IT HAD BEEN several days since they witnessed the grisly footage. Several nights that John spent staring at the ceiling while his mind replaying the scenes from the disk over again. Even now, at his desk, he let it play once more, the LED light streaming over the collage made up of sketches and the photographs. These pieces of the puzzle connected with the murderous scene, filling in the details that were left off-screen.
The disheveled but cozy fleece blankets on the well worn, but the well-loved cushioned couch, illuminated by the paused horror movie on the TV, complete with lukewarm hot chocolate set on the coffee table. An interrupted dinner meticulously placed in the dining room.
It was supposed to be a peaceful evening; just the perfect image of a suburban household.
That footage showed, in horrendous minutes, how that evening went horribly wrong. The Collins couple had twilight years ripped away from them. Their young son, just hitting the beginning of his prime, was missing; he may have walked out of that house, but the look in his eyes showed incomprehensible force dragged him out. His body was under a spell and only his mind, as seen through those wide, wet eyes, was under his control.
John grimaced, taking his eyes away from the ceiling and avoiding the computer monitor altogether. He pulled out a copper-coated flask and a small shot glass from the ignored bottom drawer of his desk. He set the glass down onto the top of his desk and then poured the amber, cedar-scented contents of the flask into it. His eyes focused on the glass as Jim’s words repeated in his ears.
A vampire...
“That’s bullshit.”
Jim breathed out that word with gravitas. Maybe insanity ran in his partners’ family. He set down at the flask onto his desk before lifting the shot glass and downing the burning liquid.
This was not the time of Bram Stoker; Vampires were not real.
He set down the glass, pinched his brow between two calloused fingers before looking towards the file next to the flask. He sighed in frustration before lifting a file and reading it again for the 20th time.
It contained details of a case similar to this one from three decades ago. The written accounts from Jims’ grandfather seemed more like it came from a terrible fiction; a poor B-Movie script to the latest slaughterhouse film.
However, his instincts or perhaps superstition connected the footage with the testimony of a crazed man. Even if some videos WERE tampered with, it did not explain how a man could be thrown against a vaulted ceiling. How could a human push a woman with so much force across several feet, straight off the floor, into the mirror?
There was absolutely nothing that could explain that.
“I need to give this all of this to Linda. Maybe if she could just see HOW it was edited.” He nodded grimly, figuring that once all the layers of fiction were removed, the truth will fit neatly into reality.
A short cough grabbed his attention. He looked up towards the phone operator next to his desk. “What is it?”
“The Collins’ case. We got a tip.” The operator set a slight note on his desk. “Apparently they spotted someone matching the description of Michael Collins in the neighborhood, along with a little girl.”
John stood up from his desk, picking up the note and reading it over. “Jim and I will follow up on this.”
Once they have the Collins’ son, everything will fall into place. Reality will conquer fiction.