Detective Saints finished up her work at the site as quickly as she could manage. She'd called the station to put out the alert on the company truck and with any luck someone would spot it.

Interviews with the rest of the workers had been straightforward. Two more bodies had been discovered, a volunteer medic in training and the site supervisor, both shot dead with a full auto weapon from close range. Their bodies had been discovered dumped into the ravine bordering the parking lot. Where they had died was a mystery, but Saints had a suspicion it might have been where the grisly corpse had been doused with acid.

Miles Norwood, her premature balding evidence gatherer supreme (a title he had given himself), had been quick to identify that nobody should touch the smoking black liquid. Something that probably had not needed to be stated aloud.

"Hey! We're about done here." Miles called over to her as she finished up with her last witness. 'Witness'. She sighed mentally. Nobody had seen shit. Nobody alive except the killers, anyway. "Want to come meet us for lunch?"

Saints thanked the man for his time, put away her pad, and walked over to the portly man. "No time. Killers took off in a company truck, probably still out there. Might get lucky." She replied. Evidence techs were a hardy sort, she'd found, even if they were the nerdy type otherwise. About as squeamish after working with the dead as vultures. Just made 'em hungry.

"Suit yourself." Miles said with a smile. "Karen, Oliver? Let's pack these puppies up and MOVE OUT!" He punctuated the command with a sharp knife hand in the direction of their vehicle. Karen and Oliver, used to the routine, finished packing everything up with just the barest of grins.

Once the pair of new techs lifted their gear and started carrying it back, Miles turned his attention back to Saints. His expression serious, and his tone low as a whisper. "Best we can tell before the lab, this guy was beheaded. Then dumped in acid. A whole mess of it, all at once. Some kind of… acidic pitch.. and for the grand finale they spiked this guy's skull to the ground with a knife, which melted too, by the way."

Saints swallowed once, then nodded. That was… quite a way to go. Miles gestured at the symbols in the smoking earth. "All that? Done after the fact. That trail?" The portly man pointed at some clumps of pitch that led back into the trailer. "Bet you anything whoever made it walked through our friend here's personal space after the fact."

Saints frowned. She hadn't seen that when she'd ran in earlier. Too distracted by the possibility of catching them right away. "There's a footprint around each glob, too. A big ass one." Miles continued, giving her a steady look. "Watch out for yourself, Saints. I'll call you direct if we get anything else."

With that, he patted her on the shoulder and went to rejoin his team while berating them good naturedly for leaving their commanding officer behind. Saints stayed where she was, thinking.

Whoever had done this must have planned it. You don't behead someone, douse them with acid, and impale their skull to the ground without some serious motive to do so. They'd also killed two witnesses, presumably for walking in on itithad they started the avalanche as a cover for the murder?

Then there were the symbols drawn into the pitch. Those bothered her. She'd read about cult killings before at the academy. She just… had never actually seen one. Pulling out her phone, she took careful pictures of them for later.

When she was done, just staring at the images, her phone rang. "Saints." Sergeant Jeffords' voice came through serious and quiet. "There's been another murder. Two of them. I'm sending you the address. From what I'm hearing, sounds like your guy."

"Already? Did they find the truck?" Saints asked, surprised. She turned and ran back to her car. "There was a white truck at the scene, but it left. I've got patrolmen sweeping the streets. I need you to get to the diner."

"On it. Send me the info. Saints out." She hung up the phone and peeled out towards the road. A diner? What kind of lunatic meticulously plans and carries out a ritual killing then stops for food after? Only to kill again? Something must have gone wrong.

Saints felt a shiver go down her back at the thought. Armed criminals who killed recklessly were one thing. But what if something hadn't gone wrong? How far ahead had they planned?

If Saints found where they'd went, she'd call for multiple cars for backup. She'd made the rookie mistake of going in like a hero once before and been shot through her upper arm for it. Never again. Bravado on the force got you killed. Heroes got nice graves, but no new cases.

Saints checked her sidearm as she came down the pass, confirming it was still in its holster. The Sig Sauer P226 sat ready and waiting in its place. Its weight a welcome relief. She hadn't fired it outside the range since her last big case had blown up in her face. Saints prayed this case wouldn't end the same.

