They find victims twenty-three and twenty-four on a park bench in Alamo Square. I say ‘they’, but really it’s just one guy wearing two coats and a leathery scream. He’s freaked out so badly, whatever he’s high on isn’t enough to numb the shock of what he’s seen. Most of the victims are discovered like this, by someone who already has a fairly rocky relationship with reality, and this is all the push they need to break up with it for good.
By the time I get to the scene, a few curious onlookers are leaning over the yellow tape as CSI does their paparazzi thing behind a black nylon privacy barrier. I figure I have less than twenty minutes before the first van full of vultures shows up, so I might as well get a good look before they start flapping around and pulling my attention away.
The officer working the crowd, Durand, spots me coming and wrinkles his graying eyebrows. “Hey, Harper. Honeymoon over yet?”
“That was six years ago,” I say, ducking under the tape. “You losing track of time out here?”
“You know what I mean. The fights must have started by now. They don’t play nice for long once the ring’s on the finger.”
Guys like Durand always want you to admit you’re just as unhappy as they are. It makes them feel better about their own choices, like there’s no way someone could actually enjoy their partner’s company. It’s not them that’s flawed, you see, it’s the entire institution of marriage.
“The truth is, Durand, the only thing we fight about is you,” I say, and he chuckles.
“She thinks about me that much?”
“Absolutely. She says I should use my sidearm to put sad pricks like you out of their misery.”
Let me tell you, his scowl alone is worth the price of admission.
Leaving Durand to his tourist-wrangling, I head toward the benches at the center of the park, where all the action is going down behind the black barrier. The pop-flash of a camera momentarily projects a pair of silhouettes onto its nylon screen, a split-second movie of two seated corpses leaning toward each other. You could almost convince yourself they’re alive and happy and whispering sweet nothings to each other in that second. With an exhale of cold, tired breath, I walk around the barrier to get a look at what I already know.
The two look to be in their mid-twenties, nicely dressed, with skin and teeth denoting decent hygiene and upper middle-class means. If I were to guess, just based on his build, I would say the young man was a personal trainer, or at least spent a decent amount of time in the gym. The young woman has immaculate makeup and hair good enough for a movie set.
Also, their hearts have been removed.
Like victims one through twenty-one, the two bodies have bloody caverns where their hearts used to be. The precision is far from surgical, the organs ripped out whole. Same as the previous killings, the wounds would suggest a crime of passion, like the perpetrator didn’t just want to remove their hearts, but needed to.
This has been going on every day since the first of February. There’s always two victims, in a location one would consider romantic, missing their hearts. Sometimes they’re dating, sometimes they’re married, but always they’re posed in a kiss, a lean, a lover’s embrace. The lab has been trying to figure out what the killer uses to dig the hearts out of their chests. It’s like a knife, but the shape is wrong, rougher, and leaves behind traces of lead.
On the ground next to the young couple’s feet, both of their phones lay where they’ve dropped. Hers has a cracked screen from the impact, but his phone is intact. “We need to get these unlocked,” the CSI agent says, pulling out a handful of evidence bags.
“One guess what’s on them,” I reply, looking over at the sun setting behind the iconic Victorian houses of San Francisco- the painted ladies.
It’s a great view. Good enough to take a picture.
By the time I get home, Amy is asleep on the couch and the TV wants to know if she’s still watching. She looks so small, curled up there under a fleece blanket, and yet her snoring is loud enough for a dock worker who just polished off a six-pack of beer and a carton of smokes. She’s always been a snorer, though it embarrasses her to hear it. It’s a good thing I’m such a heavy sleeper, or we’d have to have separate bedrooms.
I turn off the TV and wake her softly, taking the blanket off and guiding her from the couch to the bedroom. Her steps are small and shuffling, like she’s on a chain gang.
“Sorry I fell asleep,” she says, looking up at me with eyes barely open.
“I’ve told you so many times not to wait up for me, but you don’t listen.”
“I know,” she says. “I think it’s part of my charm.”
She gets into bed and I head to the bathroom to wash the day off. In the shower, I scrub hard and don’t think about how much force it takes to break through a human chest plate. I also don’t think about victims who don’t struggle, who remain perfectly still with eyes open as their partners are butchered next to them. It’s a good thing, too. That can really mess with a person.
When I dry off and get under the covers, I discover Amy is still awake. I also discover she’s very much naked.
“So that’s why you waited up,” I say, crawling up next to her warmth. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about it all day.
