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PARASITE: Chasing Shadows
CHAPTER #0: A Night In ♫
Edgewater, Lower East Calder ♦ Calder City
Lucille Almánzar’s house was small enough that she only had to take five steps to get from her kitchenette to her living room. The television cast the otherwise lightless room in a pale blue glow. Lucille flopped down onto her sofa with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Chomper, a long-jowled and fat headed bulldog, leapt up beside her.
Less a glass and more a plastic to-go cup, and some people might call it ‘boxed, sugary swill’ instead of proper wine. She downed half the cup in one gulp. Her tongue sizzled at the taste. Cheap, cold, sweet goodness, with plenty more to go. Before the end of the night, her head would be swimming in a delicious half-consciousness, where the world stretched and squashed like a funhouse mirror.
She tucked her legs up underneath her as she started flipping through streaming services to find something to watch. Scrolling, eyes glazed over, a hundred titles flashed by. Nothing jumped out at her. She couldn’t focus. Her mind was on Harborlight. The girls were probably there already, drunk out of their minds and dancing like it was their last night on earth. She closed her eyes. She could practically see them there, faces flashing neon blue under the vaulted ceiling. Lucille’s throat tightened. Her eyes stung. She wished she could’ve gone with them. Wished she felt safe enough to be there.
Chomper must’ve sensed her apprehension. He whined until she moved her popcorn bowl enough to plop himself down on her lap
‘No,’ she clenched her teeth. ‘I’m fine. I can enjoy myself right here.’
“Thanks, buddy.”
She settled on rewatching Legally Blonde for the umpteenth time. Elle was an icon, and half the reason Lucille studied pre-law after high school…sure, she flunked out of half her courses, had to change her major and was still eating student debt, but hey! Follow your dreams, kids.
An hour later, while Reese Witherspoon was teaching a salon full of women how to bend and snap, Lucille thought heard something. She paused the movie.
Tap tap tap. Knuckles rapping against thin wood, quiet as a whisper. Someone was at the door, but it sounded like they weren’t trying to make much noise. Lucille looked at her phone, wincing. It was 1:45 AM. She had six missed calls from Gabriella, two from Beth and more texts than she could count.
“Oh, jeez. God. I’m coming, guys, sorry.” She called to the door as she pried Chomper off of her and rose to her feet. Stupid of her not to tell them she couldn’t make it tonight. Ghosting them never worked- of course someone would show up on her doorstep when she didn’t show. They were always worried about her, always fussing over her like a lost puppy. Her socks pitter-pattered against the hardwood floor as she walked.
She heard Chomper follow behind her, a growl in his throat. Lucille waved a finger at him. “Dude, shut up. You know them. Stop being so dramatic.”
The headlights from a car pulled up in the driveway shone like flood lamps through the front window, blinding her. Gabby drove here with her brights on- again. Typical. Lucille stepped up to the door, pulled off the chain and unlocked the deadbolt.
Lucille jumped out of her skin when she heard a thunderous boom from the other side of the door. A car backfired outside. Then again and again, thrice in quick succession. Chomper belted out barks louder than she thought possible. Ice flooded her veins as fear ran through her. Her skin felt wet, clammy. Sweat trickled down her neck and her cheeks flushed. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. She was jumping at shadows now. She felt so scared her stomach ached.
“Fuck.” She hissed, leaning forward on the door for support. Her stomach didn’t just ache- it hurt. Pain crawled in a spider web pattern up inside her. This was so stupid. She was lightheaded. Whether that was from the sudden terror or one too many cups of bad wine, she didn’t know.
Instinctively, she put a hand to her belly, wincing. It felt…sticky. Wet. Lucille looked down at her hand. Soaked with a red, globby liquid. Had she spilled something?
“Fuck! Fuck, I’m bleeding! Oh shit. Oh shit-” Lucille’s legs turned to gelatin underneath her. She collapsed. Hit the wood hard enough to crack her elbow, and again she yowled in pain.
The knob turned. Someone opened the door from outside. Chomper ran up to the door, snarling and barking, teeth barred.
“Help- Gabby, help me, I- I got hurt-”
Light from the car parked just outside flooded into the living room, blinding her. Blinking, all she could see was the shape of the figure standing in the door way. Huge, broad shouldered, imposing. A man, silhouetted against the light. He raised his gun and shot her again.
