the Union police department only shrugs, frowning hard with stony eyes.
“Hey, you said it, not me. You’re no longer working with straight laces, so I figure you can handle this and express more freedom in your investigations.”
“Freedom? You mean Ramirez isn’t letting you pursue this?” He takes a draw of his cigarette, relishing the brief burn that brings a measure of calm to his aching body and frazzled nerves. He exhales the stream of smoke with a narrowness to his eyes, considering the situation again when Jessica nods again. “That’s not like him. He’s always given me a shit time, but I assume it’s because he’s felt like he could push me around. You? Ramirez fears you and knows you can pull fast ones on him, considering your connections. So what gives?”
His former beat partner sighs, pressing her fingers to her temple as she helplessly shrugs again. “Believe me, if I knew that answer, I’d go beat him up for it. All I’ve heard is that I’ve got bigger fish to fry, which, given the circumstances, is almost justified. I feel like I’m carrying the whole team at this point and I’m nowhere close to cracking these mysterious deaths!”
“Or the disappearances,” he agrees, taking another puff when she shoots him a cold scowl. He only shrugs in response, offering, “I know the guts of a precinct and how they save face, Jess, wasn’t hard to put pieces together. I’m shocked that these missing folks aren’t turning up dead alongside these poor fools, but I’m not optimistic they’ll be coming home at all to their scared families.”
“That’s awfully pessimistic of you.”
“I’m cynical, not hopeless. I’ll be grateful, probably moved to goddamn tears, if we manage to get those missing people home safe. Time, however, has taught me to be wary of any possible outcome.”
Teague accepts that well enough, dropping the matter by going back on topic. “Well, the situation remains that Wallace and his new recruit are up to something, and my hands are tied. You’re the only one I can trust on this, Leo. Your eyes would catch anything that a usual greenhorn would miss. And by operating on your own terms, you just need appropriate clearance to conduct your investigation, and probably get a hell of a lot more done in less time.”
She has a good point. He might not be with the UPD anymore-for four months as of today-but he sure as hell feels like there’s more room to do his work than he did in a shitty cubicle with a shittier desk to write on. He hums, scratching at his whiskered chin before he answers. “…I’ll take a look. But if Wallace’s new grunt is clean of anything, especially of what I’m trying to find, I’m fucking dropping this issue back in your lap.”
Jessica nods, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “Fair enough. I’ll handle the wannabe pope if you find there’s nothing of value, but if you take this and find something useful? Fuck, man, I’ll buy you whatever you want, no price an obstacle.”
“Buy me a casino.”
“Fuck you.”
The laughing might not be suitable in a crime scene but at least for once, he’s not stuck in looping dark thoughts. In fact, he’s feeling a little lighter, enough that he can finish his cigarette in peace as they move from inside the ruined building to the outside world, where snow and gray skies still exist. He extinguishes the light against the brick of the structure, mindful to clean up-he’s already gotten an earful before about littering in Union, he’s not keen on hearing another lecture-before he’s able to focus on Jessica again. “Alright. So I’ll be looking at your request and doing some digging. Got a name for the fella Wallace hired?”
Jessica is looking up into the gray expanse, suddenly quiet and contemplative. It strikes him a little odd to see her so withdrawn. Teague is a mouthy sort of person who’s never afraid to speak her mind-yet another tally for why he approves of their friendship-so to see her like this puts him on edge. It feels like hours before she answers him too, furthering his unease.
When she does turn her attention back to Leon, it is not put on him, but somewhere far away. “…Valentini.”
“Valentini?” he echoes. He finds he’s frowning deeply and feeling a tension in himself, like his gut is sinking to the floor. “Foreign surname. Got a first?”
“Nope.”
“Take it he’s left before anyone can get it out of him?”
Jessica is closing her eyes and it almost brings Leon great concern to hear her say instead, “He’s not friendly, Leo.”
“Didn’t think he was.”
“Leo.”
“Jess.”
“Leon, listen to me, to what I’m saying here. That new guy, he’s bad news.” When she turns her expression on the seasoned crimefighter, her loose strand of hair tousled by the chilly gusts of wind, he feels his blood run colder than any ice on Earth could be. She’s not smiling. She’s not frowning. If anything, Jessica Teague looks as dead as anyone still alive can look. Like there’s no hope, no tomorrow, no chance to make it through.
Just like the living corpse did, when-
He shakes himself roughly at that ghost of memory which threatened to attack, just barely catching her parting words. “Valentini could be a powder keg, needing just the right moment to explode.” Her hand pats his bicep, voice low and warning. “You need to keep on your toes if you plan to talk to him. I’m not sure if he’s your man, but he’s certainly no snow-white angel. Remember that.”
Leon wants to ask her how she could possibly figure something out like that, but she’s already gone by the time he’s able to compose his questions into coherent words.
-
There’s static ripping through his mind. Screaming voices are ringing in his ears. Blood drips from almost every surface, creating endless oceans of iron tangy red. A malicious grin someone sports look down at him hatefully, dead and yellowed eyes narrowed into a glare. Bodies are strewn about, broken dolls torn apart by a man who never grew up from the demented child he was.
Running. Always running, always panting, hoping to catching a break-to break free from the confines of a nightmare which laid them prone before a demon’s mercy…and lack thereof. Crashes of automobiles off of cliffs flash behind his eyelids, the wetness of sterile, white liquid-or is it red, is it blood he remembers instead?-burning his nostrils. His eyes are watering, and bile climbs up his throat. He’ll never forget it, everything that happened and all the horrors he’s witnessed.
Because that’s when everything just went to shit, right? It’s when everything stopped being okay.
He remembers that brief moment, trudging through shit together, of how that taller, broad-shouldered man had sighed. “I don’t know what to say-you’re a good guy, Reeves. A good guy. Shit like this shouldn’t be happening to you.”