“Well, Jacob, it certainly wasn’t the sparkling conversation,” she replies, with that smile that lights me up.
Twenty-five and twenty-six are discovered by a fisherman on Pier 7. I’ve never been to Pier 7, but I quickly discover it has one of the best views of the Eastern waterfront. I walk the length of the wharf, benches and ornate street lights on either side, all the way to the end. This time Durand doesn’t even look me in the eye.
The victims are two women, wearing matching red scarves. Their bodies are huddled in one of the alcoves extending over the rolling ocean, arms entangled and eyes facing each other. Their murder scene is beautifully lit by the ring light mounted on a stand several feet from them. I have to say, it really highlights the congealed blood in their gaping chests.
As one of the CSI guys checks the railing for fingerprints he won’t find, I get a call from the lab.
“Good morning, Harper,” Miller says.
“Oh, it’s a great one,” I reply. “What do you got for me?”
“It could be nothing, but I’ll let you decide. On a whim, I carbon-dated the lead recovered from one of the victims. Keep in mind that radiocarbon dating is typically only for living objects, like wood or bone, however some lead carbonates contain atmospheric carbon dioxide that can be—”
“Okay, okay, I believe you,” I cut him off.
“Well, you may not believe this: the lead dates back to at least 1100 B.C.”
I rub my face, trying to make sense of the new information. “Aren’t most metals old?”
“Not exactly. A weapon manufactured in current times, with modern techniques, wouldn’t give us results like this.
This I wasn’t expecting. “So you’re telling me the murder weapon is an ancient artifact?”
“It’s hard to say exactly, but it appears so.”
When I’m done on Pier 7, I ask if the department can call a press conference asking people to stay away from scenic spots, or at least not to take pictures at them, as it seems to be triggering the attacks, but I’m shot down immediately. The killings have made very few waves in the current news cycle, and the higher-ups very much want to keep it that way.
Valentine’s Day, I make sure officers are posted at every romantic photo op I can think of: Foreign Cinema‘s outdoor patio, Stow Lake, Moraga Stairs at Grandview Park, Golden Gate Park, Bay Bridge, both Botanical Gardens, the list goes on. You name a cute picture, and I request a unit to keep tabs on it.
I make the rounds from one site to another, all while watching my phone for a call, but I don’t get a single damn bite. Not even a false alarm, which should be good news, except it might mean my theory is wrong, and the next killing is happening somewhere else in the city. Somewhere unprotected.
It’s an hour to midnight and I’m feeling like a jackass for coming in on what was supposed to be my day off, ruining a perfectly good chance to spend time with Amy, when I think of something I missed. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m jumping into my car and pinning the gas pedal to the floor. On the way I call for backup, but I’m told there isn’t any to spare, not unless I can give them more to go on than a hunch.
There’s a footpath in the Presidio, less than a mile long, that runs north to south between two parts of Presidio Boulevard. It’s called Lover’s Lane, and it’s so obvious it makes me want to kick myself in the throat. Instead, I nearly crash into one of the two stone pillars marking the entrance to the park.
Leaving my car behind to enter the path on foot, it doesn’t take long for the tall eucalyptus trees lining the path to swallow me up, their leaves rustling in the night breeze. With my hand close to my sidearm, I walk the path with little to see by except dim streetlights every few hundred feet, their bulbs struggling against the light fog. My footsteps sound hollow on the stone underfoot, and for a while they’re the only thing I hear, until about ten minutes in when my ears pick up an odd mumbling sound in the shadows ahead.
A shape becomes visible up the path, and I slow my footsteps. As I draw closer, I find it’s a man wearing a long coat and a pouch on his back. He’s down on his knees, hunched over what appears to be a burlap bag laid at the center of the path.
The man is old and emaciated. I want to dismiss him as homeless—tragic, yes, but a distraction from my business at Lover’s Lane. “You should move along, sir,” I call out. Although a lone man wouldn’t be a target, he could still put himself in danger by witnessing something he shouldn’t. But as I approach him, I get a glimpse of what’s inside the open bag.
I pull my weapon and shout at him to get down on the ground, but he doesn’t look up from the collection of hearts beneath him. He continues to look down at them, one of the hearts inside still steaming in the frigid air, as he says the words that chill me to my marrow.
“You love your wife, Jacob. I have no business with you.”
It catches me off-guard. He doesn’t call me Detective Harper, like he knows me from work, or even Jake, like a friend might, but Jacob. Only Amy and my mother have ever called me Jacob, and even the tone he uses reminds me of the way Amy says it.
