The Havenport Files: Book One

Day 3

There aren't many moments that beat that second where you finish a very long and detailed report after spending most of your day seated on a very uncomfortable office chair, to the point you're sure the format of it changed forever to accommodate you better; words written and displayed on the old, square and yellowed monitor in front of me, where every line and pixel of the screen can be seen shifting up and down; words that represent a victory not only for me in a professional sense, but to this town's good folks, who never asked to be afraid of a nameless and faceless man, that now will have a face to blame of the one who's been terrorizing their days and nights.

Soon, the hope is that even the name will be plastered on every single TV screen around the big cities; hell, maybe even the whole country will know. If he wanted to escape, to move and kill again, this will make sure to create in him—even when trying to buy a cereal bar at a gas station—a sense of fear of being caught, a fraction of the fear people had to feel because of his horrendous action.

Now, all that is missing to end this file is the information I can gather from the phone I found on the second victim's car, the same that now lies surely fully dry in my bedroom, just waiting to have the battery swapped to maybe—with a silver line of hope—reveal to me some last piece I need to start this manhunt for good. If I succeed, I'll prove that Reele was right to trust me, and too, it will be a major middle finger to the mayor.

Turning on the chair, my gaze falls on my evidence board across the office, a picture is painted almost clearly, not all finished yet, but enough to make some assumptions almost fully confirmed; first, a connection between the killer and Galileo Biotech—probably someone who was close to Andrey Kolesov or a worker there—is solid; this explains why they stole the equipment and how they knew about it being on the warehouse. The killer used the stolen equipment from the harbor to kill both victims in a gruesome and disgusting way, proving once more he knew how to operate them.

Why was Melinda in the city? I say she was on vacation, out to drink away from the city and from her job; I find it hard to believe she knew what was going to happen, and the flip phone on her boot can be because her father was a cautious person and so he passed that habit down to her.

The reason behind the death of Melinda Kolesov is unknown; revenge can be a good assumption though; maybe the killer and Andrey had a fight, maybe a business discordance, and that led to all of this.

Now, Andrey's death is a little easier to point to as vengeance for how much more effort was put into butchering his corpse to pieces and putting him together with wires, and the flower on his hand is probably a symbol, something he either planned to use as identification for the killings he would soon commit or have already committed.

In any way, he first killed Melinda and left her body on the streets to be found on purpose, not for us but for the news to reach the father. Then, Andrey spent his drinking at the bar after hearing the news, something confirmed by Brutus; he then got out in the evening with his car and drove all the way to find the killer in the mill; there he was killed and probably the body was hidden.

I got to the scene soon after and saw the shadowed figures fighting, something I don't mention in the report, and probably after the fight that he ran away, he ended up returning later on to prepare Andrey's body. After that, he waited a whole day to dump the car in the harbor because he may have thought Andrey had something on the car that could connect them both, and that was probably the phone—the same one I think they talked of meeting in the mill on the day Andrey died.

This moment of piecing together things ends, and I return my focus to the pen drive connected to the computer; a copy of the file is transferred to it, so later, after either fixing the flip phone or breaking it for good, I'm able to finish the report and in the same moment send it to the sergeant's email.

The notification on the screen tells me the transfer is complete, so I yank it off the computer and place it carefully in the same pocket my phone is in. Hitting the on/off button of the PC, the almost jet's turbine sound its old, tired fans create slowly dies down, granting my ears the peaceful silence they deserve.

Today I earned the right to enjoy a couple of drinks, that is for sure; I would be more content if I could go accompanied by Mel and Astero, the devil and angel on my shoulders, but one is on patrol right now so she doesn't answer her phone, and the other is still in Hanna's workshop, probably soon to be kicked off by her so she can close shop.

To keep my high spirit, I don't allow it to put me down, especially as Brutus is a good company as well; well, more when he isn't advising the drunk me that one last drink never killed anyone; the problem is that he always manages to make me chug down one more, only to have a killer headache in the morning.

This time, though, I have a good plan to avoid that outcome.

Rising from the office chair, it is like a piece of my soul stays behind as my back cracks uncomfortably and loudly, reverberating in the room; the smell of microwaved food hits me, not all disgusting yet still not pleasing; when I look at the small trashcan with the lid open, I see the plastic container that held the food, and on top of the thing a brand name I can't even bother myself to care enough to read, so with my feet, I lazily kick the lid close and give one last look around to make sure everything is fine before leaving the room and turning off the lights.

One thing I'll never be able to not notice from now on is how creepy the station becomes when no one is around.

I mean, it has all the things you expect from a police station: the office area, the many boxes and coffee cups on top of various tables just waiting to be thrown away, and the smell of cigarettes when nearing the windows.