Saints pulled into a heavily cordoned-off parking lot just as officers on scene were finishing up. Witnesses were being spoken to separately. Looks like Sergeant had gotten the word out. Bolton, a red-faced patrolman with more years on the streets than the fire hydrants, was at her window almost immediately.

“Detective.” he said simply, opening the door for her. Old-school man, old-school respect. One of the few on the force who still had it for her. “Bolton. What’ve we got?” She asked as she stepped out. To the right was a cordoned-off van with a body facing the street and a face staring skyward next to an open passenger door. The corpse’s back was a bloody mess.

“Two bodies. White males, 40s. Ned Sanders and Robert Parkins. FBI’s field office is throwing a fit. Been building a case for months trying to catch their boss, supposedly some big human trafficker. They just called, didn’t share much, they’ll be here soon. Ned’s the one eatin’ dirt and smiling at birds.” Bolton read off his notes and pointed with his pen at the body on the ground as they walked over to the scene.

“Anything inside?” Saints asked, ducking under the line to get closer to the vehicle. A few feet away now, she could see smoke rising up slowly out of the man’s back. She peered down at him and saw… three symbols drawn into his skin. Black pitch bubbled up out of the body from under them.

Bolton followed her under the line, though not near as gracefully. He stayed back a few feet and kept reading. “Girl. Jessica Mullins. 15 years old, daughter of Martimer Mullins, that big preacher what heads the Modern Day Fellowship of Jesus you see on TV. Was locked up in the back.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Saints stepped over the corpse and looked inside. Robert, she guessed, was slumped over the middle console. Limbs at odd angles and, like Ned, facing 180 degrees the wrong direction. His forehead, not the back, was sizzling up with black pitch. It smelled of seared flesh and melted metal, though she couldn’t see where the later was coming from.

Walking around, she noticed the rear doors were open. A glance inside the van showed torn ropes and duct tape in a small pile on the floor. Bloody circles could be seen on the interior of the rear doors. The door handles were missing. Broken metal that vaguely resembled handles had been tossed behind the seat.

“She escape and get help? Or did help come for her?” Saints asked as she came back over to Bolton and looked around. Parked in front of the diner was an ambulance with a girl being looked at by two paramedics. Jessica, no doubt.

“Help came for her. Diners and the waitress saw the whole thing. Big man walked in, ordered some…” Bolton flipped a page. “Pancakes. And coffee. Then he walked out, waited by the truck a bit, and killed those two when they got back to the van. Twisted Ned’s head like he was a doll, then climbed in and did the same to his buddy. Few minutes later, the girl walks out the back. Ran to the diner to call us.”

“And our perp?” Saints asked as she walked to the back. No damage on the exterior. No gunshots. She pulled out her phone, flipped to the recent images and compared it to the ones smoking through poor Ned. One of the symbols matched. She closed her phone. Different methods, but same group it would seem. Too early for copycats, even the news didn’t have footage yet.

“Big man left shortly after the girl, messed with the body, took off. Middle eastern look, early thirties. Sketch artist’ll have something more for ya after he speaks with the girl I’m sure. Perp’s damn near seven feet tall if the waitress is to be believed. Took off in what appears to be that redemption road truck you called in and had a uniform to match. Driver was a young white male in the same outfit. Possibly his son.” Bolton responded, flipping his notebook back shut and hooking a thumb in his pants. “No word on the truck yet, but we’re lookin’.”

“He hurt her when he was in?” Saints asked, peering at the rope. It’d been cut, not torn like she first assumed. No knife in the vehicle, maybe the girl had it. They’d have to check the van for prints. She pulled her phone out again and texted Miles to get them over here. Lunch would be on the road today.

“Nope. According to her, he killed both of ‘em and let her free. Then he just… left.” Bolton seemed a little uncomfortable with that one. “Didn’t touch a hair on her, didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t say a damned thing.” Saints put her phone back on the clip and stared at him, her mind processing that last bit of information. “So, we’re after a vigilante then? How did he even know she was there?” she asked, mostly to herself.

The heavyset man shifted his weight once or twice, then sighed. “Can’t say I know, Kerrigan. But there’s something else I need to show you.” Saints raised her eyebrow at him. Not at the (10 hours/day) first name, they’d known each other for years - Bolton came over for Thanksgiving more often than not. “And what’s that?” she asked as he moved over to squat beside the dead Ned. The corpse’s face was frozen in what looked like surprise.

