A recounting of the 1313 murders.

[Pravus Zambrano]

"You mind if I record this?"
"You asking for my permission?"
"Yes."

John shrugged as he tapped on the metal table. He wasn't used to sitting on this side of it and the room felt colder than normal, but he wasn't one to show his hand. Not this early. Not when he didn't understand the reason for being here. The files were up to date, the records showed the nature of the crimes and the events that led up to it. He grit his teeth, softly, and muddled through the confusion as the recording device kicked on.

"You mind if I smoke?"
"That's not allowed in here."
"Sure..." He spoke smugly from the side of his mouth, age showing through the raven claws descending from his offset brow and the wrinkles formed on the edges of his lips. He used to smile, he remembered those days like some far off place. In quiet retrospect, he lit the cigarra and puffed defiantly. The detective provided an incredulous look before moving own.

"Please state your name for the record."
John leaned forward, blowing smoke into the microphone. "John Abberdaine."
"Full name please."
He laughed, shaking his head. "John Aaron Abberdaine."
"And what is your current form of employment?"
"I work as a bartender at night. Every other day, I work in the meat packing industry."
"And what did you do prior to that work?"
"I was a detective for 28 years."

The acting detective made some notes on his holopad, equipped with one of those line of sight displays that prevented eavesdropping. Not that it mattered. John was getting a particularly flashy view of the backplate. He took another puff of the cigarra, scratching the ragged looking beard that was cultivating along his prominent jaw line. The women at the bar said it made him look distinguished. He thought it soaked in the smell of raw meat. Lethargy helped it persist.

"Got any drinks around here?"
"Drinks?"
"Yeah...alcohol."
"No. We can get you some caf."
"Funny. I don't recall asking for caf."
"Well, it's all we've got."

John gave a heavy sigh, dramatic in his lack of exuberance. Alcohol helped, more than most prudent and traditional cops liked to admit. But for those who had been around long enough, it was the only thing that helped the images blur. And when that didn't work, Coruscant was always rich in more esoteric numbing agents.

"So start from the beginning."
"The beginning?" John shook his head. "You don't care about the beginning. Your lackey already informed me of the subject matter for this interview. So why don' t we get to it?"
"He's not my lackey. He's my partner."
"If so, where is he? Not one for the gruesome and grotesque, hmm?"
"His wife went into labor a few hours ago. Had to leave out after getting you comfortable."
"Come now. This place was never designed to be comfortable. You know that." He didn't buy that wife story for a second. It was the job of the interviewing detective to put their prey on the defensive. Interrogation 101. Besides, unplanned labor in this day and age? How convenient.

"Not the beginning of your career. But lets talk about your time leading up to the investigation."
"Which investigation is that?" John needed to hear it, to make sure they were on the same page.
"The 1313 murders."
"Ah." John sniffed loudly, drawing in some smoke to alleviate the tension. Or maybe to emphasize it. With one final breath, he nodded. "Sure, lets talk about that. But first..." He tapped the desk. "I'll take a beer." He held up his hand. "Scratch that. I'll take...six beers. Whiskey works as well. Or deathsticks." He pointed to the one way mirror. "Tell your partner to make a run or whatever. And then we can talk."
"I told you. Partner had to leave for his wife."
John looked towards the detective and then towards the mirror, nodding with as much of a smile as he could muster. "Yeah, I believe that. Get me what I want...or I don't talk."

Silence ensued as he gesticulated back towards the detective, as stubborn as he was addicted. Alcohol was soothing, helped to muffle the screams of loved ones. And if he was going to retell this particular story, he would need to be at least three deep. And if that wasn't possible, other products would due.

The detective sighed and looked towards the mirror, giving a shallow nod. Looking back towards John, he swiped the holopad and pressed his hands together.

"So..."
"Yes yes..." John issued a smirk, the mustache peaking upwards with the gesture. "You want to know about the Butcher...I'll tell you all about him."

 

[Pravus Zambrano]

The Slaying of Rose Nichols​

“Have you ever been below the 4000 levels? No?” John smirked, shaking his head as he gauged the reaction. It was easy to tell when someone hadn’t seen the true veins of Coruscant, beneath the superficial shine and blemish free skin. Like a freshly washed cruiser, no scuffs or wear in the wax. The interviewer still had that new speeder smell.

“Let me tell you about it…” He used one hand to snuff out the cigarra in the ashtray, the other to stop the detective from interrupting. Smoke rose from the stained ceramic. Stillness in the interrogation room made itself known as the scent of burning and burnt tobacco filled his nostrils and the sound of a freshly opened can filled his ears. Shhhhhpppptz.

