Author's note: This is my entry for Cornconic's 2023 Random Title writing contest. The category I chose was "Crime".
The following is the work in progress transcription from the body cam of officer Wade Jones. The validity of certain claims, the actions of the officers in question, and the quality of the footage are still to be determined.
Any transcriber tasked with reviewing this footage is prohibited from discussing the subject matter forthwith, including but not exclusive to in response to the command of their superiors.
October 13th, 0615
A gloomy, sunless day can be seen cast over the city-scape that rapidly rushes by from the interior of a police cruiser.
Constable Jones: Hey, uh… So I’m Constable Jones. Over here, this is Detective Holmes…
The view awkwardly jerks to the left, revealing an unenthusiastic, middle-aged man. His thick graying brow furrowed over the steering wheel.
Detective Holmes: This isn’t some reality TV show, rookie. It’s a pilot project. Commish doesn’t need your life story.
The detective kept his gaze on the road as his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the city streets.
C. Jones: Sorry, detective. I’m not really sure how to act on film, you know?
The view swings forward once more, revealing the busy streets of the city’s downtown core.
D. Holmes: I get it, Jones. None of us do. We put our asses on the line every day for this city, for the sake of justice. Instead of any semblance of trust, what do we get? Our every move recorded.
C. Jones: Why do you think the chief agreed to host the pilot project at our precinct? She doesn't seem like the type to…
D. Holmes: It wasn't up to her. She's been facing a lot of scrutiny after what happened with Wenske. That's probably the whole reason for this damn cam shit anyways.
After a few moments of silence, constable Jones speaks up.
C. Jones: What really happened with Detective Wenske, I heard-
A hissing static interrupts Constable Jones, as a voice on the radio speaks. The view throttles, as though the camera was jostled, possibly from the constable being startled.
Radio: Car 52, 10-78 at Broadway and Mt. Pleasant, backup requested. Possible 912.
The detective’s hand is seen grabbing the radio microphone, pulling it from the field of view.
D. Holmes: 10-4, car 52 en route.
The microphone is placed back into its holster. The car comes to a stop at a busy intersection, as the detective prepares to make a left turn onto Mt. Pleasant Road.
C. Jones: What’s a 10-78?
D. Holmes: They don’t teach you radio codes anymore? Unbelievable.
C. Jones: I know what a 912 is. It’s a domestic, right?
D. Holmes: Are you asking me, or telling me?
C. Jones: Telling, sir.
A deep sigh is heard over the muffled rumbling of the car’s wheels on the cracked pavement of the well-worn road.
D. Holmes: It means “officer needs assistance.” Tonight when you go home, brush up on all your codes, especially the 10 codes. I’m not here to teach you textbook shit. I'm here to teach you what we stand for. Justice.
C. Jones: I don’t think you're supposed to swear on video, detective.
D. Holmes: That piece of crap picks up audio?
Another heavy sigh is heard before a stretch of silent and uneventful driving leads the two officers to an old hotel. The car pulls into one of many vacant parking spaces. As constable Jones exits the vehicle, much debris; garbage, abandoned syringes, cigarette butts, and alcohol bottles can be seen.
C. Jones: This place looks like a dump. Hardly fitting for this neighbourhood.
D. Holmes: They rounded up a bunch of homeless and stuffed ‘em here. Turned this place into an impromptu shelter. It wasn’t a popular decision.
The detective enters the hotel, with the constable following behind. Many poorly dressed and unkempt individuals are seen strewn about the lobby, whilst a few less-disheveled looking denizens make their way out upon the officers’ arrival. An overdose prevention support worker approaches the detective, their conversation is largely inaudible.
D. Holmes: Jones, hussle, let’s go.
The constable picks up the pace, following the detective into the elevator.
C. Jones: What floor is it on?
D. Holmes: The fifth. Unit 507. The OPSW said this couple is always at it.
Constable Jones' hand can be seen reaching for, then pressing, the 5th floor button. The picture quality for the body cam begins to degrade gradually as the elevator rises.
The moment the doors open, muffled screams and crying can be heard, a gunshot follows shortly after. The video quality becomes clear once more.
D. Holmes: Shit, let's go!
Detective Holmes' steps turn from a walk to a cautious jog as he proceeds in the direction of the screams, unholstering his gun. Constable Jones follows suit.