PARASITE: Chasing Shadows
CHAPTER #1: Eulogy for the Forgotten ♫
Main Street, Midtown ♦ Calder City
It was never dark in Midtown. Even thirty minutes away from the witching hour, the City District shone with the lights of a hundred billboards. They were covered with advertisements for soda, the latest action blockbuster schlock, and the smiling faces of Calder’s home grown capes. The neon sign atop Sky High Club still pulsed pink and green. Bars still proudly announced ‘OPEN FOR BUSINESS,’ even into the wee hours of the morning. The streets still flushed with bodies. Wealthy socialites on their way back to their penthouse suites or their manors in the hills rubbed shoulders with alcoholic sports fans celebrating the Calder Canaries winning a fourteen inning brawl with the Oakland A's.
An old sedan the color of mediocrity roared down Main Street at seventy miles an hour, flashing its red and blues. Its siren belted out a warning for everyone else on the road to get the fuck out of the way. Most listened. A pair of stubborn teenagers still darted out in front of it, forcing the sedan to swerve to avoid turning them into paste.
The scent of fresh coffee filled the interior, wafting off the pair of cups in the cupholder. The one closest to the passenger seat was a tall, metal cylinder with the words ‘Worlds Best Aunt’ printed on the side in blocky letters. The driver’s was paper and plastic, and displayed‘Lorenzo’s Cafe’ with pride. A box of half finished pastries sat in the backseat wore the same name.
In the center console, a bulky radio buzzed with voices mumbling criminal codes and I.D numbers. The volume stayed low. The chances of Dispatch would want to attach a pair of homicide detectives to a traffic stop were low, to say the least, and they already had a job for the night.
“Seriously? Main?” The woman in the passenger seat raised an eyebrow and tried not to sound exasperated. It didn’t work.
Detective Joan Cook was the image of a professional: blue blazer over a cream button-up blouse, tie straight as an arrow, oxfords shined to a polish and black curls pulled back in a tight bun. Her only eccentricity was the shoulder holster she wore beneath her jacket: she was one of the few cops in the city who didn’t wear their gun on their hip. People gave her shit for it at the station, but she didn’t give a damn- Joan thought it looked cool.
“Eh? Hell’s wrong with main?” The driver grumbled, incredulous, as he slammed his palm into the horn. Some cabby was taking eighty years to pull off into the right lane so the unmarked police cruiser could pass.
Solomon Cartwright was not the image of a professional. His hair was the same dry, greasy mass it had been when he crawled out of bed that afternoon. What he may have called a charming five o’clock shadow a few days again had transformed into a splotchy mess. He’d tied this tie exactly once and kept it on a hangar ever since. His collar was undone, his shirt was missing a button and for reasons only God could know, Solomon insisted on wearing a Stafford trench coat instead of a suit. Oh, and he smelled faintly of bourbon and cigarettes.
She did not grace him with a reply. Instead, she waved out the windshield at the line of traffic stopping them from merging off of Main and on to Burnside.
“S'the most direct route.”
“Birch has less foot traffic. Its faster.”
Grumbling, Solomon flipped on the AM/FM, hoping for some kind of distraction from the battle he was currently losing. A voice warm and filling as fresh baked bread thrummed through old speakers.
"…tuning in to 103 The Heat. I’m your host, Jeff Blaze. I’m sure you’ve all heard the news by now. It’s been on every channel, every hour on the hour since it happened. Some douchebag murdered the Mountain. The friggin’ Mountain! Still hard for me to believe. I mean, we all thought the guy was invincible. He ate bullets and cursed swords for breakfast. But he’s gone. He’s really gone. And we need to reckon with what this city- hell, this country- is gonna look like without him watchin’ over us. Vanguard gave the big guy a lovely funeral this morning. We have a clip of Chief Lichenstein’s keynote we’re going to play for you later, so stay tuned for that. First, though, we’ve got a special song lined up for the occasion. Tonight, we mourn the loss of a legend. This one’s to you, Mr. Mountain."