Even so, at this moment, with everyone so occupied, having only about three people walking around at different times makes me notice the emptiness created by the lack of the usual loud chattering of the officers, which is replaced by the creaking of the old wooden floors that cries on the night, never being one hundred percent repaired, reminding me once more that this place used to be a mansion and was never built to be anything else.

I guess that I should be happy that once I leave the office area, holding my hoodie closer to my body, I spot a familiar face, ready to leave the station exactly as I am; the mundane sound of the dangling keys on her hands tells me she probably was about to either call me out to lock the building or hand me the keys so I could do it on my own time.

"Oh, hey Anja; was everything okay around here today?" The question leaves me with a casual smile to accompany it.

I consciously stop on the heavy wooden door and watch as she gathers a leather traveler's backpack from behind her work table and pulls it out of hiding. Once that happens, I can see the clear sewn marks from many travels before she quickly wears it.

"Yeah, I guess today was a slow day; the only person who came by was the guy who works in the lab, your strange friend that uses glasses; he stopped by his office to grab some equipment with the handywoman." She talks while adjusting the backpack on her back, and when she is done, she gestures towards the door, so we continue talking as we leave. "That reminds me; she took advantage she had to come around anyway to have a look at the coffee machine for you; she said something about the outlet burning a pin from the power cord; I didn't get much; I just know she got a box from her car and managed to fix it."

"Okay, that's good; maybe with that some of the officers will stop by more tomorrow. Thanks again." Watching her lock the station door reminds me of a certain fact that has me tilting my head with worry. "Wait, isn't the sergeant in his office right now? If you lock the station, how will he manage to go home?"

"He told me to do this because he has a spare copy of the key; good for me that I don't have to wait for him to leave his office; that guy stays there all day and just leaves to use the bathroom or eat, and that is when he does." Once the key creates a clicking sound from the door, indicating that it is locked, Anja gives it one pull just to be sure as her free hand places the key in the side pocket of her backpack. "The mayor says he is an example of a good working man; I'm sure the man in question isn't even half-alive to begin with."

"Eddie had some troubles in paradise a few years back; the detective before me, Detective Reele, told me about it once. I don't remember much, just some vague words about a fight between the sergeant and his second ex-wife; I can be wrong, but if my memory doesn't fail me, it was something to do with Ed once being a painter, a good one, but things never clicked right to him, and so that didn't fly well, or at all. His ex-wife apparently wanted to leave the city with him to start over, but he didn't want to."

Telling this story makes the air around us a bit sad, so I'm quick to change the subject.

"If you're going to the mayor's house, I can give you a lift there."

"Thanks, but I'm fine; I don't plan to sleep at the mayor's house; I'm going to my mom's apartment tonight, and because it is a fifteen-minute walk away from here, I'll walk. I'll keep her company this weekend; help her unpack the rest of her things."

"Enjoy your walk then; just please, Anja, be careful on the way there. If possible, go through the residential area; take the coneflower avenue; more people are walking there at this hour."

"Sure, I was planning to go through the commercial hub street, but if you say to take this other avenue, then yeah, I'll go through there." The girl nods her head appreciatively of my suggestion and looks at the time on her phone; on her face is the frown of someone who is on the clock. "I'll be going now; night detective."

I nod my head to the girl as she starts to disappear on the lowly illuminated street that extends to the residential area; her form takes a while, but soon I'm not able to see her anymore. Instead of standing around in the coldness of the night, I take my cue and move to the parking lot, ready to grab my car and go to the bar to warm myself up with some good conversation and booze.

The moment I arrive at the Two Horned Betsy's parking lot, I slide swiftly out of my car and step backward so my back can close the door, choosing to keep my focus solely on my phone—mostly on an idea I had on the way here while I passed down the few light poles still working around the main street, one that may be interesting to explore: now that I have the agent's number, I could ask if they want to meet in the bar, I guess; ultimately though, I stare at the screen with a sigh, leaving my locked lips like the wind out of a bottle, mind torn painfully between pressing the send button or not as my feet still carry me forward despite me not thinking of walking.

A single droplet of water falls from the skies, splattering itself softly on top of my phone's screen, bringing my attention back to my surroundings: the wild wind on the beach, I see now; it was a warning to the black clouds, filled to the brim with a copious amount of cold water, bringing a promise of rain that may last all night, even still being there on the morning by the way it roars with thunder; a screaming god, its rage trembling the cement beneath my feet, loud enough to make the nocturnal birds fly away from the park one street down towards the forest.

Passing by a stranger's smelly car with my nose held between my fingers, a bright yellow, expensive Ferrari, one that I remember belonging to the agent's boss, Julia Blue, surprises me; talking about her, from the open window of the driver's seat, I can see a hand thrown out, belonging to none other than the woman, securing a lit cigarette dearly in between fingers as she talks to someone, apparently on her phone.

