Investigator: Dr. Bart Ambrose

Specialty: Demonology, Mysticism, Theology

Dr. Bart Ambrose lounged on the stained sofa of his cluttered apartment, wrapped in a patched robe, briar wood pipe in his languid grip. A stack of thick volumes and loose papers at the far end of the sofa prevented him from stretching to the full length of his tall, lanky frame. A week ago the disorganized stack was low enough to use as an elevated footrest, but it had steadily grown in height, leaving Bart with two options: relocate the materials to free up sofa space, or curl his knees and share the sofa with his reference books and scribblings. Bart elected to relocate the materials via a kick to the side of the stack, scattering books and papers onto the floor below. He stretched out his legs, wiggling his toes.

Bart shifted his position as minimally as possible as he knocked his pipe’s ash out into the ashtray on the side table, and transferred two pinches of dried, shredded tobacco from the bowl on the table to the empty chamber of the pipe. The tobacco’s aromatic scent was released as Bart crushed the leaves between his fingers. He plucked a matchstick from the open box—only three left—scratching the phosphorous tip against the surface of the table, flame sparking to life. It leveled into a consistent burn as Bart carefully guided the match to the chamber of the pipe and sucked the flame over the tobacco, pulling a mouthful of warm smoke through the stem, brown leaf glowing cherry-red. He held the smoke inside for a few seconds before exhaling a gray-white cloud up toward the yellowing ceiling. His mind buzzed with nicotine. The match was dying, moribund flame dividing the blackened, crooked end from the unburnt. Bart twisted his fingers around the match, tactilely searched for the optimal angle to prolong the burning, if only for a few seconds. Needs more oxygen. He thought of the boy from boarding school that had drowned in the pond. The flame died, and Bart flicked the match away, overshooting the side table. He took another deep breath of smoke.

Bart’s sixth-floor apartment overlooked the bustling heart of the city. From his window, Bart had a view of the St. Cantwell Cathedral at one end of the street, the Fluvior River at the other, and a gray pigeon reorganizing twigs directly on the outer sill. The apartment was compact, furniture pressed against the peeling wallpaper, bookshelves overflowing with a diverse variety of books and news reports delivered daily by couriers of the Detecting Company. His materials included reprints of ancient, occult texts, analysis of modern and historical religious movements, the ways in which these movements shape society, and ongoing tabs on suspected extremist organizations.

Quick footsteps sounded from the hallway, halting at Bart’s door. The bell rang for several seconds. Bart sat up halfway and stared at the door, imagining the person beyond it, he had a decent idea. There were four raps against the door, delivered ten seconds after the bell had ceased. The hurried and purposeful nature of the pace of steps, the ring of the bell, and the knocking that followed conveyed a sense of professional urgency. Combined with the metallic jingle of belted handcuffs, it all added up to a visit from the constabulary with a consulting request.

Bart considered pretending that he wasn’t at home, he could remain very still until the visitor gave up interest—it was his day off, after all. He was still in his robe past ten o’clock, his stubbly chin was untrimmed, and he had unplugged the candlestick telephone on his desk. There had been thoughts of light cleaning around the apartment, but Bart was not eager to begin such a task.

A thin line of smoke rose from the floor, and Bart got a whiff of burning paper. He sat up further, glancing down to see that the burnt match he had flicked away had landed on loose pages from the stack he had kicked off the sofa, and a paper had caught fire from the residual heat. Bart hopped off the sofa and stomped out the slow smoldering page, alerting his visitor to his presence, and soiling one of his last good pairs of socks with ash and flakes of burning paper.

Bart peeked through the peephole of his front door and saw the familiar face of Constable Lew Griswold. Bart unbolted the two deadbolts and flipped the lock on the doorknob, opening the door to greet Lew and welcome him inside. Lew was shorter and stockier than Bart, with thick, reddish facial hair. He was donned in the official constabulary uniform, dark blue with silver buttons that bore the winged lion insignia of the state, and a rounded custodian helmet. Lew’s usually stoic face was anxious, eyes darting about, teeth chattering—not from the cold, though it was a brisk day.

“Dr. Ambrose,” said Lew. “I have a case for you, looks to be a genuine one… witchcraft, I mean. A supernatural murder.” His entire body shivered and he took a deep breath.

