The Silenced Tale, стр. 35
And of course, I cannot track the flow of information if one is simply verbally passing it on. It’s possible that someone close to Elgar might be . . . but I vetted Juan myself, and according to what I’ve been able to find in the Seattle Police Department records, the people assigned to work on his case and protect him are all equally reliable and honest.
So how is whoever doing this, well, doing this?
Unless it’s not a person at all.
Another fearful thought adds to the ball of consideration at the back of my mind, the pieces twisting, reforming, slotting together and breaking apart again. The clues aren’t all there yet, though, and like the fictional Sherlock Holmes, whom I’ve come to admire (if I were to wish to meet any other fictional creation, it would be him or Spock), I do not like to theorize before I have all the facts.
When I extract and open the crime scene photos of a break-in at Elgar’s house, I expect nasty slurs painted on a wall, or shattered crockery, or stolen goods. I am so unprepared for what meets me that it takes me an embarrassingly long time to parse what I am seeing.
Blood, that is certain. Blood, splattered and splashed on a white wall. Sprayed over canned goods, and unopened jars, and foodstuff boxes, and white wire shelving. Ah, his pantry closet, my brain tells me, even as the rest of it is trying to understand the other bright splotches of color in the frame. It doesn’t help that the series of photographs were harshly lit, the whites too white, the shadows too deep. And then I see it.
I feel my gorge rise and swallow hastily. I resume parsing the pictures, all the air suddenly rushing out of my lungs, leaving me gasping.
The photographs of what has happened in Elgar’s home are horrifying. I consider not showing Pip. But I know she would rather be in the loop than out of it, and it makes no sense to keep this secret from my wife when, historically, doing so has not proven to be the wise choice. It is always better to have her mind on the case alongside mine—and she will not be angry with me for keeping yet another thing from her again. We have, the both of us, had enough of Turnish tempers and betrayed feelings.
I come downstairs in a rage and hand Pip my tablet, onto which I’ve transferred the photos.
“Freckles?” Pip asks, looking up from where she is grading papers on the kitchen table.
“This was left in his house,” I say. “I warn you, those photographs are revolting.”
“More disturbing than a Red Cap slaughter?” Pip asks.
“Possibly,” I allow. “Will you look?”
She nods silently and flicks on the tablet. Then she drops it on the table top in shock. Alis, seated in her high chair, building some sort of tower out of building blocks on the tray, knocks it over when she is startled by Pip’s outburst.
“Mama!” she scolds Pip, and then utterly ignores us in favor of recreating the structure.
“Holy fuck,” Pip whispers, eyes wide and caught on the image of a tangle of flesh, and gore, and vegetation. “That’s ivy.”
“It is.”
She taps the screen hesitantly with one plum-colored nail. “Is that . . . human . . . ?”
“No,” I say, and it is a relief to be able to report this at least. “Porcine, according to the laboratory reports attached to the photos.”
She wraps her arms around her stomach and shudders all over. “Jesus. Who did this?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, and it feels like acid on the tongue. I cannot keep the sneer out of my voice. “I have done my best to trace the stalker’s digital footprint. Whoever they are, their hacking skills far exceed mine.”
Pip goggles. “They what?”
“I have found no evidence of emails, of texts, or even of photographs or CCTV stills of someone planning to do my creator harm. Outside, of course, the usual entitled fanboys whose self-loathing has become so vitriolic that they project it outward onto Elgar.” I run my hands through my hair, flustered and upset by my failure.
Pip pulls my hands down, kisses the back of each of them once. “You think it’s that?”
“I don’t know. Usually, this sort of cruel narcissism is a crippling paralytic, but sometimes, in directing it outward . . . possibly?”
“These sorts of revolting threats are completely different than bringing an assault rifle to school,” Pip says. “This is a different MO.”
“My only lead turned out to be as substantial as Wisp-light,” I admit. “One of the obsessive fans I keep tabs on—the one from Detroit?—seems to be acting outside of their usual pattern. But a look into their new habits reveals only that they are perhaps starting to drift away from the vitriol of their former web-forum colleagues. They’ve initiated a friendship with a new online gaming partner, and are spending more time in video-chats that are streamed, and which I therefore cannot access.”
“Well, good for them, I guess,” Pip says, bitter.
“Yes.” I dismiss my disappointment at not having an easy villain to roust with a huff. “Any move away from their usual horrible online rants is a good one.”
“So, what do you want to do now?” Pip asks.
“Honestly, bao bei, beyond calling Elgar and screaming in his ear, there is little I can do. Whoever did this, however it was done, the Seattle Police Department seems to have it well in hand. I have set a few new alerts to certain keywords that may be used in their reports, but I am not yet prepared to meddle with another district’s operations for fear of making something worse. And from the tone of the reports, Elgar doesn’t seem too affected. It is a shame to say, but . . . he’s been threatened