Chapter Three
Symbols in Blood
It was only a short drive to the new crime scene, to the majestic housing complex on the edge of London. Michael sat beside Marshall as he waited to arrive looking down at the latest news report on the cars monitor. By now the news were reporting on the first murder, giving all the grizzly details to what had happened, and a small picture of the Tarot card, the fool on one side and his name on the other. A moment later his phone wrang in his pocket, an incoming call he knew would be coming from his sister. He was about to ignore it, when Marshall spoke up.
“She was going to ring eventually, once she saw your name on the news,” he pointed out. It continued to make a repeating tone, but he did not answer it, he could not face her scolding, her ordering him to go back home and to not get involved, he was involved, and he needed to do it. He retrieved his phone from his pocket, the thin piece of silver steel projected an image on its surface. He pressed the ignore key and the image disappeared and his phone became quiet once again.
They soon arrived at the majestic housing complex, a giant skyscraper with thousands of residents that included everything they could need, making it appear more like a miniature city than an apartment building. Marshall pulled the car into the large garage, built into the building. While waiting to land Michael kept thinking he could hear his phone ringing, that his sister was still trying to contact him. But when he looked at his phone, he was disappointed to find out she had not tried again. As the car touched down in the underground parking garage, the rhythmic hum of its engine ceased. Michael and Marshall stepped out, the sound of distant voices and the occasional wail of a siren echoing through the structure. The garage itself was stark and utilitarian, with rows of neatly parked cars, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow, a sharp contrast to the luxury that undoubtedly awaited above.
They made their way to the building’s elevator, which carried them swiftly to the 32nd floor. The air inside was tense, the small, confined space amplifying Michael’s sense of unease. The case was personal now, too personal. His name splashed across the news made him feel exposed, like a pawn in someone else's game.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal a wide, opulent hallway. Plush carpets, expensive artwork on the walls, and soft, ambient lighting gave the place an eerie calm. But as they moved toward the crime scene, the professional hustle of officers and techs setting up crime scene equipment began to puncture the stillness.
"This one's bad," Marshall said under his breath as they approached the entrance, "worse than the last," He added. The moment Michael stepped into the room; he knew this was different. There was no mistaking the deliberate and intricate design of the crime scene, this was not just a murder. It was a statement. The spacious living room of the penthouse had been transformed into something unnervingly sacred, yet grotesque.
The heavy scent of incense clung to the air, mixing with the sharp, metallic tang of blood. In the centre of the room, the victim was hung from the ceiling, a young woman in an elegant dress, her blond hair mattered with blood and sweat, her pale skin drained of life. He froze in place when he saw it, the Tarot card placed on the floor in front of her. He stepped closer to it, as if he had seen a ghost. His mind wondered back to Tatiana’s shop and the Tarot card he had seen there, “The Hanged Man,” Michael muttered to himself. As Marshall began questioning the lead officer on the scene, Michael found himself staring at the card. His pulse quickened as the weight of it all settled into his chest. Tatiana’s words echoed in his mind, her cryptic warning resurfacing, “The hanged man, a sense of feeling trapped, needing release and letting go.” His analytical mind went to work. This must have been the same killer, but the scene was completely different. The first murder was chaotic, seemingly not premeditated, lacking the skill and cunning of a dangerous murderer. But as he further examined the scene, her blood had evidently been used to draw strange symbols around the card. A lot of thought had been put into this, a lot of skill and the whole scene had been set up for everyone to see.
Marshall, standing beside him, let out a low whistle.
"Victims name is, Elizabeth Thomas, 33.” Marshall explained, but Michael was not listening, as all his attention was on the card on the floor. It was similar in style to the card from the previous murder scene, same text and colour with a border, but instead this read “Hanged Man” on the bottom with the man suspended upside down from a T shape. It was identical to the card Tatiana had showed him, and as his instincts told him there would be a message on the other side. He put on a protective glove and knelt down, careful picked up the card. The edges were stained with blood. He felt his chest clench, and stared at the image for what seemed like minutes till he took a breath and forced himself to turn the card over. On the other side of the card was indeed another message, but this time it was not his name, it simply read “Now I am free,” His mind sank, the message all but confirmed this to be done by the same killer.
