The murky shoreline was swarming with cops and crime scene officials, their voices mingling with the droning buzz of mosquitoes and the bellow of bullfrogs in the marsh. As I approached, I heard the sound of someone retching and spitting into the nearby weeds. I spotted the source of the noise and went over to find my weak-stomached officer hiding his face in his hands.
"The last thing we need is more DNA fouling up the crime scene," I told him. "Get back in the car if you can't keep your breakfast down."
His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and when he looked up at me I immediately felt guilty for scolding him. He was just a kid.
The bodies this psychopath was leaving behind weren't meant to be seen by someone that age - or any age for that matter. I've been doing this for thirty years and I can barely sleep at night anymore, I thought to myself.
"Sorry, boss. I'll be alright," Steve said. He was a committed officer, I'd give him that.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. Then the two of us approached the crime scene together.
Immediately I understood why he was sick to his stomach.
A man's pale, water-logged face stared up at me from inside a boat which had been dragged into the water. Only his head, hands, and feet could be seen, poking out from the hull. The rest of his body was obscured by another boat which had been laid on top of him, crushing his torso, arms, and legs.
"What the hell am I looking at here," I asked, feeling last night's dinner rising up in my gorge.
The coroner gave me an odd look, then hooked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the man behind him.
"Ask Sherlock Holmes over there."
Slightly annoyed at the deferral, I looked to see where Bill was pointing, then noticed for the first time the navy blue jacket with the letters F.B.I. on the back.
"Lead Detective, David Bergen," I said, holding out my hand.
The man stayed stubbornly hunched over, ignoring me while he examined some clue. I cleared my throat to no response.
Tapping on the man's shoulder, he finally turned around and I saw he had a pair of wireless earbuds in and was listening to music. When he saw me, he pulled the headphones out of his ears and stuck out his hand to shake mine.
"Sorry about that. It helps me concentrate. I'm Leonard Finch, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your mayor called for us. Said you didn't want the help but he thought you needed it."
I tried not to wince.
"Well, we appreciate any assistance we can get. Bill - the coroner - he said you could give me something to go on here?"
The man motioned with his hand towards the victim.
"The Boats," he said simply, as if that explained everything.
"I'm sorry, what about the boats?"
"The Boats… You've never heard of it? Fairly straightforward as far as ancient Roman torture methods go. At least, I'm assuming that's what we've got here. We'll have to lift the top boat to be sure."
He took a minute to explain briefly what he meant and what would need to be done.
"Alright, let's do it. Everybody got what they need?" I asked the coroner and crime scene investigators. "We need to lift this off of the victim to get a better look."
After several more minutes of formalities, some final pictures were taken and then several of us went around the sides of the boat to lift the top vessel from its position where it had been left, crushing the dead man.
As we began to heave and lift with all of our strength, the agent talked in the background, almost to himself.
"Invented by the ancient Romans, 'The Boats' was a method of torture which involved crushing a man by sandwiching him between two boats. The top one to keep him in place for part two of the procedure. The boats are dragged into a swamp, with the man's head, hands and feet hanging out from the end. His extremities are painted with honey to attract the insects and animals.
"The Romans would then force-feed their victim warm milk and honey - a powerful laxative. And with that, the real entertainment begins. Drawn in by the smell of food, swamp vermin enter the boat and begin to feed on the victim. He is kept alive through the entire ordeal, so that he feels everything. Essentially, the subject is eaten alive by rats, mice, and swamp creatures while buried up to his neck in his own shit. The process takes a long time, prolonging the suffering of the victim."
We lifted the top boat as he finished speaking and hundreds of rats, mice, insects, and snakes suddenly began to pour and tumble over the sides, scurrying away from their prize. The body was exactly as described - partially eaten by vermin and submerged in a cesspool of body fluids. It stunk worse than anything I'd ever experienced in my life. A sewage smell mixed with blood and the sweetness of honey that was cloying and made my head feel like it was swimming.
