“H”

As he stepped into the room a cold sensation washed over Lewis. He had never seen an actual dead body before. Sure, in movies and tv, but never in person, and never lying 6 feet away from him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

Why did I agree to this? I’m going to have nightmares. Oh, that is pungent. I’m not going to barf, I’m not going to barf, I’m not going to-

“Are you Mr. Copperfield?” A man's voice interrupted his thoughts.

He managed to tear his eyes away from the body to address the man standing next to him.

“Uh, yes. That’s me.”

“Come with me, I’ll bring you to Agent Davis.”

Holding tightly onto his satchel, he followed the man into another room where a photographer was snapping pictures of an object on the floor. In the corner was a group of official-looking men in deep discussion.

“We’ve looked at it from every angle, brought in other local experts. Maybe he can get some more info.”

“This town is so small. How can this group continue hiding?“

They stopped talking as Lewis came up to the circle.

“Davis.” A man held out his hand for Lewis to shake. He was taller than the others and dressed in a suit. “Thank you for coming, Professor.”

“This really is an opportunity. What can I do to help?”

It’s not everyday you get to help the freaking FBI with a case.

Davis’s face held a serious expression. He only paused a moment before answering.

“Adding to the info you received in previous messages, there have been a number of what we believe are cult member suicides. They have been happening sporadically over the past year, about once or twice every two to three months. In the past month though, their numbers have grown exponentially. This is the third in just three weeks.”

Lewis nodded, listening intently.

One of the other agents quickly added, “We are worried that this group is working up to an end goal: mass suicide.”

“That’s horrible. You haven’t discovered which cult yet?” Lewis asked.

“There are no cults here in the local area so we’ve looked into every group across the state, even across state lines, and there’s no evidence of preached suicide. But, this is where we believe you may be able to help us.”

“Yes, I was told you have some symbology for me to review?”

Lewis was quickly becoming an expert in his field. He was a professor at university in the field of symbology. Even though he was significantly younger than most in his field, he took his job and research seriously. Ever since he was a boy he was fascinated with symbols.

Davis continued, “At each site there is a different marking, usually written on the wall above the body. Here, let's go take a look.”

Lewis reached into his satchel and took out his writing journal, a small black notebook, which he carried with him everywhere he went. They turned the corner and once again he was faced with the dead body before him. Trying not to let his eyes get glued to it, he forced himself to look elsewhere in the room. This time he noticed the symbol. It was scrawled out in blood on the cupboards.

He drew the symbol out in his journal, making the lines precise. Two curved lines met up at a point in the center then sharply turned outwards from each other, like a very strangely shaped “H”.

I recognize this symbol.

“Different markings each time?” Lewis wrote in his book, not looking up as he questioned.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to need to see them all.”

Davis nodded, “We’ll send you a file.”

***

It was early into the morning and Lewis, completely drained, let himself fall back onto his couch. He was beyond exhausted. Every shred of information they had sent he reviewed over and over, even the physical copies and pictures they gave him. He managed to figure out that all the markings were in the same style, and he relayed the meaning of the strange “H” symbol back to the Agents. Yes, there was definitely a connection between them, he just had to figure out what it was.

The style can’t be the only connection. There is something we’re all missing.

He picked up one of the pictures from the file. On the dead man's hand was a deep cut, right across the palm. The coroner confirmed that this was done before the fatal knife wound to the chest. The blood from this cut is what was used to create the symbol on the wall.

What am I missing? The “H” sign is one of power: it was a mark of warning. Used around 300 BC. This symbol would often be placed above door frames in ancient times when a family or household broke rules. It would be placed at night and the next day soldiers would arrive and force the residents out to be banished or killed. It was used as a token of fear for villagers and a representation of power and control for a ruler.

But the rest of the markings? They don’t fit any historical reference for any religion or time I’ve ever seen.

Frustrated, he dropped the picture back onto the table with the others. Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to take a walk to clear his mind he grabbed his keys, a jacket, and swiftly left his apartment. The sun shone brightly, warming his face and refueling some of his lost energy as he went. He headed out of the neighborhood and to the town's only park. When he reached it he continued on to a more secluded area, one that moved through the woods: his favorite hiking trail.

This is exactly what I needed. Fresh air and a walk in the woods. Solves all problems. Well, not every problem unfortunately.