♫
Carry on, my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Carry on, my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Grief blanketed Calder City. Everywhere Solomon went, this cape’s death followed. It clung to his neighbors in the apartment stairwell, stinking of fear and uncertainty. It hung like a yoke on the necks of every cop at the precinct, as if they’d lost one of their own. It was in the gas station, the coffee shop, on the street corner and the subway. Millions of people clung to their radios and their televisions to watch a coffin be lowered into the dirt.
The loathing in his belly was thick as rotten milk. It made him sick- the obsession with celebrity. Heroes were brands; brands plastered on every roll of toilet paper and cereal box in the grocery store. They hosted Saturday Night Live and cameo'd in billion dollar movies. Hero worship infected this city to its core. Spread like cancerous cells through every fiber of life. Where else in the world did the lives of costumed millionaires so consume the attention of all?
“How many people been murdered this year, Cook?”
Her nose scrunched up with suspicion. “What kind of question is that?”
“Humor me.”
She sighed, gave it a few moments of thought and shrugged. “I don’t know. Last I heard we were on a decent trajectory to be down from last year.”
“And last year was what?”
“Four hundred and change, I think. Why? What’re you getting at, Cartwright?”
“Four hundred dead. N’ none of them got Wayward Son.” He pointed an accusing finger at the radio. “No funeral paid for with tax dollars. The world didn’t stop to give ‘em a moment of silence. Vanguard didn’t move heaven n’ earth to find their killers. Hell, we’re fightin’ admin for every scrap of overtime we can get.”
Detective Cook rubbed her temples with her middle fingers. “God, when Hart said you were a basket case, I thought he was exaggerating.”
Russel Hart’s name cut like a dagger through his side. His last partner- a better man than Solomon could ever hope to be. A man he’d failed.
“Sorry.” Solomon mumbled. His knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on the wheel. “Just don’t see what the big deal is.”
“People looked up to him. He was a hero.”
‘No such thing.' He thought, and he felt a scratch against the inside of his eyes. The old, familiar pain refused to be ignored. 'The Mountain's just a man who happened to be born Gray.’
He knew they were in the right place when he spotted red and blue light flashing against the walls of low, ancient houses. Single story abodes built too long ago and never refurbished, exterior wood rotted and crawling with termites. Half the pipes in this neighborhood were still lead, the claims of the mayor’s office be damned.
Edgewater. Only a block away from the Docks. Even with the windows up, he could smell it: the stink of the bay. Fish, salt and oil, a swill concocted by the dark gods of the sea to make a man’s belly churn at just a whiff.
Solomon parked between a patrol cruiser and an ambulance. Both he and Joan grabbed their coffee cups at the same time and climbed out, assaulted with the full force of Edgewater’s stink. Sol had to stand there for a moment just to adjust. He couldn’t count the number of decomposing bodies he’d shared a room with over the course of his career. None of them ever bothered him as much as that stupid bay.
A pair of EMTs worked to pack their gear back into the truck, apparently done here. Solomon craned his neck at the older of the two, gray hairs snaking their way through the thinning black waves on his head. "Got a time of death for me 'fore you leave?"
The man shook his head. "Dead when we got here. You'll have to ask the coroner."
"Already called the meatwagon, then?"
"Jesus, man." Disgust rankled his expression. "Who calls it that?"
A uniformed officer with bright red hair and skin paler than the moon leaned against his car, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His eyes lit up when he saw the detectives start toward him, so he tossed his cigarette butt onto the pavement and stood up. “You homicide? We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.”
Joan shot Solomon a look before answering: “We were stuck in traffic. Mind walking us in?”
He nodded. The guy was tall, thin, and his cheeks were still flabby with youth. “Got the call at about two o’clock. Neighbor heard three shots fired and came out to check what was going on. Saw the door open and a body lying just inside, so he called us.” He led them up the walkway to the front door, pointing at it. There were three, identical holes in a tight pattern at around waist to chest height.
The odor of ill intent wafted through the air, thick and repugnant. It mixed like oil and water with the sea breeze, flipping Solomon's stomach upside down. That feeling he got at every murder scene came bubbling up to the surface. It crawled its way out of his belly, put its tiny hands on his ribs and climbed until it could sit directly atop his heart. There, it pressed on him from inside, urging Sol to some action it never could explain. Sol couldn't push it down. He never tried- not anymore. The thing sharing his body did not take well to rejection. Better to ignore its nudging until it lost interest and let him do his job.