It isn't my choice to hear her conversation, even if a part of me is drawn to sticking my nose where I don't need to be, yet it happens anyway—not because I want to, driven by my curiosity, no, in truth it happens because I need it.

"Yes, I am very aware of that without you reminding me constantly, okay, dear? I already told you that the situation is under control. The mayor guy was the easiest to deal with; he's just an old man with political ties, too anxious to make more friends from outside, so I just made a few promises and we got full clearance to operate."

These drunken-imbued words from hers seep deep into my mind like a parasite, clawing and chewing on all my memories of what has happened until this very moment where I freeze; questions ferment like alcohol from around my mind, so many that I fear blowing a blood vessel.

The woman appears to not have any intention to drive away; it looks more like she stooped to have some privacy—one that I interfere with.

Opening the car's door, she puts one foot outside and takes a deep, filling drag from her dying cigarette, blowing the smoke out in one uniform exhale that dissipates away in the night as she hears the person on the other side of the line attentively.

"The police department? There is nothing too impressive about it worth talking about. Of all the workers there, only their tech specialist, the one I sent you the file earlier, and their detective are people to keep an eye on. All of their evidence that could be bad for us was already dealt with—like our werewolf's blood they got hold of—thanks to your quick investigation into what lab they sent problematic samples to. I can't begin to imagine what would have happened if we didn't do anything; a leak like this and I would be screwed with the elders."

The woman, Julia, steps out of the car, losing her balance for a moment, missing her footing on the ground, and slamming her back against the car as a result.

That is a wake-up call for my body, which just stayed there until now. Rain starts to pour from the skies, building slowly into something major; the coldness of the drops seeping through my clothes, wetting my hair and shoulders, has me wanting to cry alongside the clouds.

I dodge away from view until I'm behind the smelly car and stick my head just enough to see where the woman stands in the rain, seeing that she still leans against the yellow vehicle as she shows some difficulty focusing on the call and walking at the same time.

"Why do you want to know about their detective? I... okay, I understand, ma'am. The woman has some decent instincts, still unrefined though; to our luck, she seems careful enough to not jump the gun at anything without full proof, so I think once this is over the mill incident will be forgotten by her; if not, we will deal with that shortly. I heard my puppies were able to make some good progress with her; do you believe they all got out to walk with her on a beach around here? Yeah, and they say I'm the one enjoying this city a little too much because I stopped to indulge myself with the locals..."

Her voice fades the more she walks in meeting with the distance, stumbling her way out of the rain, seeking refuge from it on the bar, as I, incredulously, look at a fixed point on the ground, right where the water pouring from the sky is sucked by an old manhole cover that clearly can't keep up with the sheer volume, mirroring very well my state of mind.

My feelings fluctuate between the pain from this betrayal, from people that I was beginning to willingly fight my instincts so I could put my trust in; the deep, burning anger that has me closing my fists so tight that my nails sink into the frail skin of my palm, drawing blood that is quickly wiped by the falling rain; and lastly, the fear that eats away at me from the revelation, the final nail in the coffin, a dread that has me accepting that what I saw on the mill was true, like, 'true' true: the supernatural may exist.

Wait, can I trust the woman's words? She can be a nut job after all.

No, that is unlikely; sure, they might have lied about why they are here, but they are from a branch of the federal agency system; unless they aren't, but that... what would that even mean to my investigation? Closed door, open windows? I would have rethought all that I have uncovered to this point—all the conclusions—everything.

No, there is no need for that; the man I saw on the camera is the killer, one hundred percent; that hasn't changed; after all, the evidence doesn't lie, that I can trust in, but this agency connection to him is something to look further into.

My stomach twists and turns, my face feels hot, and my blood boils despite the coldness of my wet clothes; what do I even do now? I can only manage to think logically for some more seconds before a fuse blows up.

To pull me out of my feelings, the nagging alert of a pair of eyes locked on my form has me jumping away from the car, hands falling to my side, meeting the unforgiving safety of the metal grip of a gun, my gun.

My eyes travel all over the place, scanning every part of the parking lot, looking for someone peering from a hiding spot behind or underneath the cars to the rooftop of the buildings around—a worthless loss of sanity and time as I find nothing anywhere; yet, the feeling just doesn't go away.

A raven cries in the distance, sounding creepily like a laugh, an omen that I'm quick to act upon as I turn around on my feet and rush back to my car's direction, opening the door on the exact second I get to it only to jump onto the driver's seat and fiddle my way into bringing it to life before stepping my feet on the gas, planning to go anywhere but here.

I'll need some time to think and a good, hot coffee to help me out.

Arriving in front of my house, the cry from the skies becomes more and more insistent—one of the worst rains of the year, for sure. Because the house is somewhat old and it doesn't have those fancy systems to open doors, I'm forced to brave the storm and open the garage door manually to hide my car from the falling water.

