CASE ONE
FEASTERS OF THE DARK

I CLIMBED THE SEESAWING stairs of the fusty tenement building, only reaching the fourth floor after much arduous effort. The dimly lighted hallways and sullen doors kept me close on the heels of Detective Matthew Leahy. Being a professor of literature, I seldom frequented the darker places of New York City, or participated in any form of strenuous exercise beyond the carrying of texts—though there are a few works I do indeed consider strenuous in bulk and content.

It was 1922, a scant few years since I'd arrived in the city, and I was hoping that such adventures were not commonplace.

“Professor Pearson, you may want a moment to prepare yourself,” Leahy said as we ended our expedition before an apartment door. Flanking this scarred and worn portal stood two placid uniformed officers.

Detective Leahy himself was a stocky man with thick black hair, not too dissimilar to the officers. Unlike them, though, an ill-fitting gray-wool suit covered his bulk, combined with sharp features and slow, seemingly calculated movements, making him reminiscent of a tortoise toting about a cumbersome shell. This image, however, I found was quickly dispelled by his alert brown eyes that were always taking in the world around him.

“This is an–” The detective halted abruptly, not for lack of a proper word, but as a man might catch himself before putting forth a remark in which he did not fully and earnestly believe. His expression grew dark as though he had stepped from light into shadow. I had the distinct impression that he felt there was no accurate means of describing what lay beyond the doorway.

“It is unusual,” he finally concluded.

I was grateful for the brief lull, which allowed me a moment to catch my breath. As I stood huffing, I was certain I spotted a twinkle of amusement in the eyes of the previously stoic officers. A Columbia University professor at the scene of a murder likely did seem ludicrous to these gentlemen, who most probably thought me nothing more than a mollycoddle. In honesty, it seemed such to myself. Had not Detective Leahy convinced me of the necessity for a literary scholar, I most assuredly would have thought my presence nothing more than a fancy, only likely to appear in the countless commercial literature plaguing the publishing houses nowadays.

Instead, I struggled to make my attendance seem commonplace, matter-of-fact, as if professors of English regularly patrolled New York City's streets enforcing good grammar, lecturing upon the literary canon, and solving crimes.

“I understand,” I replied firmly. Then I committed myself to a course that would gnaw at my very soul for the remainder of my life.

As I followed Detective Leahy through the door, I realized I did not understand. I had no comprehension of what I was seeing, or its greater meaning.

The apartment was divided into two small rooms. There was neither a private bath nor room enough for anything more than the smallest of beds.

“This–” Leahy gestured toward a dark corner of the modest room. “This is where the landlord found the victim's body. His remains are bein' held at the medical examiner's office at the Bellevue Pavilion.”

Reflexively, I withdrew a handkerchief and placed it to my face. The sickly sweet odor of dried blood permeated the room, making the already small space feel as immuring as a coffin. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a wan light, making tall shadows on all of the walls, leaving the close corners of the room dark and gloomy.

I stepped forward, halting before a black stain that stretched from part of the floor to the wall. The discoloration extended toward the ceiling as though the blood had climbed upward with a life of its own.

“The way in which the blood has splattered on the wall,” Leahy said, “indicates the victim, a Russian immigrant named Adrik Ziven, was killed at this spot.” The detective extracted a flashlight from his overcoat and shone it upon the location. A circle of light danced in the grisly corner. “This is what I wanted you to see.”

I followed the light as it sliced through the shadows along the wall, revealing letters scrawled there. They were thick and ill-formed, writhing like snakes, obviously written in blood.

I studied the dark scribbling, immediately recognizing the words, though not wanting to confront their meaning. After scanning the ghastly writing several times, I read it aloud: “ Lætan riht onfindan þæt scyldig .”

Leahy looked at me expectantly.

“It is as you suspected,” I said. “A form of English. Specifically, a corrupted version of Old English. It loosely translates to ‘Let justice discover the guilty.'”

I continued. “ He gearwian þæt fyllo man hwa forlætan se leoht . He serves the feast for those who have abandoned the light.”

I turned away, hoping vainly that not seeing the words would distance their meaning from me. “How was Ziven killed?” I asked, a cloying nausea burning in my throat.

“The medical examiner thinks he was eaten alive.” Leahy moved to the wall, still shining his torch. “These high stains indicate arterial splashes . . .”

I raised a hand, interrupting him. The dreadful message already conveyed more detail than I desired.

“I apologize, Professor Pearson,” Leahy said. “I've grown dull to such sights. In time, it all becomes puzzle pieces and nothin' more. You must become inhuman to solve inhuman crimes.”

As Leahy spoke, the memory of a text I had studied years ago came unbidden to my mind. It was a medieval text about religion, demons and devils. The part I suddenly recollected was identical to what I had just read on the wall. He serves the feast for those who have abandoned the light .

It seemed unfathomable that a fiend capable of such an act would also be a connoisseur of medieval literature. I tried to convince myself that my mind was playing tricks on me; my unsettled state was causing morbid fancies, nothing more.

“What was Ziven's occupation?” I asked, attempting to divert my thoughts from their dark course.

“He was a petty thief and robber. Sentenced to three years at Blackwell's. Insignificant when compared to many others in his field.” The detective shrugged his shoulders. “He must have made a bad enemy somewhere along the line.”

I looked at Leahy. “Then maybe this message is an epitaph for Ziven?”

“Or a challenge to the law,” Leahy countered.

“Have you consulted an alienist? Perhaps he may be able to shed light upon these writings.”

“Already have. It was pointless.” There was sharpness in Leahy's words. “There are few alienists who care to diagnose absentee patients. Most are interested in injectin' drugs and applying straightjackets. They have little to gain from speculatin' about messages on walls in tenement houses, and often don't consider the death of such a man as Ziven a crime. But what the alienist did tell me—” Leahy gestured to the wall— “was he thought this to be Old English.” The detective moved forward, his gaze intent upon the mystery before him.

I could see passion in his eyes. To understand the meaning of this riddle gave him a purpose, a significance; it separated him from the senselessness of the crime itself. It provided him with the semblance of meaning in a world where meaning was often absent. I knew this because I too felt the need to understand tugging at me. The riddle on the wall called to me like it did Leahy. The meaning and purpose behind those words, in conjunction with such an unimaginable act, attracted me like iron to a lodestone.

I watched him scrutinize the wall for several moments before I spoke. “I believe I can assist you.”

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