“What is it?” Marshall asked. Michael got back to his feet, his heart racing, his mind threatening to lose control, he thrust the card into Marshall’s hand and left the apartment.
Panic threatening to take him over, Michael struggled to regain his breath as he resisted with all his will against the flask calling to him from his pocket. This was not the first time he had suffered from a panic attack; they had become quite common since the incident. A couple of the techs in the corridor stared at him, he would not meet their eyes, forcing his hands into his coat pockets to hide their shaking. A moment later Marshall appeared, with little tact he told the techs “Get back to work!”. Michael appreciated it, Marshall standing between him and the others like a shield to protect him from prying eyes.
“Are you okay?” Marshall asked. Michael took in a few deep breaths. His heart settled down and his hands stopped shaking.
“I’m okay,” he replied, his throat felt rough and dry. It was always the same, these anxiety attacks left him feeling mentally drained, he looked down at his hand expecting to see the flask of whiskey, but he had taken out his police identification badge. On one side was the police shield, a golden eagle, flat and straight with the words London printed across it and his identification number beneath. Holding the badge gave him strength, as though he had been given a dramatic boost of energy. Marshall put his hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring look. While his mind just like the shield was worn and damaged, he was still strong, he had just forgotten that.
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“We better have a word with Tatiana,” Michael suggested.
“I’ve already sent a pair of units to bring her in, I’m not going back to that quacks shop,” Marshall replied roughly.
It had been months since Michael had set foot in the police headquarters, also known as New Scotland Yard. The giant building was on the outskirts of the city, with its own, vehicle hanger and training grounds. As they descended towards the hanger, he watched a group of three police cruisers transporting SRU’s (Special Reaction Unit), the cruisers they were in were large, heavily armoured and carrying enough firepower to handle anything they could run into. All Michael could think was, something very serious must be happening inside the city for three units to be deployed together. The cruisers activated their red and blue lights and shot off into the sky, heading deep into the city.
As Michael and Marshall made their way through the brightly lit corridors of the station, passing the many officers and clerical workers, the weight of the interrogation loomed ahead. The sterile smell of disinfectant mingled with the faint echoes of voices down the hall brought back memories, there was a time he would be here almost every day, his job always came first, which is why unlike his sister he never settled down. His nerves prickled with unease, not just because they were about to question Tatiana, but because of the unknown variables she brought with her. Could they trust her, or was she connected to the killer in ways they could not yet understand?
The harsh fluorescent lights in the interrogation room buzzed faintly, the air was cold and sterile. Michael could feel the weight of the one-way mirror pressing against him, as though all eyes were on him the moment he stepped into the room. A pair of techs sat in the room with them, they monitored the equipment that monitored those in the other room. Tatiana was already there, sat at a table in a long, fur coat and clearly had put on more makeup before she had been brought in, Michael wondered if she knew this was going to happen and had prepared herself this way for it. She was in the room with detective Lynn, a short, blonde-haired detective who had been on the force nearly as long as Michael. They had already began the interview, their voices issued through the computers speakers into the room and being recorded for further study.
“We really appreciate you coming down here to answer some question,” Lynn was explaining, in her very calm and polite fashion.
“I’m always happy to help,” she smiled, for a moment Michael thought her eyes lingered on him, which was impossible, there was no way she could have known he was there. Lynn leaned forward, her eyes narrowing just slightly, an attempt to pierce through the calm veneer Tatiana wore so effortlessly.
“You mentioned earlier you don't give private readings unless specifically asked. So, what exactly made Detective Wyatt special?'"
“I’m afraid that is confidential, between me and my client,” she smiled, her eyes displayed the smallest edge to them. Michael’s heart sank, she was going to talk about the interaction they had together. Marshall prompted him to follow him outside.
