I Know
Jetlag is a bitch. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling everyone when they start with me: What took you so long to show? Didn’t you get any rest on the plane? You look exhausted! No shit. Of course I’m exhausted. I’m just about one yawn away from straight-up collapsing on the ground until sometime next week! I’m not going to let anyone onto it, though; the reason I’m as fucked up and worn as I am.
Despite the aggravation and fatigue, I’m still grateful when I find the scene less crowded than I’d expected. When the crime went down, I’d imagine there was a crowd buzzing like a plague of locusts, but it’s been a while since it occurred. The scene’s mostly been cleared, and the shock has already faded. People have short memories. These crimes, no matter how theatrical or egregious, don’t linger long in their easily distracted minds. For me, though, these things have a way of sticking.
I move through the lavish hotel and take the whole thing in. This is what I do. This is what I’m good at. I note the warm, gold tones, the reds, and the purples. It’s nice. It’s fancy. It’s flashy and overdone. Even though there’s a great deal of showmanship attached to the scene, I can figure out what’s happened pretty fast. The victim, the dead one I’ve been called about, was dangled from the second floor’s railing. From what I’ve been told, he hung there a long time like an oversized dowsing crystal. After he was cut, he smashed the entire bar beneath him in a vast, destructive arc. From there, he managed to crash through glass doors, taking him outside where he fell into the pool, probably dazed from all the trauma. The killer fished him out and murdered him unceremoniously on a wooden chair with a railway spike, stabbing him between the eyes, straight out the back of his skull.
I had the pleasure of seeing an emailed photo on the plane, sent from the coroner in France. Of course, the body’s gone now. Even so, it all plays out simply in my mind, like watching one of those grizzly scenes in a Tarantino movie.
“Ah! You must be Collins, right?” a potent, sophisticated voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I turn, quickly locating a tall blond man. He holds out his hand. I promptly shake it and nod. He gives me a muted, almost cocky smile and shakes more aggressively than me. Cool. So, he’s one of those guys.
“I guess you Americans don’t have the punctuality of your English ancestors, eh?”
I’m certain my face betrays my aggravation over his rude, bullshit comment. I release his hand and step back.
“America’s a big place. I don’t think my punctuality makes much of a difference, not for the victim, at least.”
The blond man is clearly amused with me. I don’t give him much thought as I get down to business. I gesture toward the bar while I approach it.
“In fact, showing up early might be the real problem with this case…” I say, intentionally mysterious.
“How so?” he asks, his eyebrow cocked and suspicious.
I press forward, passing three obliterated glasses along the way. I’m pointing with more insistence toward the bar.
“One, two, three, four…four bottles of what I presume were very expensive liquors are missing from that shelf…”
I stop and keep my eyes fixed on the spot, all of the shattered glass a sharp reminder of the violence that happened here. Some bottles are still up top, tipped by the victim’s dangling hands. I keep explaining myself, satisfied I have this arrogant asshole’s attention.
“…I was told the police cordoned off the area within minutes?”
He nods in the affirmative. I take it as an invitation to go on.
“Well, then that would suggest either a first responder or CSI investigator took it, wouldn’t you say?” I smile at him sardonically while I squeeze in a jab, “Unless you INTERPOL guys are that underpaid…? By the way, who are you?”
He grins, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly despite his composure.
“I’m Agent Mercier from the French INTERPOL, as you’ve correctly assumed.”
I watch him while he navigates shards of glass to the other side of the bar, “That was some quick thinking. Though, I’m not sure how you’re so confident the bottles weren’t broken with all the others?”
I indicate the top shelf and slowly let my eyes wander back to the floor, “There were only whiskey bottles up there, judging by what’s left. Very expensive ones. But look, here, on the floor, I only see fragments of…let’s see…vodka, two rums…oh, what’s this blue one?”
“Curacao,” Mercier replies, his voice incredibly dry.
“That one! So, all of these, and the ones from the top shelf that were destroyed, I assume were tipped or broken by the victim’s hands on the way down,” I move closer to the shelf and put my fingers in the vacant space between two untouched, vertical bottles, “These places here, though, the bottles were further back. Not much, but just enough to miss the impact. See how this little crease holds everything in place?” I move away and glance at Mercier, watching him look it over, “So, the only logical explanation for the missing whiskey is theft. Someone had to have taken them after the incident, likely when everyone was in a frenzy.”
Mercier puts his hands in his pockets and purses his lips, pacing back and forth with a thoughtful gate.
