It was early on a Monday, one drenched in the muggy atmosphere that came alongside August. The smell of cheap coffee and last night’s whiskey lingered inside the steel confines of the cop car that had been idling for some time in between two brick buildings whose facades had faded over the decades.

Brendan beat his fingers against the steering wheel, listened to the static of the dead airwaves. He checked his reflection in the mirror, his dark brown eyes looked worn from lack of sleep, curly black hair looked limp, his fade had started to grow in from the lazy neglect of maintenance. His elbows were ashy but he was too lazy to do anything about it. He needed a shave, some moisturizer, and sleep. He was in no way, shape, or form designed for the late shift but he could hardly argue with the pay. He could hold out until his loans were settled.

Sighing heavily, he repositioned himself in his seat, wrapped his arms around his ribs to stave off the blasting AC he had cranked up to keep himself awake. He always figured that the job would be more…. well, he didn’t know. More bodies, more death, more action, more explosions, more of anything other than the mundane routine of paperwork, busting kids selling their mom’s pharma collection on school grounds, or breaking up riots from those idiotic football games. He was glad to have gotten out of Kansas City for a few years, it angered him that his job now demanded he be downtown again but he knew it was only temporary. So far it had been quiet and, in the long run, wishing for unnecessary death just to satiate his appetite for purpose seemed morbid even for him.  

Eyes drifting, he reached for the restorative arts textbook that had been haphazardly tossed in his passenger seat. The deathly pale corpse on the cover had been his only acquaintance for some while now, she looked cheery despite her circumstances. He should have spent his time studying instead of waiting for the slightest sign of excitement, but he enjoyed the thought of looking inside of dead bodies more than he did making them look pretty.

In retrospect, deciding to delve into academics of this level while being an active duty cop at the same time was probably a mistake, but he never enjoyed taking things slowly and the hours let him attend classes, the pay covered his loans, and he would be bored to death working retail. Too many people, too much stress, too many Karens. Life was too fleeting for that.

That was probably why he was so drawn to working with stiffs instead of the living. 

His wandering eyes drifted across the photos of painted cadavers for a while, but eventually they continued to scan the interior of his car after he lost interest. For a moment, his tired eyes stopped on the old, faded photo of his parents clipped to the visor of the car. He wondered if his dad would be proud. He wondered if his poor mom even had the strength to think of him. He made a mental note to call his sisters, just to check in.  

Shaking his head, he brushed the thoughts away, tossed his book back into the passenger seat, and reached for the lever to recline himself back. He figured there was no use in throwing his back out of alignment from sitting so crooked. As his fingertips brushed the side of the chair his radio sparked to life.

“We have a 10-54 at old Saint-Denis, are any of our guys nearby?”

Brendan’s face lit up as he reached for the radio receiver, “I’m about two miles out.”

“Alright, Osei, get your ass out here.”

“10-49.”

The police car roared to life, young blue-blood Brendan Osei raced down the slick streets, not even bothering to throw his sirens on. The lines on the pavement were hard to see between the darkness and the rain, but the roads were mostly empty aside from some badly parked junker cars. He knew the area well, the tiny, ancient church was falling apart—nearly forgotten—despite the best efforts of the late priest who had called it home for nearly forty years before his sudden passing a few months back. Father Milton had been found hanging from the cross above the pulpit. It was ruled a suicide. It was heartbreaking.

The old man had been invested in the community and made sure the local police force had a safe place to land at any time of the day. Brendan wasn’t a religious man himself, but he appreciated the haven and company when the nights got long. Father Milton’s stock of coffee had always been the best and he welcomed the late night shift with open arms and a warm beverage when things were slow.

The entire precinct was abuzz about his death for days, everyone suspected foul play but the trails ran cold quicker than they had arrived. It was impossible to deny it. Father Milton had simply given up.

The graveyard that rested at the base of the forgotten church was alight with the sickly glow of portable can lights moving hastily through the rain toward the backside of the grounds, where the mausoleums towered like guardians agains the progression of time. Saint-Denis Catholic Church was lightless on the corner of the road. The old trees that lined the sidewalks covered the building with mother nature’s embrace. All of the windows were dark. No one had been inside since the old priest’s funeral, Brendan was certain it would finally be torn down without someone to care for it. It was long overdue.