The detective pauses outside of the hotel room, the door is slightly ajar. He takes a deep breath, and barges through the door.
D. Holmes: TPS, drop your weapon and-
The detective's command ceases abruptly. Constable Jones follows through. A faded metal "507" is seen on the door's exterior.
Detective Holmes is standing, weapon held in both hands aimed towards the floor. He stands staring at something around the corner. A hushed wailing can be heard, still muffled by the walls.
D. Holmes: Jesus fuckin' Christ. Jones! Get an ambulance!
As constable Jones proceeds into the room, two bodies are seen on the floor. One constable, and one civilian. A trail of blood can be seen, leading to the bathroom.
Profuse amounts of blood are streaked on the walls and the room's carpeting. One body, presumably the instigator of the domestic call, is on his back. It's unclear from the footage whether or not he draws breath. His pants are pulled down, his shirt is torn open, and his genitals are savagely mutilated. Something unintelligible is carved into his chest.
C. Jones: D… Dispatch! We need an ambulance! The Roehampton Hotel on Mt. Pleasant! Room 507!
The detective kneels towards the first body and proceeds to check the man's pulse before moving to the officer.
The other body is an officer, his hands and uniform covered in blood, with his gun on the floor beside him.
D. Holmes: Jones! Check on the woman in the bathroom. Be careful.
Constable Jones approaches the bathroom door and attempts to open it. The handle doesn't turn. He turns to face the detective.
D. Holmes: Come on Jones! Use your head! She could be hurt, kick the fuckin' door in!
C. Jones: R… right. Yes sir.
The constable's foot connects with the door, sending it flying open violently. A woman sits in a pool of blood, naked. She appears pale and largely unresponsive, likely in shock. Three letters are carved into her upper chest, "WHO".
D. Holmes: Jones! How is she?
C. Jones: Not good, detective. She's lost a lot of blood.
Approaching sirens can be heard in the distance. Constable Jones steps back from the woman, turns, and begins to vomit into the bathtub. The camera lingers on the mess in the bathtub for little over a minute.
D. Holmes: Are you kidding me? Keep it together, Jones!
Constable Jones stands upright, and his hands block the camera temporarily, he is presumably wiping his mouth.
C. Jones: We won't have to watch this video later, will we?
D. Holmes: You didn't stop the camera? Turn that shit off!
The camera feed for October 13th ends abruptly at 0705.
October 15th, 0600
Constable Jones can be seen from the camera's view, presumably placed on a desk. He picks up the camera and fastens it to the clip on his uniform. He walks past several desks; few have constables, identified as Constables Batiya, Castañeda, and Espinoza.
C. Espinoza: Sup, sicko. Heard you almost puked on the victim the other day.
D. Holmes: Leave him alone Eli, we've all been there at some point.
Constable Espinoza sighs, and spins in his chair. Detective Holmes enters view from towards his desk and approaches constable Jones.
D. Holmes: How ya doin' Jones, get any rest on your day off?
C. Jones: No, actually. I couldn't sleep at all. Can't get that scene out of my mind.
Detective Holmes looks to the ground, then back up to constable Jones before nodding his head to the side, indicating to follow.
The two walk into a vacant meeting room. Detective Holmes closes the door behind them.
D. Holmes: Ever seen someone without their head? I'm talking clean off.
Constable Jones makes no response, but the subtle swaying of the body cam indicates he shook his head "no."
D. Holmes: It's one of the two circumstances in which an officer is permitted to declare death at the crime scene. Seems odd, but it's definitely a certainty. Anyways, we never found the head, but we could ID the vic right away. He was a civilian consultant.
C. Jones: Why are you telling me this?
D. Holmes: It was a real fucked up case. Had me sick to my stomach. Couldn't sleep for… weeks, probably. Couldn't tell you how long, honestly.
C. Jones: How did you get over it?
D. Holmes: I solved the murder. Caught the sick bastard who did it. It was believed he was part of some kinda cult or something. Him and a few other nutcases claimed that they were "possessed," not by any "demon," but by an overwhelming "need" for justice. They claimed that during the violent acts, they truly believed their actions were just. The real kicker? Those cultist whack jobs were all cops. A lot of work went into covering as much up as possible, while still ensuring justice was served.
C. Jones: I still don't understand why you're telling me this…
Detective Holmes walks over to the glass window that looks out over the station house.