“Maybe the bottles were missing before the whole thing happened?”
I scoff and widely gesture like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Come on, look at this place! This hotel’s sole purpose is attracting rich, powerful people. It’s a status thing. Do you really think they’d offer their wealthy guests a half-stocked bar?”
Mercier stops pacing, “That makes sense, I suppose. But we’re not here to investigate the case of the missing bottles.”
We exchange grins before Mercier heads outside. I follow, feeling the same invigoration I always do on a scene. No matter how tired and fucked up I get, these things never fail to captivate me. I like the puzzle. I like the challenge, even if I already know who’s responsible for this particular event.
As we find ourselves outside, the evidence of what’s happened is nothing short of abundant, even without the body. There’s blood, a hell of a lot of it, especially around the chair where the victim was impaled. I watch Mercier circle it, shooting me a calculating look.
“Why did you say the bottles were smashed by the victim’s hands? He was dangled from the upper floor, but not so low he should’ve been able to reach the shelves…the killer was trying to snap his neck, string him up…”
“He wasn’t hanging from his neck or his arms. He was upside down. His feet were tied, and his hands would’ve been in line with the bar.”
“How do you know that?” Mercier frowns, a heavy suspicion emanating from his eyes.
“Well, the upper floor is pretty high. If he’d been hanged by the neck, it would’ve killed him. It would’ve killed him fast…and then…” I squat beside the chair, indicating the profuse blood splatter, “There would’ve been no need for this part. The chair had to have been staged. There’s no other reason it’d be beside the pool.”
“So, you think the killer did this on purpose…prolonging his life, dangling him for fun? Why go to the trouble? Why be so elaborate and pretentious?”
“Because, as always, it’s not just about the murder. It’s about making a statement,” another voice suddenly emerges, “You know, sending a message and all that…”
I smile, laying eyes on my buddy Joe. He’s carrying a silver briefcase with an overconfident smirk on his face. Of course, he has every right to be that way. He’s one of the FBI’s most renowned forensic scientists, something especially impressive considering his younger age. He grew up in the same small, ass-backward town as me, deep in the mountains of Montana. His older sister and my best friend, Nina, was in my class. Unlike us, he graduated high school early and started college as a teen, which wasn’t much of a surprise. He’d always been well above average and was doing nothing short of living up to the expectations his loved ones set. He enjoys it, though, so it’s all well and good. I smile at him. He nods at me, looking all scientific, nerdy, and eager.
“Who’s this?” Mercier asks, entirely peeved about the presence of another goddamn American on his case.
“Joe Davis,” he extends his hand, “I’m a CSI. I work for the Bureau.”
“Our local CSI already canvassed the scene,” Mercier quips dismissively, putting no effort into any semblance of being polite.
“Joe’s been working with me a long time,” I explain.
I’m calm, but I’m also not going to budge on this if Mercier decides to push it. He looks like he’s picking up on my resolve when he focuses on Joe.
“So, what do you think then? It’s a case for us?”
Joe licks his lips and nods, just a hair shy of too much enthusiasm, “Yep. This is a textbook Badger case.”
I nearly roll my eyes. Joe leaps at every chance he has to investigate anything related to the Badger, the sadistic hitman we’ve been chasing for upwards of six years now. I know why, of course, but I don’t want to dig too deep into it. That would require an examination of my own motives, and that’s a path I don’t especially care to go down just yet.
“The Badger?” Mercier asks with disdain, “I’ve never understood the penchant people have for giving monikers to killers, but this one is ridiculous even by those standards…”
“Actually, there’s a pretty good reason for the name. You see…” Joe starts to explain, but I quickly shake my head at him, stopping him in his tracks.
Sometimes he has to be reminded to restrain his excessive passion for this shit.
“Joe, you should check out the scene. Try and find anything the local CSI might’ve missed. Anything that can give us a better picture how this went down.”
Joe nods. I turn to address Mercier, “I’m sure your office will want my statement? After that, I’d like to know everything you’ve got on the victim.”
“Shouldn’t we be focusing on this ‘Badger’?” he scoffs, clearly put off.
“This didn’t happen out of nowhere,” I say as I start walking, “Trust me. We find out who this guy was, we find out why someone put a price on his head. The Badger might be a theatrical hitman, but he’s still just a hitman. So, that means we need to know who commissioned the kill. Then, we can get a lead on our killer. It’s pretty straightforward.”