With that done, I anxiously rush to the door leading to the corridor between the living room and the kitchen; heavy breathing accompanies me through and through with each step; my head heavies, my eyes feel weak and tired, and my strength seems to have been drained away almost completely due to the energy it costs to keep my million thoughts at bay; I guess a girl like me can't dream of controlling the whole ocean as it comes crashing by.

Moving to the living room, I expected to find it empty; that is why I didn't even think of controlling the steps I take, allowing each to echo thunderously and listlessly, but I'm proven wrong to have assumed that when my eyes fall on the sofa adorning its middle and notice a figure laid there, hands hanging from the edge of the pillows while soft snoring sounds escape their half-open mouth, where a river of droll meets the sofa's material.

A red mark can be seen forming on Melissa's face from how sluggishly she lays there; it is easy to notice how tired she is, not only by how she doesn't care about what sleeping position she's in—instead just spreading herself there in any way she can manage to feel less uncomfortable—but more because of the two dark circles once hidden by some makeup that can be seen at full when the low light of the floor lamp that stands at her side reveals that to me.

A fluffy ball of golden hair habits a spot on the floor beside the sofa's legs, resting with his back just high enough to cause a finger of Mel's to be entwined with Pirate's hair; approaching them both, the golden raises one ear and yawns, opening his mouth as wide as he is capable after spotting me.

Even as he sees me, it is clear he does not want to get up; his sleepy expression tells me that much, so as a way to ask him to go back to sleep, I kneel and pet his head with one hand, lingering my fingers on the soft hairs of his and whispering words of comfort as my other one grasps the cover hidden beneath the furniture, bringing it out of the shadows.

My attempt to make him relax once again works, which causes him to lay his head down like before and close those tired eyes; with that out of the way, I raise the cover, slapping it a bit to rid the material of any dust that might have gotten stuck to it before gently placing it atop my sister's body, keeping her safe and cozy from the coldness that starts to form on the house, caused by the sudden weather.

A soft groan escapes her lips as she moves slightly at the sudden comfort; I think that is the most she can do to thank me, so with a smile, I do the best thing possible and leave her to rest while I walk to the kitchen, ready to work on that coffee I want.

Tip-toeing my way to the kitchen consumes most of the energy I had left in me, but once there, my hands move to the coffee machine like a devotee to their sanctity; only in this case, my saint offers me energy with the drawback of walking similar to a zombie for the rest of the day until my system can have a replenishment of the sweet caffeine.

I follow the basic steps to make a coffee: Putting a filter on the machine's basket, throwing whatever amount of coffee I think is right, pouring the water, and just then turning the thing on after checking if it is connected to the outlet in the wall.

This is the closest to listening to an ASMR I ever got to; the sound of the sweet nectar dripping into the coffee carafe like a fountain in constant movement is soothing, to say the least; the mundane aspect of it calms me down on a significant level.

The effect of the sound entering my ears, captured by my eardrums, as well as the smell of the brewing beans finding its way into my nasal path, is instant, more so when I move without thinking around, sitting to rest my tired body on the counter's edge with my phone tightly clasped in hand.

If there is a right time to do this, it is right now, so without wasting a second, I start to search on the internet for the name Julia Blue; the few results there all originate and circle around a movie from two thousand and eighteen, then I add the word agent, which ends up with no results whatsoever.

Agent Colette, Agent Dalia, and even Agent Yui all result in either nothing or Wiki fandom sites for game characters.

Okay, indeed, searching random federal agents' names on the internet will usually end up with nothing, or else it would be too easy for anyone to stalk one, but there isn't even a newspaper about a case they worked on or anything; the only way to confirm my theory would be calling their agency, and even to do that I would need Sergeant Ed; but in this rain everything I can expect is the worst call signal in history, something similar to a phone from the seventies.

"That ended well."

I sigh, rubbing my brows as I put my phone away, only to hear the coffee machine beep, telling me that my so-needed coffee is done.

While my hand is occupied with filling my police station logo mug, the pen drive I brought with me shifts alongside my own movement, reminding me of its existence.

What do I even do with it now? If anything said is true, this report will either never reach my boss or it will, and then the manhunt starts, potentially hurting many people in the process; provoking a thing that I can't even be sure is a human anymore is not a smart move, but again, is there even one to begin with?

Reele always said that if you feel like something is wrong, you should wait, revisit what you have, and only if things clear up should you take an important decision. This is the moment when I think these words will have to be used.

That's it then; tomorrow I'll search hell and earth to try to find this man on my own, and if things go south, or if nothing happens, then the report will have to go in, no matter what the consequences end up being. Tonight, I'll investigate more about this 'agency'; I'm already noticing that I'll have a long night ahead of me.