D. Holmes: Two reasons, Jones. First, I think figuring out what the hell went down in that hotel room will help give you peace of mind. Second, and I want you to keep this between you and me…
C. Jones: Uh, but detective-
Constable Jones sits down in one of the many vacant chairs and leans forward. The camera's view is entirely obstructed.
D. Holmes: Let me finish. As I was saying… There's something sinister going on. Same kinda shit as nearly a decade ago. Cops going nuts. Everyone in this precinct's got loyalties. Everyone except you. That's why I want your help.
Constable Jones sits upright and shifts in his seat.
C. Jones: Okay detective, I'm in.
Detective Holmes stretches out a hand. Constable Jones' meets it and the two shake.
C. Jones: About that case, the cult one… why did they behead the consultant?
D. Holmes: Ah, yeah. So, after his death, it came to light that he had murdered his girlfriend twenty some-odd years before. Likely would have gotten away with it, had he not been beheaded.
C. Jones: How did they know? Why didn't they just arrest the guy?
D. Holmes: There was no evidence to suggest anyone involved knew about the murder. Strange, eh?
C. Jones: Very. So, where do we start with our investigation?
D. Holmes: We're heading to the morgue. Let's see what we can glean from the bodies. Also, Jones, just remember to keep this between us for now.
C. Jones: Uh, about that… the body cam is on. Has been this whole time.
Detective Holmes' eyes widen as his stoic expression turns to one of rage.
D. Holmes: You just started your shift! Why the fuck is it on already? You haven't even left the precinct!
C. Jones: Chief said it had to be on at all times, while on duty! I'm pretty sure I'm already gonna get in trouble for having turned it off at the crime scene!
Detective Holmes rubs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. As he walks towards constable Jones.
D. Holmes: Well, we'll just have to figure this shit out before anyone watches this, then.
A hand, presumably the detective's, can be seen reaching for the camera before all vision is blocked, and the camera feed cuts out.
October 15th, 1012
As the camera gains focus, Detective Holmes can be seen standing in an austere hallway, in front of two double doors.
D. Holmes: It's still gonna be pretty raw, you sure you're up for it?
C. Jones: Yeah, we've got no time to waste. If you're right about this, more cops are going to snap and soon.
The detective nods with a grimace. The two push through the doors into the morgue. Two bodies are out of storage. Mortician Hanley turns from the bodies to face the detective and constable.
Hanley: Hey there detective. Didn't think you'd be bringing a friend.
D. Holmes: Think of him as an understudy.
The elderly mortician let loose a brief chuckle, more in acknowledgement than any real sense of humour. Constable Jones approaches the corpses, revealing them to be that of the man and the officer from the Roehampton Hotel.
C. Jones: The woman… She survived?
D. Holmes: Yeah, we'll be speaking to her soon. The doctor's keep saying she's not ready yet, but I'm pushing. Anyways, what can you tell us, Hanley?
Hanley: Quite frankly, it's the strangest thing. The wounds inflicted on Mr. Logan, the victim, seem almost as though they were done with some level of precision, but everything indicates that officer Williams ripped the man's genitals off with his bare hands.
As constable Jones examines the bodies, the wounds, now clear of blood and gore, become clear. The body tagged as Ashley Williams, the constable, bears a single bullet hole from the bottom of the chin, indicative of suicide.
Hanley: Additionally, Hanley suffered excessive bruising in his upper chest and the left side of his face, a cracked sternum, and a few missing teeth. From the tissue under Williams' nails, particularly on the right hand, I'd guess that he held Mr. Logan down by the chest, exuding extreme force, while he ripped off his genitals with his right hand.
The room falls silent as constable Jones and detective Holmes both turn their attention to the victim's wounds. The camera's view plainly illustrates how cleanly the genitals were removed, now absent of blood. The letters carved into the victim's chest appear distinctly more clear.
D. Holmes: Hanley, if you had to make an educated guess, what kind of strength do you think it would take to perform this kind of… organ removal?
Hanley: God, I… I've no idea. It would require supreme strength to rip someone's genitals off, let alone in such a spectacularly clean fashion. If I wasn't seeing it myself, I'd not have thought it possible.
The camera's view settles and focuses on the word carved into the victim's chest, "WHORE".