The faces around me turned pale and slightly grey at the horrifying sight of the victim, and we all hurried out of the algae-coated water. I saw rats swarming in the green muck by our feet, racing back onto dry land and away from all the lights and commotion. Several people who I knew to be consummate professionals ran away from the scene, screaming and cursing loudly.
A moment later I ran over to vomit in the same spot where my officer had been when I arrived.
When I looked back, I saw the FBI agent was shaking his head, looking annoyed.
"Thanks for adding some more DNA to the crime scene, Detective. That's very helpful."
*
Later that morning, with the crime scene sufficiently scoured for evidence, I began heading back up the slope towards my car. Agent Finch was calling up to me from the water, hurrying to catch up.
"Sorry about earlier, Detective," he said. "Sometimes I forget that not everyone sees the same things I do on a daily basis. That's no excuse for being an asshole, though. I think I'm being funny sometimes when really I'm just being obnoxious. At least, that's what my wife tells me."
I laughed at the self deprecating comment.
"It's okay. I told the same thing to my officer when I caught him puking his guts out in pretty much that exact spot. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on the kid."
"That's your job, isn't it? You have to show him the ropes or who else will?"
"Yeah, I guess that's true enough."
"Hey, where are you headed," he asked. "I was thinking maybe I could share a ride with you. If you don't mind, that is. That way I can pick your brain a bit, and find out your thoughts on this investigation so far. I've read your paperwork - very thorough, by the way - but there's no substitute for a face-to-face debrief, in my experience."
"Of course," I replied, holding the passenger door open for him. "What about your car? Do you want me to get somebody to drive it back to the station for you?"
"No need. I got a ride here from the motel with somebody from your team. Stephen something."
Was I the last one to find out this agent was in town? It was like everybody knew about him but me.
"Alright, hop in. I'm going to the morgue, though. I wanted to look at the other body for comparisons."
"Good thinking. I was considering doing the same. Great minds, Detective. Great minds think alike."
I reversed and turned around on the narrow dirt strip which led through the forest. The birch trees were close on both sides of the car and occasionally the branches of bone-white saplings scraped the glass as we drove.
"So, have you ever seen anything like this?"
Agent Finch seemed to think about this.
"Once. A couple hundred miles from here. We got called in to consult on a case and the MO was similar."
"Same guy, you think?"
"Feels like it. They never did catch him. We stayed in town for a few weeks, but by then he must have gotten out - knew we were looking for him and decided to skip town."
"How long ago was that?"
"A year and a half. Long enough for the sick bastard's urge to kill to become overwhelming again. It was only a matter of time before he came out of hiding. The really talented ones can never stop for very long. They crave the next kill and that craving gets to become a hunger they can't ignore."
"How do you know it's him?"
Agent Finch sighed, looking out the window at the passing trees.
"I don't. Not for sure. But there aren't many serial killers who use ancient Roman torture methods to murder their victims. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's only one."
"So your guy is in our town now?"
"Looks that way. And I don't think he's gonna pack up and leave so quickly this time. He's gotten bolder. More brazen. It's like he wants to get caught."
"What do you mean?"
"For 'The Boats' to work, he'd have to stay with the victim. He'd have to have stood there, force-feeding him milk and honey, for hours until he died. It's not a slow way to go…"
"Shit…"
"Imagine the screaming - listening to that for hours and not getting scared of being caught. Not running. Just continuing to torture this poor, innocent man, despite his pleas for mercy and the chances of being arrested. He's committed. And he's totally emotionless. Psychopathic."
"And you're positive it's the same man? What about a copy-cat?"
"The details were never released to the public. What are the chances of two perps using ancient torture methods to kill people, totally independent of each other?"
"Slim to nil."
"Exactly. Hey, that reminds me. Why don't you stop by the motel where I'm staying on the way? I can show you my case files from that one. We can see if something lines up."