“It’s a lot brighter than you might think, what with all the rumors and stories. Most of which are true. But the ambiance of blues and pinks and greens, flashing neon lights. They pave the duracrete in this sort of film, casting shadows in the dark.” He took a sip of the beer. “For the longest time, I was like you. Cushy job in the upper districts. But because of my propensity for sorting out disarray, I was stationed between 1000 and 1050. Far too many levels for a single detective, so they gave me a partner.”

“Get on with it.”

“You wanted the story from the beginning.” John offered a sardonic smile. The detective should have known that this would involve atmosphere. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one leg over the other as he produced another cigarra. “Before that time, I didn’t smoke. But I picked up the habit from the locals...helped block out the smell of burning garbage. A lot of the homeless use it for heat and some of the criminals...well they burn it to cover up the smell of a fresh kill.”

“Is that how you found her?”

“Don’t skip ahead. I’m almost there.” Pushy guy. Him and his partner, miraculously returned just in time to provide the booze. Knew that story wasn’t true. Leaning forward, John braced against the recording device.


I woke up on the wrong side of a bender. That communication device may have saved my life.

He lifted himself from the bed, a nameless women lying still beneath the sheets beside him. Cursing the lack of foresight to take enough of those drugs to finish the deed, he lifted the receiver to the sound of the typical coding and slurred words. The lower levels bred a mixture of dialogues, like a hot stew of meats and vegetables. It took a good deal of time to get use to and no one really appreciated its elegance.

Rubbing the prominent wrinkle across his forehead, he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, yeah I got it. I’ll be there in a bit.” With a dose of clumsiness, an attempt to be out of there before she woke up, John pulled his clothes on and threw on the overcoat. Helped soak in the stink of the world, helped conceal him in the limelight.

A few districts down and he arrived at the scene. A dark alley on a dark road in the dark part of the city. Level 1313.

“Good of you to make it.”

John waved his hand dismissively towards Kyle, his young and eager partner. A human, just like him, the two of them stood out in a sea of immigrants, outcasts, and the downtrodden. And as John moved past him, he was struck by the oddest tingle along his spine in view of a carcass covered in tarpaulin.

“Medical examiner already take a look?”
“Nope.”
“Then why is the body covered?”
“How about you lift the veil and find out yourself.”

Kyle extended his hand, a small plastic tube with a removable cap. “Menthol rub.” Another dismissive gesture and John was leaning down over the corpse, taking a peek behind the curtain. One sight and he knew the reasoning for the veil. As he looked up, he noticed families looking out from their windows above. Curious for the cause of all those flashing lights and taught caution tape.


“Could you describe her wounds?”
John’s glassy eyed appearance shifted, like the perspective of a statue as it rotates. Unmoving and empty. “Sure. Bruising on the neck indicated that she had been strangled. Which was a kindness, given the atrocities committed against her.”
“You stated, in your report, a confusion regarding her species.”
“Yeah. Damnedest thing. Medical examiner identified her as a Felacatian but when DNA analysis came around, she was pure human.”
“How could you mistake the two…”


Simple, really. She looked like a Felacatian.

“Cause of death appears to be strangling…” He looked over his shoulder to ensure that Kyle was taking proper notes. With that confirmed, he proceeded. “Victim appears to be upper 20’s or lower 30’s, though it’s hard to conclude, given species complexity. DNA analysis and decay will give us a more exact number.” He pulled a pair of medical gloves from his pocket and donned them, pulling a pen from his pocket.

“Sutures along the lower abdomen and beneath both clavicles indicate recent surgery. Shoddy work on the stitching and the other various wounds appear to have been done post mortem, based on lack of bleeding from the open wounds.” He pulled out a notepad and made a generalized sketch of her wounds. Included in the drawing was a phrase, carved into the corpse’s skin, just across the center-line of the chest and abdomen.


“What was the phrase?”
“Uhh…” He scratched his sideburn. “A Rose by any other name. Given the lack of credentials, no identification at the time, the name sort of stuck.”
“But you did come up with an official name?”
“Yes. Mitochondrial DNA determined the family and we were able to track them down. Nichols, from the upper levels.”
“A prominent business family.”
“Correct. Like pulling teeth to get them to come ID the body.”


He looked across the glass, standing next to the mother and father. They were well dressed, the male being somewhat stoic and the mother’s cheeks coated in the stain of runny eye liner. Tapping on the glass, the medical examiner pulled the plastic sheet back to reveal the victim. The mother placed her hand on the glass and let out a sigh, one that sounded oddly grateful. The father simply shook his head and turned towards John.

“What is the meaning of this? You drag us down into the slums, get my wife all worked up, all for this? For this insult?!?”
“Insult? I don’t understand.” DNA didn’t lie and neither did John.
“Do my wife or I look anything like that?” He flung his hand towards the glass, accusing the victim of something John couldn’t understand.
“Uhh, no…” He shook his head, confused. The family was obviously human but the daughter was something else. He leaned forward, clicking the communication device, telling the examiner to cover the victim back up.