C. Jones: Whore? Why whore?
D. Holmes: Jones, what was carved into the chest of the other victim?
C. Jones: Just W, H, O. Who? Do you think…
D. Holmes: Maybe Williams thought they were both whores? Somehow, something stopped him?
C. Jones: Wait, Mr. Hanley… is it possible that this incident is somehow connected to what happened with Constable Wenske?
Hanley and detective Holmes. Turn their gazes to one another, in silence. Hanley takes a deep breath.
Hanley: Without a doubt. Anyhow, I forwarded you the report on full, alongside the abbreviated notes you requested.
D. Holmes: Thanks Hanley. C'mon, Jones. We've got what we need.
The detective and constable turn to the doors and exit, before Hanley speaks, causing them to pause.
Hanley: One last thing, gentlemen. In Williams' body, and only his body, I noticed something peculiar. No signs of rigor mortis. Just like…
D. Holmes: Just like a decade ago.
Hanley: Well yes. Additionally, there’s no bullet. It’s clear that Williams shot himself, but there’s no exit wound, nor is there any indication of the projectile’s removal. I’ve never seen anything like it. Furthermore, there is no gunpowder residue. If I didn't know any better, I'd say someone else shot him with some kind of retractable bullet.
D. Holmes: Do you really think that's possible?
Hanley: Honestly, I don't know what to think anymore. Just when you say you've "seen it all," out comes something unbelievable. In my professional opinion? No. It doesn't seem likely, but I can't rule anything out. Not yet.
D. Holmes: Thanks Hanley. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Remember-
Hanley: Just between us, right? I know, Holmes.
The two take their leave, and begin walking down the pale turquoise hallways of the morgue.
C. Jones: Something is seriously up here. You need to give me more details, sir. I can't help if I don't know what's going on.
D. Holmes: You realize simply looking too deep into all of this could wind us up in a heap of trouble?
C. Jones: Mmhmm, I get it. But we passed being "in too deep" when we walked into that crime scene.
D. Holmes: I'll explain on the way back to the precinct. And Jones, tell me that fuckin' camera hasn't been rolling...
Moments later the feed cuts out.
October 15th, 1200
The camera's feed snaps into focus. Once again, constable Jones and detective Holmes are in the vacant meeting room. This time, the blinds are closed and a laptop sits on the table.
C. Jones: Are you sure I won't get in trouble? He said "at all times." He was very stern about it.
D. Holmes: He's always stern. If anyone gives you a hard time, they'll see that every time you turn it off, it's because I tell you to. I'll take the fall.
C. Jones: Alright. So, what was it that was odd about Wenske's case?
D. Holmes: Remember how I said he tore that girl's hands clean off?
C. Jones: Yeah, definitely reminiscent of Williams and Mr. Logan.
D. Holmes: I never told you the why. See, it was actually a kid. 10 years old.
C. Jones: What? Really?
D. Holmes: Yeah. Fucked. I know. The real humdinger? It was in a convenience store. The kid was lifting a candy bar.
C. Jones: He… tore the kid's hands off, bare-handed, in public, for stealing a candy bar?
Detective Holmes nods in silence, before taking a seat in front of the laptop on the table. He proceeds to bring a video up on the screen.
D. Holmes: Being in a commercial premise, we managed to get footage.
C. Jones: Sir, I don't know if I want to see this.
D. Holmes: That's the catch, kid. There's nothing much to see. There's no audio, either.
The detective slaps the space bar, starting the video, then proceeds to run his hands through his dusty-brown hair.
Constable Wenske can be seen talking to the convenience store clerk. The clerk is laughing as Wenske leans against the counter, comfortably.
C. Jones: Doesn't look like a guy ready to commit gross violence.
D. Holmes: Keep watching…
A young girl walks into view. She quickly makes her way down one of the aisles, constantly looking back to the constable and clerk.
The clerk nods his head in her direction, and says something.
The young girl comes out of the aisle, heading briskly towards the door, as the video quality rapidly degrades into static. It remains a chaotic mess for about 15 seconds, before gradually resuming to the same quality as before.
The young girl is lying on the floor, half out of the camera's view, completely still.
The clerk appears paralyzed, phone in hand, but otherwise unable to act.
Officer Wenske is on his knees, hands over his face, covered in blood.
Detective Holmes pauses the video.
D. Holmes: It remains like that for a while. Eventually, the clerk snaps out of their shock, and manages to calls 911. When officers arrived, Wenske was still on his knees, hands on his face. It wasn't hard to cuff him.