Joan and the other cop moved on inside while Sol took a moment to gather himself at the doorstep.
"Do we have an I.D on the victim yet?"
A young woman lay in a pool of blood just inside. Long, dark hair fell over her face, still frozen in a look of helpless terror. She was dressed in a pair of pink shorts and a long, silk shirt of the same color. Pajamas. They looked comfortable. Solomon approached, pulling a pair of gloves out from his pocket so he could touch her without making Forensics's lives any harder than they already were. He brushed the hair back from her face. There was a hole in the center of her forehead leaking unspeakable fluids alongside the blood. Sol pushed it aside and looked at her cheeks and her eyes. Makeup. She was wearing a full face of makeup.
"Lucille Almánzar," the patrol cop read off the name from his notepad. "Twenty-two year old Hispanic woman. Works up at Edgewater Middle School as a Spanish teacher. No family living in the city. This is her home address. She lives alone."
"Hair's straightened. Probably recently." Solomon mumbled. "That and the makeup tells me she was either planning to go out or already did. We check her phone yet?"
The cop nodded. ""Unanswered calls and texts on the lock screen, but we haven't cracked it."
"We'll need to get started on the warrant as soon as we can. If we can run down where she's been, we can start making a list of everyone she was with tonight." Joan paused. She stepped past Lucille's body, moving over to the couch. "Huh."
"What?"
"Movie's paused at almost an hour in. The popcorn bowl on the couch is just...chock full of kernels."
Solomon gave a short nod as he went back to examining the body. He found the rest of the entry wounds in the center of her belly. Shot placement matched the pattern on the door. Fourth shot must've come later. Gently, he picked Lucille's body up so he could turn her over. Exit wounds on the back."Weird to eat a shitload of popcorn n' watch half a movie if yer gettin' ready to leave. Hey, you find any casings outside?"
While the patrol officer and Cartwright talked, Joan disappeared into a door in the kitchen.
""Nope. No bullets, either. Not yet."
"Guess our shooter was careful."
""Nobody's perfect. Forensics oughtta find fragments, at least. They'll pick through this place with a fine toothed comb."
A finger scratched against the back of his right eye. It twitched. Something told him 'careful' was an understatement. The forensics techs on this case were as likely to all simultaneously win the lottery as they were to find any trace of the gun their killer used.
Sol continued examining Lucille. "No sign of bruising. Doesn't look like the killer touched her after...hold up." He leaned in close, squinting at the back of her neck. Gentle as could be, he pressed a finger against a tiny red line there. Blood squirted out. "...Incision at the base of the skull. Tiny. Precise cut. Almost surgical."
""Popped an old cut open when she fell?" The red-haired boy offered with a shrug. Solomon shook his head.
"Know a fresh cut when I see one. What the hell was this guy doin' to her? Shit. We need'ta get her to the medical examiner if we're gonna figure anythin' out."
"Hey, Cartwright! I think I got something." Joan yelled from the opposite end of the house. "Get over here."
It took only twenty five steps to cross the living room, weave through the kitchenette and arrive at the victim's bedroom. It was remarkably clean. Certainly tidier than the rundown shitstorm he called a home. There wasn't a spot of dust or a speck of trash to be found outside the mini trashcan beneath the desk in the corner. Bed was even made. Only thing out of place were the clothes on the bed. Pink shirt, sheer black top and a pair of long gloves all tossed in a pile. Not in the hamper by the door with the other clothes. There was a pair of pink converse sat at the edge of the bed, too, off the shoe rack he spotted in the closet.
Looks like she was getting ready to leave after all. Yet she'd been home for at least an hour. Something didn't add up.
Sol crossed the bedroom to the bathroom, where he spotted Joan standing next to the sink. There was a makeup pouch and a hair straightener still sitting out. The medicine cabinet sat ajar, and Joan appeared to be holding a translucent orange bottle with a blue top from within. "You know what this is?" She handed it to him.
"Griseosporine. Power suppressant." His heart rate spiked. Solomon felt that thing inside his chest start to dance with glee. "Our vic's a Gray."