“Oh, well, come in,” said Bart. “Can I get you something? Anything?” Bart strode to the cabinet by his desk, stepping over the smoldered papers, and pulled out a quarter-full bottle of brandy. He took two snifters and wiped them out with his sleeve, then poured two nips, passing one to Lew as he stumbled into a cushioned chair near the door. “Are you feeling well? Here, take this.”

Lew snatched the glass of brandy and threw it back, inhaling sharply immediately after. “Thank you, my God, I’m telling you this was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen.”

“What happened?” said Bart. “Murder?”

“A man on Opal Street, not far from here, was found dead this morning. Nolan Suchet. He burned to death in his apartment, just laying there on the floor, crisp. And there were symbols on the floors, and the walls, and there were books about demons and magic. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was a demonic ritual, a real one.”

Bart nursed his brandy, somewhat regretting pouring himself a drink before noon. He swished around the gold-brown liquid in the snifter. Lew wasn’t deterred in the slightest by the mess of Bart’s apartment, usually he would have thrown in a quip or two—he was in a pseudo-trance. Bart had never seen Lew so shaken. “Start from the beginning.”

“Yes, of course,” said Lew. “At half past nine o’clock this morning we got a call from Alda Berkeley and George Cropper, landlord and tenant at the apartment on Opal Street. They were the ones that discovered the body, Nolan’s body, burned in his bedroom. Apparently they both smelled something foul and smoky when they woke, and they went upstairs to Nolan’s apartment to investigate. No one answered, so Alda let them in with the spare key. They said that the stench was coming from the bedroom, which was deadbolted. They were afraid there was a fire or something in there, so they busted down the door and found the dead body, smoldering there on the floor.”

Lew balanced the empty snifter, watching the light play on the glass, then eyed the bottle of brandy. Bart obliged, offering another small splash. He set the bottle down on his desk and sat back on the sofa.

“There were books and artifacts, and symbols everywhere, drawn in chalk,” said Lew. “And the thing is, there was no one else in the building, and Nolan’s window and door were locked, and we didn’t find any propellants or matches or anything at the scene.”

“Oh, that’s odd,” said Bart. “Burned to death in a locked room.”

“Come with me, read the symbols,” said Lew. “Is this a spell? Black magic?”

“I suppose I could examine the books and artifacts,” said Bart. He got up from the sofa and walked to his room for a change of clothes. Not much was clean at the moment, but he managed to scrape together a respectable outfit: dark pants and a plaid overcoat with a felt bowler. Bart donned his leather satchel with the silver buckles, crammed full of reference books and notebooks on languages and symbols.

Burned to death in a locked room after a demonic ritual… It certainly sounded supernatural. Bart’s investigative assignments through the Detecting Company typically involved the tracking of criminal, religious extremists, and deciphering their manifestos. Last year he had provided decisive leads in the investigation of a violent cult that was kidnapping children to be sacrificed. Never had Bart scrutinized an event that he would have deemed supernatural. He considered how difficult it would be to prosecute a mystical entity.

Bart and Lew left the apartment building and stepped out in the crisp sunlight, their gray city in the midst of a reprieve from the usual fog and rain. The streets were busy with foot traffic, horse drawn carts and carriages, and honking, steam-powered automobiles. Now, down six stories from the placidity of his apartment, Bart was enveloped by the odors and sounds of the city, burning fuel, hissing steam, neighing horses, and the rattling wheels and footsteps of omnidirectional travel. Shopkeepers and street vendors lured people to stop, whilst couriers and businessmen weaved through the crowds in constant motion. The ebb and flow of trade and transportation was in everyday chaotic flux. A young girl rushed over to Bart and Lew with a plea for charity, and Bart instinctively put a protective hand over his wallet, his distrusting sense for pickpockets on high alert. Lew was still in shock from the death of Nolan Suchet, he paid little mind to the beggar girl. Lew led Bart to the constabulary automobile that he had parked behind the apartment building, a bulky, black contraption with a closed-off back seat for prisoner transportation, and the two rode five blocks to Opal Street.

The two-story brick residence had three constabulary vehicles outside, and a gaggle of curious onlookers. Constable Ed Dillon stood by the front door, a large man in a uniform that was at least one size too small. The role of handling potential crowds outside of crime scenes was usually unfavorable, but Ed considered his duty fortunate compared to the constables inside that were forced within a close proximity of the ritual room. The stench alone was more than enough to turn him away, and the eerie feeling in the back of his mind was almost enough to send him running home. As Bart and Lew approached the front entrance, Ed waved them over. The door burst open and a man in glasses stomped outside.