"Anything to catch this freak," I said, spotting the motel up ahead and turning into the gravel lot.
"Pull around back. The owner said they're looking at paving over this gravel, they asked if I could keep the car out of the way for the estimate today."
"No problem," I told him, pulling around to the back of the building. The motel was abandoned. Even Macy, the owner of the place who ran the desk, wasn't in by the looks of things.
There were some old stacks of scrap wood and cardboard leaning up against the back of the building, behind a tattered couch. I parked next to it and put the Crown Victoria in park, then turned off the engine.
As I turned the key, I felt a sting in the side of my neck. Like a bee.
I looked over at Agent Finch and saw him pocketing the hypodermic needle he had just injected me with. My eyes started to blur and my arms grew heavy as I tried to take a swing at him, realizing too late what was happening.
The punch I threw landed in his lap, soft as if I were trying to pet a cat.
Despite my efforts I felt my eyes closing and the world went dark.
*
When I woke up I was strapped to a bed. My own sock was stuffed into my mouth to create a foul-smelling gag.
I coughed and tried to spit it out, but found it was duct-taped securely to my head.
"You small town cops really are stupid, you know that?"
The voice from across the room was mocking and unkind. I recognized it as Agent Finch - although I had a growing suspicion that was not his real name.
Another noise was constant beneath his voice and the hum of the furnace below us. It was the squeaking sounds of rats in a nearby cage.
"It's funny how you can just show up in a blue jacket - screen printed with an FBI crest and some letters on the back - and everybody believes you at your word. You didn't even ask to see my ID. And your subordinate couldn't tell the difference between mine and a real badge."
The feelings of self-loathing at that moment were severe, but I tried to ignore my own internal judgements about myself. This was not the time for a pity-party. My life was in the balance, and it was likely about to be ended by this maniac in a horrifying and gruesome fashion.
"I've studied history for decades, Detective. I've immersed myself in literature covering every era, culture, creed, race, and dynasty, since the beginning of recorded history. But one area specifically always piqued my interest, surpassing all others. Torture. All the various methods we've come up with to inflict pain and suffering. And to prolong that pain. To draw it out endlessly."
I was getting a feeling those pet rats were not meant for companionship.
"The Spanish inquisition had some inventive techniques. The Heretic's Fork, for instance," he said, holding up a long, thick fork with tines on both ends. "This is wedged between the subject's chin and breastbone, preventing them from speaking or sleeping. Any movement causes the blades to dig deeper. Great for interrogations - but dull. Simple. One note, like a plain cheese pizza. No complexity."
He threw it over his shoulder, as if bored with it.
"The Romans and the Greeks were the most creative, debatably. The Brazen Bull, leather peeling, pile driving, wheel-breaking, sawing people in half - I mean, who comes up with this shit!?"
The man looked to be enjoying himself as he pulled a squeaking rat from the cage and brought it over to me, setting it down on my stomach as I squirmed.
"But this method is by far my favourite. There isn't really a name for it. It's just called 'Rat Torture' more or less. We're not even totally sure who came up with it. Maybe the British…"
He took a steel bucket from the floor nearby and set it over the rat on my belly. It immediately started to squeak and scratch at my skin. I tried to scream but no sound came out as the sweaty sock muffled my voice.
"Essentially, as you might have guessed, you place a rat on the victim's belly. Then you put a bucket over the rat. Can you guess what happens next, Detective?"
He picked up a large torch, connected to a tank of butane.
I shook my head violently back and forth as he smiled.
"Sure you can guess. Here, I'll show you."
He turned on the torch and held it up to the steel bucket, singing it black.
The rat inside the bucket squeaked curiously a few times, then began to pace, scratching at the corners where the steel met my skin.
It was already starting to get hot.
"With nowhere to go, the vermin will begin to dig down instinctively. Don't worry, Detective. The rat will be just fine. They aren't harmed during this procedure. You see, once it gets warm under that bucket, he'll burrow into you. And pretty soon he'll find his way into your belly where the temperature is kinder."