​

“Was it the daughter?”
“Yeah. No one could really explain it at the time but upon closer inspection…” He took another swig. “The portions of her that appeared Felacatian had been ‘added’ to her.”
“Added to her? Like stitched on?”
“No, that would have been a little less unnerving. It was more like they were grafted on. You could even see the shift in skin tone.” Like two colors of paint, mixing in a bucket for the very first time.

The acting detective finished taking a few notes and rubbed his hands together. “What happened after that?”
“What do you mean? We started the investigation and the district got over it, just as 1313 tended to do. The attention span of the lower districts is a fickle thing.”
“Fair enough. Well let's move on then.”
“Sure.” The beer was done and onto the next one. “By the second murder, we started to suspect a pattern...”

 

[Pravus Zambrano]

The Euthanization of Rose Chapman​

“I recall the first time I heard rain down in the lower points...its was oddly soothing. If not slightly melancholic.”

The detective sighed, rubbing his forehead. They were far enough into the conversation for him to realize that interrupting John would do no good.

“Though melancholy is hardly something to mourn. Even depression can feel invigorating when apathy is so common. You see, the districts are sort of stacked on top of one another. But in a way, each thousand levels or so manifests its own form of atmosphere. Like a stratosphere, the climate forms from what it’s given.” He was half way through the beer and held it up, rattling it at the partner who had delivered it. “Pretty terrible beer.”

Setting the can down, he shifted it to cause a slight spin, before resting the still burning cigarra on top. He set his fingers down on the table, lifting them as if to play some transparent piano. “Below the districts, they receive the stench and the muck and the human perspiration. Point your head towards the darkened sky when it rains and you can almost taste the sweat. And what’s not derived from below can only come from above: the piss and feces thrown from the windows on high. You lot and your ivory towers think you’re so much better than the lowerlings and cave dwellers and trolls down in the basement.” He shook his head. “But you’re not. We’re all wrong or messed up or debilitated in some way. Even with the Galactic Alliance reigning over us...nothing really changed. Nothing got better. Just a different head wearing the same old crown.”

“Does this have anything to do with the 1313 murders?”
“Everything revolves around these murders. They’re as systemic as they are symptomatic. A society that fails to care about its foundation quickly caves in on itself.” He paused and tilted his head. “You can’t understand the eons that led up to these events. It’s all tied to something else.”
He looked towards the silent partner and smiled. “What I meant by terrible beer was...please go get me something better.”

The detective narrowed his gaze before turning to his partner and nodding.

“Good…”


One of the tragedies of this job was the loss of feeling. We moved to nearly automated forms of reporting. It took the soul out of the job, what was left after all the murders and obscene acts.

He pressed the stylus against the data screen, checking off boxes in relation to the Nichols murder. Medical examiner put her time of death at roughly 8 hours prior to the first witness finding the remains in the alley. Reasoning for conclusion of time could be checked off as well: Lividity or Livor Mortis. He scrolled through the data sheet. Checked off age, species, occupation, relative income, and any other pertinent information was left for a section called “notes.” He scratched his jaw as he leaned back, wondering what sort of information he might get out of interviewing the family. But with the way they reacted to the news, they way they didn’t even want to handle the daughters mutilated corpse; it all gave him the suspicion that they wouldn’t provide any form of assistance.

But he was as stubborn as he was worn down and curiosity got the better of him.

“Yes, this is Detective John Abberdaine. Yes, I am fine, thanks for asking.” He cradled the phone between his shoulder and his head. “I was wondering if Mr. or Mrs. Nichols are available to talk with us. In regards to their daughter.”

The phone clicked off as the dial tone set in. He pulled the phone away and looked at the device in mild disbelief.

“Not much luck huh?”
John turned to see Kyle standing over his shoulder. “Nope. Seems odd that even their receptionist isn’t receptive.”
Kyle laughed and leaned against the desk, offering a holopad to the senior detective. “Got another case.”
“I’m swamped right now. Can’t we get that assigned to another detective?”
“Chief just assigned it to us. I tried to argue, he said no. Seems like your luck isn’t turning around anytime soon.”


“Did you know the case would be tied to the previous murder before you arrived.”
“No. It was still fresh. And this one didn’t get off as lucky as the last one.”


He knelt over the body. Traffic on both sides of the main thoroughfare was being rerouted by beat cops with flare sticks and glowing red cones. Whistles could be heard for ten blocks down, cutting through the otherwise stagnant and still air. Steam rose from the rusted durasteel manholes just ten feet away from the body, further emphasizing the stillness of the night.

With gloves on, he pulled back the curtain once more and took a deep breath. He knew Kyle was at the ready, prepared to take the necessary notes. That was the sort of person he was, almost machine in his methodical nature and attention to rhythm. The rut was where Kyle thrived and for all intents and purposes, it was the place John hated the most.