Parking his car on the side of the road, Brendan lifted the hood of his uniform jacket and slammed the door behind him. The chattering voices of other cops arriving on the scene were noticeable above the clicking of the rain on the old stone monuments. The air was tense.

Snaking his way through the maze of tombstones, he noticed can lights had illuminated the backside of a large Celtic cross memorial in the distance. Cops were murmuring with great distress, some of them were turning away to retch, others stood with their mouths agape in astonishment. It was hard to see through the heavy rain dripping from his hood but something appeared to be silhouetted against the harsh, manufactured lights.

As he approached he could feel his boots sinking into the soaked ground. Many of the tombstones had begun to crumble or slide from the passage of time. Grabbing a flashlight from his belt, he flicked it on to better illuminate his path. The last thing he needed was to trip over a chunk of marble and fall at his first big crime scene.  

The large tombstone was sinking in the uneven earth, leaning to the right with little restraint. It was covered in moss and wear from years of harsh weather. His flashlight clipped the corner as he approached, it began to paint a clear portrait of what had caused such a commotion.

“Where the hell is the rest of her?” Brendan gasped, flashlight trembling slightly as he tried to steady himself. If he were being honest, the trembling was more from excitement than discomfort, but he was already labeled as the weird new guy and didn’t need to be known as the freak who got amped up over a disaster like this.

Hanging from tight wire wrapped along the arms of the cross was the naked form of a woman. Rigor mortis had set in harshly, creating a terrified look of agony and shock on her thin features. Her expression was gaunt, she had been dead for some time. Her face was caked in runny make-up, making her look like a sad clown that had been left outside their tent in a storm. Her curly hair was limp. The entire lower half of her body was nowhere to be found. She looked like a haunted house decoration, he was waiting for the punch-line where she sprung to life to spook him.

“We’re trying to figure that out.”

Standing beside him was the stout figure of Liz Pell, head of homicide. She was visibly upset and was having difficulty hiding it. She tapped her finger angrily against her pistol holster and rubbed her temple.

“Hey, Cap’n,” Brendan said, turning his attention to the dark haired woman.

“Glad you’re here, kid. This is way out of my wheelhouse, I’m a small town girl, I’m not prepared for this Black Dahlia BS,” Captain Pell stated, waving her hand in the direction of the corpse.

Kneeling, Brendan positioned the flashlight in an upward arc to examine the corpse with more clarity, “Damn, this is messy. It’s not professional in any capacity so I don’t think you have to worry about it being anything that drastic. It’s worlds away from a California classic, Cap.”

He whistled, absentmindedly lost in thought as he studied the figure, “Who called it in?” Brendan asked.

Captain Pell lit up a cigarette, “Some kids were out messing around, playing one of those dumb phone apps, came across it about twenty minutes ago. They’re over by the squad cars. Little shits were terrified.”

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a light come on in the chapel. He kept his flashlight on the body but turned his attention to the old building in the shadows, keeping his eyes leveled on the window in search of figures or movement.

“Osei?” Pell asked.

“I thought the church was empty,” he said very matter-of-factly.

“I did too,” she mused, “Go check it out, they may have heard something. Keep your hand on that pistol, could be our guy.”

Nodding, Brendan took off toward the front of the cemetery, making sure he took care as to not step directly over burial spots out of respect for the long dead souls beneath him. He was raised to treat the dead with the same kindness you would the living, perhaps even more so. It was the least he could do, many of the plots looked long forgotten. He doubted many people even paid attention to this old cemetery anymore, especially with Father Milton’s deteriorating health over the last few years. It had probably fallen low on the list of tasks for the church to keep up with.

The front doors of the church appeared to have been freshly stained, the old wood looked like it had a small spark of new life. Slick with rain, the stairs were chipping and cracked, causing Brendan to slow his pace as he approached. With a stiff hand he knocked loudly, he brushed the rain water off of his shoulders as he waited. 

The frosty windows of the door suddenly became alight with a somber glow. As he went to knock again the door opened slowly with a loud groan, bathing the concrete steps in a warm light. The inside of the church had a chilled air to it. Only a few bulbs inside were on; what looked like an office light down the hall behind the stage, the light in the entryway above, and a few small spotlights that bathed the old cross above the organ with an eerie glow. Everything else was cast in darkness and shadows. The place felt tainted....

Continued in pt. 2....