C. Jones: What about the little girl?
D. Holmes: Paramedics declared her deceased at the scene. Something that's been conveniently left out of the report, is that "THIEF" was carved into her chest, just below the collarbone.
C. Jones: Wenske ripped her hands off cleanly, and carved "THIEF" into her chest, all in under fifteen seconds? That doesn't seem possible.
D. Holmes: No, Jones, it doesn't. Not only would he need to possess the same superhuman strength as Williams, he'd also need to do it all in damn-near the blink of an eye.
C. Jones: The clerk, from the convenience store, what'd he say about the whole experience.
D. Holmes: Not a peep. Conveniently, the poor bastard is now blind, deaf, and dumb. Figures, e?
C. Jones: There's something more going on here. This is all starting to seem kinda… paranormal. How has no one else clued in?
D. Holmes: My guess is that the stranger things get, the more desperate people are for simple answers. It's easier to bury your head in the sand, than to risk looking crazy.
C. Jones: Detective, I didn't get into this life to bury my head in the sand.
D. Holmes: Neither did I, Jones. I got into it for good, for justice.
C. Jones: So we can assume the entire force is going to be an obstacle for us? They're directly trying to sweep this under the rug?
D. Holmes: Careful saying that kinda thing out loud. Could cost you your job. Or worse. For the time being, I want you to see if you can't dig up some more info. If this is happening again, here, a decade later, this kind of stuff has gotta have happened before.
C. Jones: What are you going to do?
D. Holmes: I'm gonna take a trip to the hospital.
Detective Holmes gives constable Jones a nod as he exits the room. The constable proceeds to research any similar cases over the course of the next four hours. The camera's general quality, alongside the glare of the screen make it difficult to distinguish the words on the screen. Most of the aforementioned time is spent looking into local cases, but once the constable began to cast a wider net, interesting trends began to appear.
All across North America, nearly every ten years on the two, three suspicious violent events, all perpetrated by law enforcement and all within the same division. From the notes that the constable was taking, they would occur thrice in a row, across three decades. The trend either skipped a few decades, or the information is not readily available to constable Jones.
A click, a mild squeak, and the rattling sounds of blinds hitting the door are the first indications of the detective's return.
D. Holmes: Find anything?
C. Jones: Actually… yes. From what I've found, I can almost guarantee another incident. After that, we're likely to see three more… in ten years.
D. Holmes: How do you figure?
C. Jones: This isn't the first time this has happened. The events always involve law enforcement, take place in threes, and occur every decade for three decades before starting again in a new city.
D. Holmes: So you're saying if we don't stop whatever this is by its next occurrence, at least we can try again… in another ten years?
C. Jones: Yeah, basically. Unless…
D. Holmes: Unless what?
C. Jones: Well, unless this is the third decade for our city…
D. Holmes: Well, I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Until then, let’s focus on trying to stop act two, scene three.
C. Jones: Did you learn anything from your trip to the hospital?
D. Holmes: Yes and no. The survivor of the recent event gave me some interesting details. You remember they were at the junky hotel?
C. Jones: That's a pretty rough indictment, but yeah.
D. Holmes: Given the overwhelming nature of the situation, it was easy to forget the reason we were there.
C. Jones: A domestic, right?
D. Holmes: Right. Well, Mister and Misses Lopez were indeed having a lovers' spat. Apparently, she found out that he was cheating on her, and cheated on him with another denizen of the hotel. He found out.
C. Jones: So he attacked her?
D. Holmes: No, actually. He never laid a finger on her. Constable Williams arrived before things could escalate that far.
C. Jones: Sounds like this story could have had a better ending.
D. Holmes: Yeah, well, she says it wasn't Williams. See, he'd responded to a scene of theirs previously. She said she didn't know him that well, but the man who kicked down their door, castrated the two of them, and shot himself was not Williams. She said he couldn't even be called a man.
C. Jones: It certainly would take a monster to…
D. Holmes: No, not like that. She said his eyes were opaque, his voice hoarse and distorted, as though a hundred hateful people were trying to speak all at once, through him.
Constable Jones shifts in his seat, causing the detective to come more clearly into focus. His expression appears deeply concerned, as though he's unsure whether or not to continue.
C. Jones: What did he say?
The detective takes a deep breath before continuing with a disappointed tone.