“Lacerations over the majority of the body, enacted prior to death. Ligature marks on the ankles and wrists indicate that she was bound and restrained. Cuts are largely superficial, cause of death is currently unknown.” He looked down towards her face, bruised on the cheek and along the jaw, and inspected her lips. “Victim may have expelled stomach contents prior to and leading up towards death. Lips, gums, and throat appear inflamed.”


“She had thrown up?”
“Yes, quite a bit actually. The medical examiner would help us sort out the reasoning later but I suspected some form of poisoning. It was just too early to tell.”
The second partner came back in, sliding a six pack of beer across the metal table.
“That’ll do pig, that’ll do.” John smiled as he tossed the half filled beer into the trash can and cracked open another.


It was hard to sort out what tethered this murder to the Nichols case. That is, until we got back to the lab.

The medical examiner brought in multiple assistants to turn the body over. The ceiling mounted camera panned inward on a sliding rail and once in place, was locked in position. John stood quietly by and watched as the room was filled with a bright white light and the odd and unnecessarily loud recharge sound of the camera. By the end of it, he wagered they took well over 100 photos. All for a phrase, carved into the flesh of her back.

John simply watched and scribbled in his notebook. ‘She was as fair as the Rose in spring.’

“Honest question.” Kyle leaned over to whisper into John’s ear. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“No.” John had to admit. Given the other characteristics so far, it was unsettling to say the least.


“Describe what set this murder apart from all the others.”
“Well. The medical examiner had concluded that she died from chronic alcohol poisoning, but more specifically: Organ Failure.”
“Chronic...how is that possible at her age?”
“Once he opened her up, he found several organs that were not human in origin. In fact, we couldn’t discern the origin at all. But after doing some analysis, we discovered that the liver was functioning at roughly 10-50 times the normal capabilities. When she died, she had a blood alcohol content near 0.8. And with those metrics, we suspect she had been force fed alcohol over the course of multiple weeks.”
“How does that happen? The liver that is.”
“It wasn’t just the liver. It was the stomach and intestines and heart as well. Just like before: She was entirely human, genetically speaking, but these other organs had been grown inside of her.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Beats me. My job was to track the killer down, not sort of the mysteries of life. I had to make sense of the disarray.”
“So you figured out her identity?” He was pushing the narrative forward, which was good. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner John could be on his way.


Family by the name of Chapman. Another prominent family member in the upper districts. They were responsible for a substantial portion of the export of Brandy, off world.

It didn’t take a genius to make the connection between that and the cause of death. But John needed to find a way to tie the families together, to develop some sort of pattern and profile the killer. But just as the Nichols family shut him down, so too did the Chapman residence. He knocked all of 40 times before the door opened and he was greeted by a servant.

“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Chapman.”
“He’s currently busy.”
“This is important. It pertains to the issue of his daughter.”
“As I stated, he is busy, sir.”
“Well, do you know when he might be available?”
“Leave your card, sir, and he will contact you soonest.”
John smiled and did just that, fully expecting that the man would toss it once the door was closed. Shoving his hands in his pocket, he walked down the marble stairs of the house and stepped back into his speeder.

“No luck?” Kyle and his stupid questions about luck. Like that had anything to do with this.
“Nope.” The speeder took off, heading back towards a dock to descend to the lower levels.


“So at this point, you had no working motivation for the murders besides the fact that these were daughters of wealthy members of Coruscant’s upper districts.”
“Nothing concrete. I had some theories, mostly revolving around a lower coruscant individual sticking it to the upper class. Or perhaps some form of anti-xenophobia resentment causing aliens to lash out. But it was all just smoke and mirrors at this point. And none of them were jiving with our working profile.”
“But you had a working profile of the murderer, at this point?”
“Yes. We were working under the assumption that it was one individual. Some form of training in anatomy and ties to the black market. We suspected that Nichols wasn’t their first murder but given how crude the work was done, we assumed that he was still getting up to speed. Even with all the cuts and lashings, the Chapman killing was far more...elegant and methodical.”
“Elegant?”
“Yeah. He nurtured this woman for multiple weeks or even months, caring for her as he slowly killed her. Given the timeline, he actually began this process before killing Nichols, which suggested some sort of connection to Chapman. He could have easily killed her with the same methodology, without prolonging the death to this extent. He 'grew' these organs within her to strengthen her, making the process that much more extensive and time consuming. It was a murder of passion, but not in the heat of a moment. He was painting a piece of art, something that would stand out for all those who could discern the nuances.”
“Your timeline makes a number of assumptions, doesn’t it?”
He sighed as he took another puff of the cigarra, nodding. “Looking back on it now, it’s pretty obvious where we went wrong. But up until that point, assumptions were all we had.”