He’d been nursing a cut, glaring at him hotly. “Are you saying you do? Because you don’t! Stop trying to act like you’ve got to see I’m the only one to get out of this alive!”
He’s aware of what is said next, but he’s already convulsing awake before he can recall dark brown eyes and a heavy, furrowed brow that looked back at him. Leon wishes he could forget that, at the very least, if horror is to hunt him every night-if he can’t forget the entirety of that man, he wishes Life would be kind enough to rob him of remembering the despair that had been swimming in those chocolate eyes. Still, he gasps, shooting up onto his elbows, chest heaving as cold sweat drenches his skin and his shirt. Acid green numbers blink at him from the bedside stand, the room almost pitch black save for the small, dim lights he installed near the baseboards, a functionality for not tripping over in the dark, even if they can no longer keep terror filled dreams at bay.
Fuck, it seems he fell asleep face down on his bed, or maybe he passed out as soon as he arrived back. Running on little sleep over the past two days is not doing him any favors, though in all honesty, it feels like he’s gotten no real rest in quite a few months. And it’s not like he hasn’t tried to take care of himself-things just get away from him. Too many things are bothering him. If it’s not the workload that’s amassing in front of him, each death adding to the manila folder count on his desk, then it’s whatever nightmare is waiting for him at the back of his mind. Neither are merciful, nor do they let him catch much needed breaks until his body forcibly makes him adhere to fulfilling a physical debt.
It’s 6:12 pm on a Friday night and Leon Reeves feels the grit and shit of a long workday staining him from every pore. Grumbling, he sighs, running a hand against his clammy face and through his tangled locks.
It’s a trial to get back onto his feet and not faceplant on the ground, with how woozy he feels. His stomach growls, a tiger demanding a meal sooner rather than later, while his muscles ache from overuse. If memory serves correctly, he got back inside around noon, which means he somehow managed a solid six-hour nap. It’ll keep him going for a while longer, though he knows one of these days he should try sleeping longer. He almost wants to laugh bitterly at the thought. As things stand now, he might as well die from sleep deprivation than a knife between the ribs.
Either way, he at least obliges his guts to have a little bit of grub. A shower to cleanse the grime and sweat can wait he decides, as he shambles his way slowly across the two-bedroom apartment, into the tiny kitchenette that barely has enough space for one person to cook. He chooses not to go overboard, not with how painfully sore his body is, pulling out a freezer meal that tastes just a tad better than the cardboard it comes in. It’s junk food that a stretched paycheck can afford, even if he sometimes misses what a fresh, home-cooked meal is like.
…Does he remember what a cooked, non-processed plate tastes like? He squints through the dim light the antique standing lamp he has meagerly gives off, trying to think as the dingy microwave he owns tries to heat up his frozen pasta to an edible temperature. He’s pretty sure he’s had some, though the beat of being a cop often comes with the price of picking up bad diets. Joseph was always better about keeping a good diet than himself or most others in the precinct, even those who had partners to cook them lunches to take to work. He remembers the taller man bitching about how provided lunches in the break room weren’t diverse, mindful, or healthy, despite the three being stuck in a patrol car on the way back from a crisis. He recalls being doubled over laughing when a dark head barely shot a tired but shit-eating grin at Oda from the driver’s seat, his hands clasped on the wheel.
“Sounds like someone doesn’t want a McFlurry,” the senior detective had snarked, even as Leon had howled with laughter as they pulled into the drive-thru, much to Joseph’s disgust. God, those were some days, huh? To laugh without a care, even to the point of bruising his sides, that made the crummy shake he got delicious. After all, doesn’t food taste better with frie-?
He stops, shaking his head violently once more. No. No. He’s not doing this again. He’s not going down Memory Lane’s sweet and fond neighborhoods just to end up in the crime alley of the city he’d like to forget ever knowing.
The microwave dings and he’s careful to pull the TV tray out, grabbing one of the unopened fast food utensil packages he has in surplus to begin digging in. Leon isn’t eager to tuck in fast-if he’s honest with himself, he’s sure he’s only eating to make sure he’s got enough energy to carry on, quieting any hunger pains he feels. That’s all he does, it seems: fulfill basic needs and survive another day, another week, another year.
But ultimately it becomes clear: surviving is not living. Never has been, never will.
The mood, to his frustration, is increasingly somber and he wishes there was something, anything, to take his mind off things. Sleep is encased in traumatic nightmares, and even his waking hours are plagued by morbid events. He sighs, food tray in one hand and utensils in the other, as he begins to trek over to the ratty sofa and the second-hand TV he got through a former colleague at the precinct who was looking to sell it. His stride is slow and exhausted, to the point of being mechanical, before he stops. His brows furrow. Turning his head to the right and downwards, he frowns.
On the right is his front door to the small apartment he calls his residence, quiet and solid as any other thing in this place. On the ugly, vomit-colored carpet he owns, sits a very curious thing: an envelope, small but unassuming. It might’ve been slipped underneath his door, given how it looks a bit folded on one side, but it’s strange it would have been delivered like that. He owns a mail box downstairs in the lobby, after all.
For reasons he doesn’t quite understand, Leon feels a sense of dread, slowly putting his food and tools on a side table before he pads over to the envelope. He picks it up, eyes squinting at the small catalogue envelope and the sunflower shade it has…he really wishes it wasn’t that particular shade, given how it makes his head ache something awful and causes fear to coil in his breast. But even worse, the austerity of the letter makes him dry in the mouth, seeing as it bears no sender or recipient. It feels weighted but not heavy.
Instinct screams he should throw it away, or better yet burn it. Curiosity begs to know what’s inside. His fingers twitch and he’s chewing on his bottom lip.
He flips it over in one hand, undoing the sealed flap.