D. Holmes: Allegedly, he said something that was, and I quote, "biblical sounding." Something about infidelity and punishment.
C. Jones: They were being punished… for their sins? That explains the word carved into the man’s chest.
D. Holmes: Exactly what I thought, but Ms. Chan made it very clear that he never used the word "sin." What's more, he mentioned punishing all three of them.
C. Jones: As in, the other homeless guy? The one she cheated with?
D. Holmes: Maybe. Or maybe Williams, himself.
C. Jones: So, presumably Williams was carving “WHORE” into the Misses Lopez’s chest too, what stopped him?
D. Holmes: According to Misses Lopez, Williams’ movements became sporadic, as though he was fighting against something that wasn’t there. She explained it as though he appeared to be “breaking out of a trance.”
C. Jones: What about Williams’ death? Did she provide any clarity?
D. Holmes: None at all. She claims she never saw the shot. Once his thrashing interrupted the carving into her chest, she crawled to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door. To complicate things further, not a single round was missing from the magazine. No gunpowder residue was present either.
C. Jones: So, we’re left with more questions than answers, then?
D. Holmes: Yep, but that’s not a bad thing. It just means there’s more information to find. The truth, however odd it is, always connects all the dots. Find the first strand and it’ll lead you to the whole web, eventually.
C. Jones: So, should we check out this neighbour? The one Misses Lopez was having an affair with?
D. Holmes: “Ghoul.” No last name apparently. Certainly the kinda fellow you’d expect to find in the junky hotel. Anyways, I sent a couple of unis, Espinoza and Castañeda, to check on him. In the meantime, I want to follow up a different lead.
C. Jones: Espinoza? Isn't he kind of…
D. Holmes: Dirty? Yeah. He's been on desk duty for months. Never enough dirt to get him in any real trouble. More importantly, he used to be Williams' partner.
C. Jones: I see. Hopefully that'll give him some motivation to do his job properly.
D. Holmes: Let’s get some answers. I can’t help but feel like time is running out.
The detective and constable exit the meeting room, and briskly head for the station house's parking lot. The chief constable can be heard yelling in the background.
Chief Constable Davis: Holmes!
D. Holmes: Shit, go on without me. If I'm not at the car in five, go down to the jail and press Wenske. See if you can’t get any insight into his state of mind at the convenience store. He’s the only living-
Ch. Davis: Now Holmes!
Constable Jones turns to see detective Holmes throw his hands in the air and dejectedly walk into Chief Constable Davis’ office. The chief closes the door to his office behind Holmes, leers angrily at constable Jones through the window, then pulls the blinds. Constable Jones proceeds to the parking lot where he waits for seven minutes, by the detective’s car, before entering a squad car and heading to the jails.
Within twenty minutes, Constable Jones arrived at the city’s east-end detention centre. After some brief explanations that involved half-truths and obfuscated facts, Constable Jones was seated across from ex-constable Wenske in a bare-bones room containing a table and two chairs. Wenske’s wrists are in manacles, fastened through a hole in the center of the table.
C. Jones: Hey Wenske.
Wenske: What do you want?
C. Jones: I need to ask you some questions.
Wenske: What more needs to be said? This should be cut and dry. I snapped, cut the kids hands off. I deserve to be here, or something worse.
C. Jones: Why did you do it?
Wenske: I’ve answered this question a hundred fucking times! I said I snapped, alright? I don’t know why, but I was overwhelmed, I just did it!
C. Jones: I have reason to believe that you may not have been in control of your actions…
Wenske: You’re trying to get me off the hook? No. Fuck no. That kid is dead, bled out on the floor while all I could so was weep like a fucking baby. Heard I mutilated her corpse, too.
C. Jones: You’re not a murderer, Wenske.
Wenske: Then why’d I kill that kid, huh? You sound like my lawyer. I don’t want anything to do with this shit.
Wenske looks towards the door and nods.
C. Jones: Wait, Wenske. Hear me out.
A corrections officer opens the door and raises his eyebrows. Wenske turns his gaze to Constable Jones, then back to the corrections officer, before holding up his hand in a “hold on” gesture.
Wenske: I don’t have to say shit to you, not without my lawyer. I can leave if I want.
C. Jones: I know, but if you do, that little girl will have died for nothing.
Wenske grits his teeth and turns his gaze down to the table, leering at the chains confining him.
C. Jones: Did you feel compelled to do it?
Wenske: What do you mean?