His eyes betrayed no emotion. It didn't look like he was enjoying this. He was simply doing it. As if it was his job.
I started to scream and tear at the bed sheets beneath me, terrified as the rat started scratching at my flesh in earnest.
"There he goes! See, I told you he'd be alright."
Blood began to pour out from beneath the lip of the bucket. It dripped down my sides as I thrashed and bucked, trying to free myself. But the straps holding me down were tight - bound with the sure knots of a professional who has done this before.
The bucket was hot as hell now - starting to glow faintly pink in places. My belly was on fire, a constant agonizing pain growing there. I bit down hard on the sock in my mouth and began to bang my feet against the footboard violently until it came free from its place, landing hard on the floor.
'Agent Finch' didn't even blink. He just kept holding the torch to the bottom of the bucket as it grew hotter and hotter.
"You won't die right away. It will take time for an infection to brew and kill you. And during that time you'll have a new friend. A little rat buddy living inside your belly. Doesn't that sound nice, Detective?"
Just as I felt ready to pass out from the pain, I heard a sound at the door.
A polite double rap of knuckles on wood. And then a voice.
"Hello? Agent Finch? Are you in there?"
The man didn't move. He just kept holding the torch to the steel bucket as the rat burrowed and chewed desperately. It felt like burning nails were being raked across my insides as it made the hole it had created bigger and bigger.
A sound could be heard of a key turning in a lock, and suddenly the man's expression changed. He looked surprised for the first time - and I guessed that didn't happen to him often.
Luckily for me, Officer Stephen Pritchett was a damn fine police officer that day. And even luckier for me, his family just happened to own this little motel. It's a small town, and most people have two jobs. His second job just so happened to be working the desk when his mom, Macy, was off-duty. But she wasn't supposed to be off-duty today. And the 'VACANCY' sign out front wasn't supposed to be turned off.
He saw these things and started to get suspicious. And he didn't want to go through the hassle of a warrant to check out the out-of-towner calling himself an FBI agent. A fact I would thank him for later.
Steve had the key for every door on the property - a Grand Master - in his pocket, and if not for that fact, I'd probably be dead right now, instead of in a hospital.
But that didn't make the next few moments any less scary.
As soon as the door was thrown open, Steve saw what was happening and drew his pistol. I was impressed at his ability to do so under such duress. He was clearly surprised to find anyone home. He had expected the place to be empty.
The fake Agent Finch threw the butane torch at him, missing wildly and hitting the door frame.
With that momentary distraction, he ran across the small motel room to the bureau where he had set down his gun.
Again, luck was on my side. If Finch had the gun in his possession he could have easily taken me hostage and used the bed for cover - but I was fortunate. And guns are heavy. Nobody likes carrying them around indoors, not even serial killers.
Officer Pritchett took three shots at the man as he ran for his gun, without giving any additional warnings. The first one missed. The second grazed his thigh, and the third hit him in the shoulder, dropping him before he could make it to his firearm.
After securing the weapon and the perpetrator, my most junior officer unstrapped me from the bed and pulled the bucket off of me, much to his disgust.
The rat was already inside my abdominal cavity, burrowing deeper and deeper, looking alive and well.
Despite his madness, the man had not lied. The rat wasn't hurt, as it would turn out.
I wish I could say the same for myself.
Officer Pritchett managed to get me to a nearby hospital. He saved my life. But he was emotional. He put my health first, which was admirable, but meant that the security of the prisoner was secondary.
And this was no ordinary prisoner.
Agent Finch, as he called himself, escaped from police custody, breaking the back window of the squad car by kicking it out. He was seen a short distance away on a CCTV camera, wearing no police handcuffs - like a magician he had already escaped them.
He was walking briskly towards the bus station with a slight limp, his wounded arm hanging in a hastily-assembled sling.
On his way to the next town over.