He’s deadpanning so I shrug and grin, “You have a car? I’ll need a ride to your headquarters.”
“Yes…” he articulates the word with aggravation, but I don’t care.
I follow him from the crime scene and we settle into his vehicle. I’m grateful to sit down for a while because the buzz I get from working a scene wears off almost immediately. I’ve got to get some sleep tonight. I’ve just got to. I almost drift away in the car, but Mercier starts talking and I have to try and keep my head about me.
“So, you’ve been working this Badger case for a while now, no?”
“Yeah. It’s occupied most of my career. I was the first responder on his first kill. He’d had some hits prior, but we didn’t know they belonged to him at the time. Back then, his pattern was fleshing out. He’s a showman, though. He likes staging complex kills, and they’re usually, impressively, very public. He never leaves anything behind. No hair. No prints. Nothing. I’ve been so close to these cases, it’s almost like I’ve gotten to know him over the years, so this is what I do. I follow him around, wherever the hell he winds up.”
Mercier nods, a thoughtful, conceited expression on his face.
“And yet, even though you know this Badger so well, you still have yet to catch him or identify him…”
I turn my head and look out the window, choosing to ignore the comment. I know what I know, and I know how to conduct myself accordingly. I let some time pass before I decide to put him on the spot.
“What’s your deal? Why are you responding to this case?”
“Oh, you know…I guess I am a little like yourself. I’m the first responder, so, here I am. I find this Badger interesting, though, the way you describe him. He is a hitman, and yet, the way he kills, it suggests the mind of a serial killer, wouldn’t you agree?”
I stare ahead, my mind fuzzy with jetlag and a hardcore sleep deficit. He’s not wrong.
“I would,” I concede, nodding my head and doing my best to ignore the many, many disconcerting implications of that fact when it comes to me and my fucked up life.
Before we can get into it any further, we arrive at the INTERPOL headquarters. Mercier parks and leads me through winding halls to his director’s office. I’m received about as warmly as an American agent can be.
“So, what do we know so far, then?” the director asks, leaning into his chair and pressing his fingers together, primarily addressing me.
“Nothing just yet. It’s the Badger, that’s for sure. I recognize the antics. I’ve got my CSI taking another pass at the scene. He’s worked closely with me over the years on these cases. He’s the best person to have in our corner. If there’s something to be found, he’ll find it. I was telling Mercier earlier that I think the best course of action is to look into the victim. He doesn’t kill without a commission, so we need to find out why this guy had a price on his head. I haven’t come across a case yet where the victim wasn’t involved in something unsavory. I’d be willing to bet he was up to something he wouldn’t want his loved ones knowing about. We need to know exactly what that was. It might help us figure out where he’ll strike next. He tends to commit these crimes in connective strings when he goes on a spree.”
The director sighs and presses his thumbs thoughtfully to his lips.
“Okay. Run with it. You two work this case together. Keep me in the loop. This is a big one. I want it handled right, do it by the book. No surprises. No issues.”
Mercier and I nod before exiting the room. I’m noticing we’re both men of few words when it calls for it, which helps me take a slight liking to that side of him. Sure, he seems like an arrogant prick, and he looks like a rich kid who fell into a job he otherwise might’ve been denied, but at least he knows when the hell to be quiet.
As we walk outside, we stop and regard each other. I’m about to start suggesting where we should go next when he speaks up and stops me.
“Let Davis check the scene. We will wait and see what he finds. You should go to your hotel and sleep. No sense in working if you’re spent.”
I want to protest. I’m kind of a workaholic that way, but the fact of the matter is, he’s right. We don’t have any leads just yet, and I’m abso-fuckin’-lutely spent.
“Come, get in the car. I’ll take you.”
I hesitate before I decide to follow. We get into the car and, thankfully, he lets me ride in peace this time. I only speak up enough to give him the name of the shithole I’m staying in. He’s familiar, so he takes me without any request for directions. It’s not too far. We say cordial goodbyes before I disappear inside my room. I plop onto the bed, ignoring the bag I’d lain beside it earlier when I checked in. I’m feeling that bone-deep tired, the kind that makes your eyes heavy and kind of achy. I don’t bother removing my shoes or putting my head on a pillow. I start to drift as my mind considers what I know right now.
And the thing of it is, I know a hell of a lot more than I let people on to. You see, despite the bullshit Mercier had to say about me chasing after a man I know nothing about, he’s wrong.
I know who the Badger is, and not only do I know him…
…I’m totally, completely, in love with him, too.