“I’m not spending another night in this unholy building!” said the man. It was George Cropper, the first-floor tenant.

“You still owe me from last month!” said a tall, skinny woman. Alda Berkeley followed George outside and the two fervently argued over the cost of rent.

George threw his hands in the air and turned toward Bart. “Oh, you’re another inspector, is that right? Though, you don’t look like one, or a clergyman for that matter.”

“A bit of both,” said Bart.

“I wouldn’t go up there if I was you,” said George. “Most unholy thing I’ve seen in my life—that man summoned the devil! I say we spray the building down with holy water and burn it to the ground.”

“Did you know Nolan well?” said Bart.

“He was quiet, and he drank like a fish,” said George. “I heard him stumble up and down those stairs plenty of times.”

“And what did you know of him?” Bart said to Alda.

“He was only here for six months,” said Alda. “He was odd, muttering to himself all the time, but he paid his rent on time.”

“When did you last see him alive?” said Bart.

The landlord and surviving tenant agreed that Nolan was at the apartment yesterday morning at eleven. Bart and Lew stepped past them, and they were struck with the scent of burnt wood and flesh upon entering the building. The stench grew stronger as they ascended the stairs, arriving at the second floor to find a group of constables and inspectors in Nolan’s apartment. A wrinkled priest in dark robes had been called in to provide his insight and blessing, thick smoke rising from his burning sticks of incense, which did little to combat the concoction of odors. The apartment was littered with empty bottles and rotting food, with more disarray than Bart’s abode.

Inspector Clifton Bethune had a neatly trimmed mustache and a freshly pressed uniform. He wore the standard constabulary headgear, putting him a few inches taller than Bart. Of all the law enforcement agents present, Clifton seemed the least rattled by Nolan’s death. He was relatively desensitized to gore owing to the years he spent practicing medicine for the critical care unit, and his scientific background left him more skeptical and calculating than many of his peers. Clifton looked up from his notebook and gestured to Bart. “Ah, the demonologist is here,” he said. “The rune reader. How have you been, Dr. Ambrose?”

“Oh, you know how it is, staying busy,” said Bart. “Good to see you again, Inspector.”

“You’ll like this one,” said Clifton. “Maybe it can be the subject of your next book. I expect Constable Griswold briefed you on the way here, is that right? Good. Come this way, the ritual was performed in the bedroom.”

The scene was one of horror. Nolan’s smoldered corpse was on its back in the center of the room, flesh fused with clothing, blackened and crusted with gorey red ravines. He was sprawled open over a crudely drawn chalk pentagram that contained smaller symbols within, and splayed around him there were books on black magic and ancient runes, and an assortment of empty bottles and vials. Bart stepped over the shattered glass of a discarded bottle of vodka, the floor sticky beneath. On the table between the body and the window, there was a thick, leatherbound book that was open to a page containing graphic illustrations of torture and demonic weaponry. On one side of the table there was a smooth crystal ball, and on the other was a long serrated knife.

“I’ve read stories of monks that practiced self-immolation in the mountains, but there’s no sign of propellants,” said Clifton. “No matches, no lighter, no flint, door and window locked from the inside. Could he have been lit by a spark of static electricity? Unlikely, but of course, this entire situation is unlikely.”

Bart went to the book on the table, scanning the yellowed pages and running his finger along the spine. The book was scrawled in a language that Bart was unfamiliar with, and the margins were crammed full of crude illustrations. According to the faded scribblings in the opening pages, the book was over three-hundred years old. Bart produced a magnifying lens from his bag, studying the binding, wafting in the scent of the ink and adhesives.

One book and bottle at a time, Bart worked his way closer to the body. The three books scattered on the floor were similar to the one on the table. Bart examined the chalk markings on the floor for a quarter of an hour. They were jagged and sloppily drawn, and they seemed to reference at least four sections of the leatherbound volume from the table. Bart stepped over bottles, most of which had a few residual drops of vodka and gin, and one smaller vial caught his eye. Turning it over in his hand, he read the torn label: chlorpromazine.

Bart finally turned his attention to the burned corpse—he raised the back of his hand over his nose and mouth, as if pushing away the stench. The floor was charred beneath the body, but the flames hadn’t spread far.