Lewis walked at a leisurely pace, placing his feet with muscle memory over the roots that littered the trail. The morning dew glistened with sunlight on the leaves of trees, sparkling as he moved past through the forest. He kept up his pace until he made it to a clearing. In the meadow a small bench was placed along the trail where he often sat to review his thoughts. Taking out the notebook from his pocket he sat down. He flipped through its pages, going over his notes from three days ago on the case, trying to see if there was any small detail he missed. His eyes landed on the symbol again.

“Power. Warning. Fear.” He described its meanings aloud.

“Why would this be the only symbol that recognizably means something?”

A twig snapped.

Lewis glanced up, looking for the cause of the noise. He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. A family of deer were slowly making their way out of the forest and into the clearing. One of them spotted him on the bench and froze before leaping away back into the trees. The others quickly followed suit. Lewis breathed a sigh of relief watching them leave. They passed by a large tree a few yards off the path as they went, scurrying away from him. Something on the tree caught his eye.

Wait a second. What is that?

He stood up from his resting place on the bench and made his way across the path. Pushing past some foliage and bushes he made it to the tree.

To his absolute amazement there, etched in the bark, was the symbol from the case. He opened his notebook again, putting his drawing next to the one on the tree. A perfect match. It couldn’t have been more than three inches in diameter, meticulously carved into the bark. It looked freshly cut, the clean wood underneath showing through the rough outer layers.

“Holy crap.”

He circled the tree, trying to find anything else out of place. A new found feeling of excitement flushed his system. Studying the environment, his eyes traced every leaf for any sign of information.

There!

A few feet away from the trunk was a grouping of rocks. He bent down and got on his knees to get a better look. It was a small formation of pebbles stacked neatly in a pile on the forest floor. Without a second thought Lewis grabbed a nearby stick and pushed the rocks away, digging into the dirt.

Minutes later he pulled a wooden box out of the ground. Dirt crumbled off its square shape as he wiped it off with the sleeve of his jacket. The same mark that was on the tree was etched onto the lid, but the box carving looked much older. Holding his new discovery, Lewis quickly looked around the forest to see if anyone was watching. He was alone. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he took off the lid.

Cash filled the container in neat, thick-stacks of crisp bills. He counted them: 20,000 dollars total. Next to the money were Polaroid pictures, 20 to be exact. One to go with each stack of cash. He recognized the images. Each contained a portrait of a suicide, the ones he had just been studying back at his apartment. He felt a pang in his chest and a wave of dizziness washed over him. His adrenaline kicked up a notch and he quickly closed the lid to the box. Lewis could feel his heart pumping in his ears. He knew what this meant.

This is not a cult. This is a serial killer.

***

“The symbols were completely made up by the killer. All except for this one.” He pointed to the picture. Lewis felt slightly cold in the police station, even with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

He pushed the last image towards Davis on the table. “This is the most important one. To him, he is the king. He makes the choices, telling these people they have to die. He’s playing God.”

Davis looked at the picture connecting the dots. “He forced them to kill themselves.”

“Yes!” Excitement grew in Lewis’s voice as he continued. “This last symbol is the icing on the cake. He wanted to be discovered.”

Davis took a breath. “He’s ready to take credit for his kills. He knew we’d figure it out once he used an actual symbol.”

“Exactly.” Lewis nodded.

Davis’s eyebrows raised. “Why wait until now? Usually sadists like this one show narcissistic character traits and can’t help themselves but to take credit earlier.”

“He was in a sense. Using symbols with each death tied them together so he was taking credit before we even knew this was a killer.” Lewis opened the box and took out the stacks of money, placing them on each Polaroid picture.

“What I don’t understand is why would he have $1,000 for each victim?”

Davis placed his hands on the table, staring down at the images. “We believe this is a getaway box. He is obviously a very symbolic individual as you have mentioned, and he kept trophies from his kills: the photos. Keeping photos with each stack of money could link to the possibility of his need for order and control. He couldn’t just have a random amount of money in here, he needed that exact amount. This could be a form of OCD.”

The neatly stacked pile of rocks, the meticulously carved mark on the tree, that made sense.

Lewis had never felt more alive. This puzzle was slowly coming together. Davis stacked the money and pictures back in the box and set it in the middle of the table.

“He’s spiraling. The kills are becoming more and more frequent. This box suggests he is going to make a run for it.”

The Agent stood up and straightened his jacket. He gathered the extra materials back into his folder before he gestured to Lewis.

“Let’s go brief the chief.”