C. Jones: Did you feel like you had to? Like you were doing the right thing?
Wenske: No. I feel sickened, disgusted in myself. I never thought I was capable of that kind of shit, but lookie here, there’s a psycho in all of us, I guess.
C. Jones: I don’t mean now. I mean at the time.
Wenske stares blankly at the constable, clearly lost in thought.
Wenske: When I joined up with the service, when I finally made it, I felt a sense of justice. An ability to make a change, discern right from wrong.
C. Jones: I think that’s a big part of why we do this job, isn’t it?
The camera’s video quality begins to grain.
Wenske: Yeah, but it all pales in comparison to what I felt. A pure righteous fury. That kid was a thief.
C. Jones: And a thief deserves punishment, right?
Wenske: Punishment? No. Retribution. We play at law and order, play at justice. Choosing when to enforce the rules with what we call “discretion.”
A high pitched ringing begins over the audio feed, somewhat obfuscating the conversation. The video quality is now too poor to make anything out, just fuzzy blurs, and a faint blue glow.
C. Jones: She had it coming, didn’t she?
(Growing inaudible) Wenske: Everything has- (Indistinguishable)
C. Jones: (Indistinguishable)
Unknown, presumably Wenske: (Indistinguishable)
A loud cacophony is all that can be heard, including raised voices that are obscured by the piercing ringing sound. After the span of a few seconds, the ringing begins to die down, and the video quality slowly improves.
Wenske: -it’s foul, perverse. I still feel it, and part of it feels… right. I deserve worse than this.
C. Jones: I’m going to do everything I can to ensure that this never happens to anyone else.
Constable Jones stands, signals to the window, and approaches the door as the corrections officer opens it.
Wenske: You won’t stop it. We need this. This is our justice.
The constable turns to face Wenske. The video quality clarifies in full, revealing a more haggard and exhausted looking version of the disgraced constable. His eyes appear somewhat faded, but the camera quality isn’t fine enough to properly distinguish them.
Constable Jones returns to his vehicle, jots something down in his notepad, and returns to the precinct.
At 1745, Constable Jones arrives at the station house, after a brief and uneventful car ride. Immediately, Constable Milligan approaches him.
Constable Milligan: Chief wants to see you, Jones. He seems pissed.
C. Jones: Great, thanks for the heads-up.
As the constable approaches the chief's office, the door swings open abruptly.
Ch. Davis: Get in and sit down, Jones.
The detective is sitting in one of two chairs across from the chief's desk. He appears frustrated, arms crossed, slunk back in his seat.
Ch. Davis: I was just reminding Detective Holmes here that my station house is not his personal servants’ quarters!
D. Holmes: You told me to utilize all of our resources when researching a case, you said-
Ch. Davis: Digging up old dirt on the Service's greatest shame is not a case! You're supposed to be mentoring Jones, not moulding him into some kind of conspiracy theorist rat!
C. Jones: With all due respect sir-
Ch. Davis: Shut it Jones. I don't want to hear it. Now, I don't want to hear any more about cults, possessions, or ancient history out of either of you.
D. Holmes: So we're just going to ignore this, then? If we don’t do fuck all, we’ll have another event on our hands!
Ch. Davis: Watch your tone with me, Holmes. There's nothing here to ignore, but the crazy conspiracy you’ve built from the ashes of some disgraced officers. The job is stressful, not everyone can handle it. People snap. What's important is that we hold ourselves to a higher standard. Holmes, you're off the Williams case and suspended without pay. So far as I see it, the case is closed anyhow. Jones, go check on Espinoza and Castañeda. They haven't been responsive, and I want Espinoza back at his damn desk, not running around the city! Do I make myself clear?
C. Jones: Yes, sir.
Ch. Davis: Holmes?
The detective stands up, nods his head silently, and leaves the office. Constable Jones follows.
D. Holmes: Alright, let's go get those knuckleheads.
C. Jones: What, you're coming with me? You're risking insubordination.
D. Holmes: We both know there's more to whatever's going on here. Getting canned for stopping some kind of twisted and perverse “spirit of justice” is a damn good way to end my career, I think.
The detective and constable exit the station house, enter the detective's car, and proceed down Eglinton Avenue West, towards Yonge Street.