“He burned slowly,” said Clifton. He joined Bart beside the body. “I’d wager that it took at least a few hours, but it’s difficult to be exact. It seems to have started around the abdomen, see?”

Bart crouched over the abdomen, holding his breath, and cocked his head toward the window. Pale sunlight came through, illuminating floating specs of dust and ash. He rose and took a step back, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve never given the alleged phenomenon of spontaneous combustion any serious, scientific thought,” said Clifton. “Is it possible that this is a genuine case? Or, level with me, Bart, is there any chance that we’re actually bearing witness to the effects of something beyond us?” Clifton spoke in a hushed tone, out of earshot of the constables in the other room. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“This is a new one to me,” said Bart. “But if this is the work of something beyond, something supernatural, then I wouldn’t attribute the burning to the books. They’re not authentic, or at least, they are much less old than they claim. For instance, in the front cover of the book here on the table someone wrote that it was produced three-hundred twenty-one years ago, but that contradicts with the materials used to process the paper, ink and adhesives in the binding—the book couldn’t have been made more than eighty years ago.”

“So, what, Nolan was swindled by a satanic book salesman?” said Clifton.

“Could be,” said Bart. “The symbols and language look like gibberish to me. They’re decent forgeries of old books, you can see they’ve been artificially aged up.”

“That will help the men that run the evidence locker sleep easier,” said Clifton. “Any idea what Nolan was trying to do? Did he have a particular objective?”

“He was drunk and confused,” said Bart. “Look at how sloppily the chalk is drawn, all jagged and uneven, and he’s mixing and matching from different parts of the text. Not surprising considering all the empty booze bottles on the floor. Nolan’s neighbors confirmed that he was a heavy drinker.” Bart picked up the empty chlorpromazine bottle. “Nolan had a passion for the occult, and he was prone to psychosis. Alda said that she had seen Nolan muttering to himself. Chlorpromazine is prescribed as an antipsychotic for conditions like schizophrenia or delusional disorders.”

“Clinically delusional… that somewhat explains the motivation for procuring these books and artifacts,” said Clifton. “But it does little to explain how the fire started.”

Bart tapped his fingertips together. “I have a theory. Did anyone move anything around in this room? On the table, specifically.”

“No, it’s untouched,” said Clifton.

“Good, let’s keep it that way for a few more hours,” said Bart. “Hold on a moment.” He shuffled over to a small heap of dirty clothes in the corner of the room and lifted a cotton shirt—cockroaches scurried in all directions as Bart removed their cover. Bart delicately placed the shirt over the body’s torso and stepped back.

“What’s all this?” said Clifton.

“An experiment,” said Bart. “If I’m right, then another fire should start relatively soon.”

At three o’clock, a dot of fabric began to smoke. Sunlight was concentrated through the crystal ball on the edge of Nolan’s table, focused as a pinpoint of heat.

“Ah ha,” said Bart. “Observe the weapon: Nolan’s crystal ball. See how it’s capturing the light reflected from that mirrored window across the street? The magnified sunlight lit Nolan’s shirt on fire while he was on the floor yesterday afternoon. The burn originated at his abdomen, and slowly spread across the body, searing flesh and clothing.”

Clifton scratched his chin skeptically. “Do you really think his flesh would burn so effectively? With such a high water content…”

“Flesh is not an ideal fuel source, granted,” said Bart. “But as the clothing burns, the fat liquifies. It seeps into the clothing, which acts as a makeshift wick to this human candle. Excessive alcohol consumption leads to dehydration, increased fat content, and heightened levels of acetone in the blood, further optimizing Nolan’s flammability.”

“If that were the case, then he would have to be held down for a long period,” said Clifton. “Ah, but the alcohol… I suppose he could have drank himself to death, or a near-death state of unconsciousness.”

“Agreed,” said Bart. “I’m curious to see the results of an autopsy, with attention to blood alcohol levels, and potential traces of vomit in the throat and lungs. I suspect Nolan collapsed here yesterday from alcohol poisoning after enacting his drunken ritual, and then his shirt caught fire at three o’clock. He burned slowly overnight. Alda and George didn’t notice until this morning, when they awoke to the resultant smell. This wasn’t the work of deities and dark magic, it was an unlikely accident.”