“Why is your coat torn, Chapman?”
Chapman paused imperceptibly before saying, “Ripped it last night in a chase. Horrible timing, really. The bastard got away and everything.”
Khlid held his gaze as she stepped forward. “It must have been a remarkably fast suspect, Chap.” She gave him a sickly-sweet grin. “Everyone knows you’re the fastest one on the force.”
“Hm.” Chapman was always ready with a retort, yet he paused. “Guess he must have been.”
“Hm,” Khlid said, and took her husband forcefully by the arm, all but marching him out of the room.
2
The Madness
The rest of the house was like a museum of gore and death: bits and pieces of the victims had been left on display for Khlid, Samuel, and Chapman to find and examine. If the two children had been left as a signal flag, then the matriarch and patriarch of the family were what they signaled.
The wife was found in the master bedroom, her arms and legs bound to the canopy bed, each limb now bent in a stomach-turning fashion. Naked, skinned, her insides distributed across the room. Her heart lay on the dresser in a pool of blood. Her femur had been roughly torn off and left on the floor. As with the other victims Khlid had seen so far, there was surprisingly little blood. She had been dead before they really got to work on her.
A particular blood stain on the pillow caught Khlid’s eye. She leaned in close to peer at the woman's cheek.
Samuel appeared next to her. “They haven’t gotten the cellar open yet. It appears to be locked from the inside. The first officer claims he heard movement down there. The lot of them are spooked.” Noting his wife’s preoccupation, he leaned in close to look at the same markings and stain that had caught her eye.
Samuel’s brows shot up. “Well, shit. Is that a bite mark?”
Khlid nodded. “Someone bit this woman’s face and spat the flesh out on the pillow.”
Samuel took a step back from the bed and rubbed his neck. Khlid turned from the body and gave her husband a once-over. His shoulders were tense, his brow fixed in a furrow.
“You okay?”
“I will be. Have we found any trace of the husband?”
“Well.” She pulled out her notes to add a few thoughts. “From what you’ve just told me, I’m guessing we might find him in the cellar.”
“That is what I feared.”
“Why is that?”
Samuel grinned. “Chapman is trying to get it open. If there is a panicked man down there…”
“Ah.” Khlid closed her notes. “We should get moving.”
Chapman hated when things would not open for him. He tugged on the cellar door, harder this time, but it still refused to budge. “Damn fucking thing.” Chapman looked to Rollins. “Do we have anything that goes boom?”
Behind him, Rollins let out a cough. “I don’t believe that will be necessary. May I, sir?”
Chapman stepped back, holding his arms wide. Rollins took his place, crouched down, and pulled a lock-picking set from his coat pocket. After a few seconds of trying at the keyhole, he stood up straight and let out a confused “Huh.”
“Problem?” Chapman asked.
“It’s not locked, sir.”
Chapman’s eyebrows went towards the ceiling. “So the door is barred. That can only be done from the inside. That confirms the man who claimed there was a noise. Crowbar!” Rollins jumped at the sudden volume of his voice. “Do we have one coming?”
An officer by the door called back, “Yes, Inspector.”
Rollins’ hand unconsciously rested on his service revolver as he said, “Some manors do have secret exits, sir.”
Chapman let out an exasperated breath and said, “Rollins, you’re good at your job, but there is a reason you’re not an inspector.”
The other officer bringing the crowbar halted at the statement, and gave Chapman a reproachful look.
Chapman caught the look. Self-admonishment flickered across his face. He turned to Rollins, now frowning deeply at the door. “I’m sorry, Sergeant.” Managing sincerity, he added, “I was well out of line. You know I wouldn't say it if it were true. I often say things I do not mean because I think they are funny. That, in hindsight, was not.”
“Aye, sir.”
Chapman could tell his words were not enough. Rollins had tried for the rank of Inspector many times in his career. Each time, he had fallen just short on several key tests—the ones designed to assess deductive reasoning. Rollins never did all that badly on the tests; just enough to guarantee his superiors would never promote him.
Chapman doubted there was a secret way out of the manor. If there was, whoever had locked themselves down there would have taken it by now, and reported the murders themselves. But seeing the hurt still in Rollins’ eyes, Chapman let it go.
The crowbar arrived. The officer holding it stubbornly tightened his grip at Chapman’s first grab, his eyes warning that underlings stick together. The message imparted, the officer released the crowbar at Chapman’s second tug, and Chapman got to work.
There were often tensions between inspectors and the regular members of the force. Many officers resented the way the Empire lauded inspectors as the holy hands of justice. A few of the more political officers had even denounced the wide leeway inspectors had to convict and sentence suspects without a formal trial. Some had gone so far as to write articles in the Imperial papers denouncing the practice. Chapman knew his stupid remark to Rollins would be brought up at the next union meeting—he had repeatedly been cited as an example of the inspector class’ arrogance.
Fuck me and my stupid fucking mouth.
Chapman stepped back to the thick—oak, maybe—door that had been giving them so much trouble. He took out some of his tension by levering the crowbar hard enough to crack the wood. “Rollins, a hand?”
The sergeant stepped up and they both opened the door with a surprisingly loud crack!
Rollins swung the door open, and the deepest black Chapman had ever seen greeted the three of them. Impenetrable. Something told Chapman that deep darkness would dominate the cellar even if he brought a team of lanternmen with him.
Rollins stepped up and shouted, “Imperial Police. Make yourself known.”
Nothing.
Chapman nodded to Rollins and closed the door. “Well, it looks like we will have to make an entry.”
“Shall I fetch a lantern and some men, Inspector?” the officer who brought the crowbar asked.
“Yes…” What was his name? “...Officer.” Why do I want to call him Officer Shits? Chapman knew he needed to make a better effort to know the name of every member of his precinct, but there were just too many. Thirty officers in total? He had a hard enough time remembering anyone who wasn’t an inspector. “Bring two lanterns for me and Rollins. You and...” He pointed to another officer whose name eluded him. “...your partner, prepare to follow us in but stand by for now. We don’t know what is down there and I don’t trust an inexperienced gun behind me. Give me your pipe, would you?” Chapman finished by snapping his fingers and extending his hand.