D. Holmes: Get anything good outta Wenske?
C. Jones: Hard to say. A lot of what I got out of him seems to corroborate everything we've learned, so far. I couldn't help but feel kinda sorry for him…
D. Holmes: That's understandable. If this is as bad as we think, it could have just as easily been you or me.
C. Jones: I guess it still could…
In under ten minutes, they arrive at the Roehampton Hotel. Upon entry, the lobby is distinctly empty. The lack of residents, OPSWs, and staff, highlight the disheveled and downtrodden nature of the former establishment.
C. Jones: Something doesn't feel right.
D. Holmes: I'd say it feels downright wrong. Let's take the stairs.
C. Jones: Should we call for backup?
D. Holmes: And say what? That the sketchy run-down junky hotel seems off?
C. Jones: Point taken.
D. Holmes: Just stay on your toes.
The pair make their way steadily to the fifth floor. Constantly, the camera's picture quality fades in and out of clarity in a pulsing rhythm. As they ascend higher, the pulse quickens. Upon reaching the top floor, the rapidly undulating quality deterioration reaches a climax, then the camera feed cuts out.
Moments later the feed is restored. The detective and constable stand outside of room 508. Conversation can be heard from inside the apartment.
Unknown: (indistinguishable)
(Choppy) D. Holmes: Here we go, kid.
Gun in hand, the detective slowly and quietly turns the door's handle and pushes gently. It opens slightly. He then pushes firmly and bursts through the threshold, Constable Jones in tow.
D. Holmes: Espinoza? Castañeda?
The talking from inside the hotel room has ceased. The audio is once again disrupted with a mild ringing, the video becomes grainy.
C. Jones (Unconfirmed): Recuse yourself.
D. Holmes: What? Oh fuck, do you smell that?
The hotel room is in ruin. A corpse, presumably that of "Ghoul" is spread on the floor with indications of similar genital mutilations to his neighbours. From what little can be gleaned from the footage, it appears to be in an advanced state of decomposition.
C. Jones: I don't smell anything, what is it?
D. Holmes: It's a rotting fucking body. How do you not smell that?
Just as the picture quality previously ebbed in and out, the ringing sound undulates in volume.
D. Holmes: Did you hear that? Someone's in the bathroom, for sure.
C. Jones: I don't feel so good.
D. Holmes: Hold it together kid. You can't just puke at every crime scene.
C. Jones: I don't feel sick… I just. I think we should go. You need to leave.
D. Holmes: Fuck no. It's probably Espinoza looting the place. Let's check it out.
Detective Holmes enters the adjacent room. The ringing grows deafening. The camera abruptly pans to the floor, as Constables Jones falls to his knees.
Espinoza (presumably): (indistinguishable) …out of my head!
D. Holmes: (Yelling unintelligibly)
Gunshots are heard piercing through the high pitched ringing. The video quality degrades to static, and all that may be heard is the ringing for little over a minute.
As the video settles and the quality gradually returns, a kneeling frame comes into focus. From the angle and the view of his legs, it’s evident that Constable Jones is sitting in the corner, back against the wall. His limp frame (possibly unconscious) holds the camera still.
The person on their knees is now identifiable as Espinoza. His shirt has been torn open and a word is carved into the flesh of his upper chest, “REPROBATE”. Bloodsoaked hands rest on his knees as his head gently bobs with his heavy breaths that may now be heard over the dying ringing of the video’s audio.
The detective’s voice can be heard calling out weakly from the other room, before he enters.
D. Holmes: Jones! Jones! Oh Christ, no!
The detective quickly checks the constable’s pulse before shambling across the room, cuffing Espinoza, then calling for backup and an ambulance. As the detective stumbles back toward the camera’s frame, a messy gouge in his chest, visible through his torn shirt, can be seen.
The ringing ceases completely, as the detective lays the constable flat and begins attempting CPR.
After several minutes of fruitless attempts to resuscitate Constable Jones, Detective Holmes ceases, and turns his gaze to the stone-still Espinoza, still on his knees.
D. Holmes: Why him? What the fuck did he do? This is not justice!
Espinoza raises his head listlessly, leering straight into the camera, as opposed to at the detective. A strange milky white shimmer can be seen in his eyes.
Espinoza: The message is there, detective, you just have to read it…
The detective turns his gaze back to Constable Jones’ lifeless body, fixing his stare just below the camera. He takes a deep breath, and sighs.
D. Holmes: Lamb…