“I need you to slowly turn toward me,” I say, trying to maintain control of the uneasy situation.
“Slowly?” His face wrinkles up into a smile. “Like a dance?”
He rises easily for a man his age, his movements strangely graceful. With my weapon trained on him, I take a few steps forward to get a better look. His features have a childlike quality, but the skin is dry and loose, like it gave up years ago. He was handsome once, I can see, but now his eyes are jaundiced and his teeth rotten. Even his clothes have seen better days, though I can’t tell you what decade those days fell in.
“Step away from the bag and put your hands on your head,” I order. He listens, swaying as if moving across a dance floor.
“You always prefer to lead, don’t you?” he asks.
“Shut up. Now turn around.”
His amused smile tightens. “I like this game, Jacob, but I can’t play for much longer. I’m afraid I still have much work to do.”
“I said turn around!”
His eyes burn into me, but he listens. As fast as I can, I holster my weapon and handcuff his hands behind his back, noticing his back is large and bulky, the coat possibly hiding a hunch. I also can’t help but notice overlapping scars and burn marks all over his hands and wrists, like he spends his time sifting through campfires. It’s a strange sight, but the questions will have to wait until later. I slip the long leather pouch off him and throw it into the grass, the sound of jostling metal inside telling me I’ve found my murder weapon.
“You have the right to remain silent,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I refuse to be silent. Silence is what allowed this world to die and fester and rot.”
“… Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I continue. Given the nature of his crimes, I’d expected the case to end in the discovery of some monster, if I found him at all, but his rhetoric is one I’ve heard a thousand times before. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand the rights I read to you?”
He’s quiet a moment, looking up into the trees. He looks almost like a typical old man, the kind who’s spent years on the streets or in some other filthy place. I sneak a look at the burlap bag bulging with human hearts to remind myself just what I’m dealing with.
“You are truly heroic, Jacob,” he says. “It’s no wonder Amy thinks so highly of you.”
His words leave me feeling like I’ve been punched in the chest. “What did you just say?”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “She’s had many romantic offers, you know, from men younger and wealthier than you. But she remains so loyal to you. That’s a rare thing, one that shouldn’t be taken lightly.”
“Do I know you?” I ask. Hearing Amy’s name on this killer’s lips wasn’t something I was prepared for, but now that it’s done, I need answers.
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Most people know of me, but no one actually knows me. Not for a long time now.”
The shock of what he’s said boils down into a red rage. I’m tempted to pull my weapon again. Instead, I spin him around and grab him by the stinking collar. “Quit it with the vague answers,” I growl. “How do you know my wife’s name? Have you been following me?”
He smiles impatiently, the smell of his blackened teeth invading my nose. “I told you I have no business with you, Jacob, and I never lie. My patience is running thin for your game.”
“Yeah? Well the games are just starting.”
I push him to the ground, where he lands hard on his side. My anger has gotten the better of me. A fall like that should break a few bones on a man his age, but he doesn’t even seem to feel it. In fact, he begins to chuckle.
That’s enough for me. I take out my phone to call it in, something I should have done a while ago, before I became distracted by his words, but I find it isn’t working. Not just the service—the phone itself won’t even turn on. I smack it against my palm, hoping to see the screen blink.
“Problems?” he asks from the ground, then laughs even harder. I feel like giving him a kick in the ribs to see if his bones do in fact break, but just then I spot the movement of two young men walking side-by-side up the path.
“Excuse me,” I call out. “Please stop right there. I need to use one of your phones.”
The two don’t even react. It’s as if I didn’t speak.
“Excuse me, hello?” I take a step toward them, thinking maybe they’re hard of hearing. But even directly in their eyeline, I don’t exist to them. They continue walking and talking as they pass me right by.
“They don’t see you, Jacob,” the old man calls to me. “Not because they can’t, but because they don’t care. None of them care anymore. They’re a thousand miles apart, even when they sit right next to one another.”
I shout one more time at the pair, nearly screaming now, but they walk around the bend and out of sight, leaving me alone again with the old man. Worse, when I turn back to look at him, I notice a pair of handcuffs lying on the ground a few feet from where he sits, hands still behind his back.
My handcuffs.
“Let me see those hands,” I say, pulling my gun.
“But you’ve already seen their work, and that’s the same, don’t you think? Oh, not just these past few weeks, you’ve seen what I do your whole life.” He shrugs. “Still, if it gives you pleasure to look.”