He stood with Marshall in the quiet corridor, waiting for the inevitable questions, and the memories he would have to relive.
“You were a client of hers?” Marshall asked.
“Yes, but I have not seen her in over a month,” he responded.
“Why were you going to her?” Marshall asked, his skills of deduction now turned on Michael, who saw no point in trying to spin it, Marshall knew him too well.
“After the shooting,” As the words left his mouth, the office came rushing back. The flash of the gun, Katie crumpling to the ground, his hand reaching out as though he could have stopped it if only, he had been quicker. The crack of the shot still echoed in his mind.
“And,” Marshall prompted.
“I was looking for answers, and I went to her for readings,” the story was long but he did his best to shorten it.
“So, I went to her for tarot readings,” he explained
“But why?” Marshall asked, his eyes now burning into Michaels as though he was trying to read his soul.
“Because it was my fault,” Michael caught himself before he screamed the words out, months of anger, guilt and frustration boiled up in him and he pulled away from Marshall. “If I hadn’t….” before he could take another step Marshall pulled him back around, his iron grip prevented him pulling away,
“Now you listen to me,” his voice was firm but kind, “it was not your fault, and if Katie could see what you have done to yourself, she…..” before he could finish the sentence, the door to the interrogation room opened to reveal Lynn looking frustrated.
She paused staring at them both, obviously not expecting to find them standing in the corridor.
“Got a live one here,” she began, “talking about speaking to the spirits, won’t say much more to me, wants to speak to you,” she added looking at Michael.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Michael, you want to prove to me why I should keep you on the case, then get in there and do your job,” Marshall said. It was a hard truth for Michael to hear and he had been left with no room to move and talk his way out of it, if he could not do his job, who was he. He looked down at his badge, steeling himself for what was about to happen
The moment Michael stepped into the interrogation room he felt a strange, deep-seated cold in his chest. Tatiana was staring at him with uncomfortable intensity as he walked over to the table, he felt as though the air was pressing in on him. Unable to make himself sit down, he took a breath and forced himself to examine her with his critical eye. He took in her appearance, her choice of clothing to grab a man’s eye, and the way she looked at him, as though trying to spark thoughts that would prevent him doing his job.
“The card,” he cleared his throat, “the card you showed me at the shop appeared at a murder scene,” he forced himself to say.
“Really, how interesting,” she smiled.
“Again, the card is from your shop,” he said, trying to keep himself calm, ignoring her obvious attempts to distract him. Tatiana leaned back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Michael's, as if she were dissecting his very thoughts. Her smile was small, enigmatic, more like a challenge than an expression of warmth.
“Detective,” she began, her voice smooth and measured, “I don’t keep track of every deck that leaves my shop. But I do remember you, the troubled man seeking answers where there might be none.” Michael ignored the barb, though it stung more than he liked to admit.
“This card,” he pulled out a photograph of the crime scene, showing the Tarot card beneath the victim, “was found exactly the way you presented it to me. Why this card? Why now?” Tatiana’s smile faltered for just a moment, but she recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the photo.
“The Hanged Man,” she said softly, as though speaking to herself, “a symbol of sacrifice, of suspension between two worlds. It’s not a card of death, but of transformation. Perhaps your killer is trying to send a message.”
“And what about the message on the back?” he asked.
“Only the one who left it can truly answer that,” she replied, her gaze slipping from the photo to meet his eyes again. “But the message written on the back would seem to confirm the hanged man’s card, perhaps he is letting you know more is to come,” The last sentence hung in the air, laden with implication. Michael felt a surge of anger.
“This isn’t a game, Tatiana. Two people are dead.” Her expression remained placid, but there was something dangerous behind her eyes.
“You came to me looking for answers, detective. Perhaps you should ask yourself what you were really seeking.” Michael clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his composure.
“I’m after a killer.” He insisted
“I think you a seeking redemption,” she smiled. Before he could respond the door swung open and Marshall appeared. Michael knew from the expression on his face that there was another.