Thursday, November 8, 2012

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors, Part Four

      “…So I tells the bloke, why not just put the bloody ting on the mantle an’ call it yer mum!” Charles finishes his story with a snort and a laugh, on shared by everyone at the table save Reginald, who was nursing the last of his Absinthe with both a look of bliss and disdain.
So far he’d been slumming it with these magical dock workers, all clearly descended from Troll or perhaps even Ogre stock, and he’d yet to have even gotten a bit of lip service to the murders within Whitechapel.
Oh, he’d gleaned a few things here and there. The murderer was targeting magical people, specifically women. The murderer was removing organs after the fact, but was particularly brutal in his methodology, generally slitting the throat of the victim in a fashion that O’Donahue referred to as a “Chelsea Grin.” So far the public, and indeed Reginald himself, had been convinced those targeted were mere ladies of the evening.
That was what all of the clues pointed to, in any sense.
Sipping from his second bottle of Absinthe, Reginald steeped his fingers before himself as he pretended to listen to the boisterous workers as they told their bawdy tales and sordid deeds. He’d already woven a subtle charm over himself to make those around him merely “forget” he was there, and in doing so was learning more and more about the London underground.
The only victim reported to the police so far had been dear Mary Anne, who had inde3ed been a prostitute.
She’d also been part-Succubae, a descendent of a fiend that fed off of latent sexual energy from their string of lovers. For a being such as her, a profession such as that of a working girl seemed appropriate. There had been two other deaths that hadn’t been reported due to their… sensitive nature. One was a Witch from Nottingham that had come to town with the intent to sell a good deal of treated opium, her liver and spleen cut from her body with unique precision.
The third victim was the daughter of a local Hedge Wizard, a sort of magical repair man for the supernatural community. Emily Schroeder had died a horrid death to say the very least, but she’d at least been able to put up a fight. She’d been found dead, her throat slashed and neck broke, numerous organs missing from a savaged chest cavity… but a few feet from her lay a silver knife with what Charles had described as “charred goo.”
With that tidbit of information, along with the knowledge that the killer seemed to prefer hunting those of the supernatural community, Reginald had a good deal to begin his case with. Now all he had to do was wriggle his way onto the case itself…
            Sitting in perhaps the stiffest wooden chair in all of London, Reginald quietly picked the smallest pieces of lint from his black silken clothes as the Detective Inspector looked over his documentation citing him as an “outside source called in to aid the local Police with the rising rate of crime in Whitechapel,” or some other such nonsense. He’d merely glamoured a newspaper to reflect impressive qualifications, along with a message proclaiming him to be the Metropolitan Police force’s newest forensics expert.
            Perhaps the only thing not to be a bold faced lie upon that paper was his self-proclaimed title of forensics expert. Over the years Reginald had discovered that the budding world of science was in no way an enemy to the ancient world of magic, but more of a complimentary tool that could be used side by side with his esoteric forms of investigation, providing him not only a new perspective with which to look at a crime, but evidence he could present to normal people without having to resort to such… petty trickery, like some common street magician.
            “So… Master Reginald,” The Inspector said, clearing his throat as he folded the magically enhanced newspaper in half, placing it gently atop his paper strewn desk next to his lukewarm cup of tea. “I must say it is something of a relief to be getting a man of your qualifications at such a time as this. I’m sure you’ve heard of the recent killing in the Whitechapel district, no doubt?”
            “Of course,” Reginald replies, bobbing his head as in ascent. Reading the man’s aura, Reginald could tell he was a ball of nerves string far too taut, with too little rest. His words rang true to say the least: he was glad to have someone of the visiting Wizards supposed skills around. “I know I am from America, but my skills are among the finest in the western world I assure you. Allow me a chance to take a crack at this killer and perhaps I’ll uncover a stone as of yet unturned.”
            He waves his hands in front of him, leaning back in his far more comfortable chair with a smile upon his moustached face. “By all means, please do. The poor girl is still in the morgue, the poor lass; the clergymen have been up in arms at my refusal to release her remains for a proper burial, but with the recent advances in medicine and forensics…”
            “You wanted to wait for an expert to examine her before turning her over for burial.” Reginald finishes for him, nodding in understanding. “Well I happen to be such an expert, so let’s get this unpleasantness undone, shall we?”
Both men stand up, the portly detective grunting as he gets to his feet, tugging at his vest to smooth out the wrinkles. Reginald ran his thumb over the head of his walking stick, activating an enchantment that made those around him seem to disregard him, making them suddenly remember something of great importance or that they’d forgotten something instead of noticing the magical detective.
“That’s alright Detective Inspector, I know where the morgue is and already have the clearance granted by you to perform the autopsy.” Reginald said with a kind smile, allowing a bit of energy to flow into his walking stick to empower the confusing aura it gave off. “Just give me the papers and I’ll be on my way. I imagine you have more important matters than watching a yank cut into a stiff, eh?”
The detective stared at Reginald for a moment before shaking his head, muttering to himself how he did have a notice that needed to be addressed. He leaned over his desk and grabbed a small stack of papers, as well as a golden badge that would allow him access to restricted areas of any police stations. Accepting them with a kind smile and firm handshake, Reginald allowed the heavy set man to drop back into his chair, a relaxed sigh escaping his lips.
Reginald made his way from the office towards the morgue, a room set in the basement of the Metro Police station. Walking past several officers at a brisk pace, he quickly shuffled through the papers that the befuddled Detective Inspector, magically altering certain portions to grant him further access here, allowing him certain privileges there.
Descending the stairs two steps at a time, Reginald quickly made his way to the morgue with a sense of familiarity. All places that housed the dead were of course more attuned to the magical world due to the passage of the souls from this world to the next. Stopping at the door to the morgue, Reginald straightens his coat, reaching into his pocket for a small tool kit bound with a leather thong.
Knocking on the door hurriedly, Reginald waited to see if anyone was within the morgue at the moment.
“Come in!” A woman’s voice called out, hollow and watery.
Smiling grimly, Reginald pushes the door open into the dimly lit room holding five bodies on metal push tables, along with three specters hovering about, all bearing horrendous wounds they’d sustained in life. One familiar ghost drifted down from her perch atop a cabinet, her clothes silvery where the blood spattered wounds had been inflicted upon her in life. Her throat was savagely torn to utter shreds, whereas her abdominal wounds were neat and precise.
She lunged forward, her sunken features seemingly elated at the very sight of him. “You came after all!” She cried her voice watery as silvery fluids seeped from her opened wound. She wrapped herself around him in what would have been a hug had she been solid, but was more of a chilling wind combined with the slimy feel of ectoplasm seeping through his clothes.
Today was turning out to be as bad as he thought it would be. 

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