The old man stands, his hands free, as I shout and spit and threaten. He takes a few steps toward the leather pouch, locking eyes with me as he picks it up.
“If you don’t put that down, I’ll be forced to fire on you,” I warn, gripping my gun tighter.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t want to,” he says with a grin. Then he reaches into the long pouch, no matter how much I yell at him to stop, and pulls out two objects from inside. They’re arrows, one gold at its head and the other something duller, a metal I’m willing to bet is lead. He grips them under the head, like knives, and I can just imagine him stabbing and shoveling his way into someone’s chest.
“Do you know the story of this path we stand on, you and I?” he asks.
“I’m not here for a history lesson. Now put down the weapons and get those hands back up,” I reply, but he continues, undeterred.
“It was cut from the Earth in the 18th century, as a shortcut for Spanish soldiers and missionaries to walk to Mission Dolores, just south of here. But the name, Lover’s Lane—”
“Soldiers used it to reach their wives,” I say, trying to get his speech over with, and his wrinkled face lights up.
“So you do know! You see, that’s love. That’s devotion. A simple walk on a hot summer’s day. Not like these people now. They make me vomit with their signaling and posturing, caring more about their outward image than the lover by their side. They don’t want to be happy, you understand, they want to be seen as happy.”
The way he talks, the way he looks into my eyes, I can’t look away. I’m trying to stay aware of my surroundings, but it’s like my vision is a pinhole camera that sees nothing but him.
“I love this city, don’t you? What am I saying? Of course you do. You pretend it’s the same as anywhere else, but you protect it like it’s your child.” He takes a step forward. “I’ve always liked you, Jacob. You would kill your neighbor sooner than leave your wife. That’s as it should be. That’s true worship, not these candies and greeting cards.”
As he talks, he continues to move toward me. I try to tell him to stop where he is, but my lips feel glued shut, my tongue paralyzed. He takes another step, rubbing the arrowheads with his dry fingers, and I know the only chance I have is to drop him where he stands. But my finger won’t squeeze the trigger. My hands tremble as I put all my strength into them, fighting whatever is keeping them from working, begging them to move, to pull the trigger, but nothing happens.
In a moment, the old man reaches me. He looks back and forth between the two arrows, gold and lead, then at me. His smile is warm and friendly as he brings the lead arrow up, holding it above his head, and then swings down and buries it in my chest.
A cold fire grips my heart, spreading out through my body. My veins are like frozen rivers, limbs numbed dead. I expect my legs to give out, to collapse under me, but somehow I remain standing, staring into the old man’s eyes as he pulls the arrowhead from my chest. The pain is so great I can move for a moment, gripping him by the side to steady myself. At my touch I feel something on his back move under his coat, like he’s hiding two more arms back there, and even in my pain and paralysis I squirm at the feel of it.
“You should have let me conduct my affairs,” the old man says sadly. “Now your Amy has to suffer the sting of your distance, the ache of your dulled spark as she looks wantingly into your eyes and feels nothing in return. As for me, there’s always next year. I still have much work to do.”
He lets go of me and I fall, fall, like a dead tree uprooted in a storm. I barely feel the impact of the ground on my back, just the cold that follows, seeping up into me from the frozen ground, and me down into it. That and a pulsing wind on my face, like the beating of great wings lifting up, up into the black.
The doctors give me blood, but the cold never leaves my heart. Amy comes to see me, crying and saying how happy she is I pulled through, but when I look at her face, I feel nothing. They say I have PTSD and put me on a bunch of pills that do nothing. I come home two weeks later and Amy’s like a stranger in my house, or maybe I’m a stranger in hers. I don’t know. All I can do is play the part and hope she doesn’t notice. I try crying about it, I try feeling bad about myself, but my eyes stay dry.
I’m told a woman out for a jog found me that night, half dead on the ground and mumbling about Spanish missionaries. From the scene they recover my gun and my phone, both functioning perfectly, and nothing else. Eventually I track down the two young men who’d walked by us that night, but they say they’ve never seen me before, and I have no reason to not believe them.
February passes and so do the murders. There’s a calendar on my desk now that I use to count down to Valentine’s Day. Some people think I’m the romantic type, others that I can’t stand an unfinished case, and I let them keep thinking that. The truth is, I’m counting down to a hunt, not just for that old man, but for his quiver. Because if I ever get my hands on it, if I can hold one of those golden arrowheads in my own, unfeeling fingers, I’m burying that thing right in my own dead heart.