Bolton pulled his baton out and indicated she stand on the other side. She did so, wedging herself between the body and the van. He then flipped it and handed it to her grip-first. “Lift him.”

“What?” Bolton knew as well as she did that they shouldn’t be moving the body yet. Evidence hadn’t been here yet, and they’d want pictures of-- Bolton saw the concern on her face and waved it away with a hand in irritation. “Look under ‘im. Maybe then you can tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

“After evidence gets here, I’ll--” she started before being interrupted. “You lift him, or I will. I already took pictures earlier, just… hurry up” Bolton was getting frustrated even as he tried to calm himself down. “Just look. Please, Kerrigan.” His eyes were sincere and imploring. Bolton wasn’t the emotional type, so his behavior was unnerving her.

Saints had lost a case like this. Getting interested before evidence had catalogued everything. She didn’t know how, or when, but the defendant’s lawyers had found out and beaten her carefully constructed case to death with it. And just like that, John ‘The Seven Hills’ Stammer had been free and clear to kill again. And he had, several more times. Saints wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t. And he should know her better.

Bolton sighed and grabbed the dead man’s shoulder. She was about to reprimand him, when she was what was beneath the body and her heart nearly stopped. Underneath Ned was a still-burning slagged section of road, gravel, and earth. It was a hole that bore directly into the ground at least ten feet down. And every. Last. Inch… was smouldering. Red flames licked up and the heat made her stand to get away from it. The hole smelled of sulfur. Worse still, it was moving towards them. Closing up. She could see the dirt falling into place as if of its own mind. In minutes, she was sure, it would be gone.

“What the he-” she started before he let go and the man fell back over it. Bolton spread his hands and looked up at her, sweat on his brow as his body responded to the sudden heat. “Yep.” He stood up and watched the concern rise on her face.

“How the he-” Saints began, before Bolton interrupted her. “There was another one under the other guy. Smaller hole, melted right through beneath his head…” He pointed to where the man’s head rested, and she leaned in. It was hard to tell, but there was a seared section of plastic just above where the victim’s ear was. “Went straight through the van, right into the ground. Same as this one, only that one is...” his voice quivered a bit, then he spat it out. “That one is gone now. They were a lot deeper when I got here.” Bolton admitted, with a pain look. “I… needed someone else to see. Figured if you saw it too, meant I wasn’t crazy.”

Saints didn’t respond at first. She looked from the body to Bolton, then took a few deep breaths. The logical part of her mind was trying to deconstruct the situation, find some sort of connection, figure out what sort of chemical you’d need to melt into - and ignite - asphalt and then the rocks beneath it. She was sure there were some. But she doubted they smelled of sulfur.

The illogical part of her mind was connecting the smell of sulfur and the fiery hole in the ground, with what her superstitious mother would. Demons. Hellfire. That sort of thing. She kicked that ridiculous part of her mind back into the corner it shared with santa claus. Miles would probably have this identified and figured out if not immediately, then after he’d brought a sample of the soil back to his lab.

For now, she had to calm Bolton down. “You’re not crazy. There was some melted ground up at the last scene, we think the perps have some nasty acid concoction they’re throwing around to cover their tracks.” Saints told him, leaving out the matching symbols and possible cult affiliations dancing around in her brain so her superstitious friend here wouldn’t latch onto them. If the press started talking about killers carving up bodies to summon demons, Sergeant Jeffords would have her badge on his desk by nightfall.

Bolton, for his part, looked noticeably relieved. Then concerned. “What the hell? Where’d they get that?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Not sure” she replied “I’m sure Miles will have it figured out soon enough. I’m going to go check in with our girl here, if the feds or press show up, let me know, will ya?”

The old patrolman nodded and started back towards his car to grab more cones. “Can do. You want fries with that, too?” Saints snorted at him. Cheeky old ass. Then headed over to see if Jessica would be able to give her any leads. Lord knows she could use it.

Saints now had four bodies drying in the sun, two vigilante killers with a hard-on for acid, twisting necks, and drawing what she could only guess was some sort of pagan bullshit... aaand her case had just blown wide a federal investigation into human trafficking. All before lunch. Saints sighed internally and sent Miles another text. Have him bring her something to eat. Today just didn’t want to quit.