Brock's Punishment(8)

The Federal Paranormal Agency didn’t have a prison or a jail. There weren’t any trials, judges, or juries. The agents were in change of punishing the shifters, vampires, and other paranormals that broke the law. It may seem harsh, but there weren’t many laws to follow. Paranormals did have to follow the basic human laws, but when it came to something as serious as murder, the FPA was called in to take over. The human authorities didn’t want to chase paranormals, considering the fact that they were faster and stronger.

It took them at least thirty minutes to reach the preserve. Ranger pulled the car to a stop in a no-parking zone located near bright yellow caution tape.

“It looks like they left the scene secure,” Ranger said, shutting the engine off.

“That’s good news for us.” Shaw climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him.

Lifting his face, he closed his eyes and inhaled. A major part of being an agent with the FPA was depending on one’s senses. He was able to catalog and categorize each smell from the wild animals in the area to the plant life. Shaw strode toward the yellow tape, inspecting the terrain as he went—looking for fresh tracks, environmental changes, or things that didn’t belong in the preserve. Something small like a rock out of place had the potential to break a case wide open.

He hiked further than he initially expected before reaching the body dump site.

The New Orleans police department closed down the whole preserve and wrapped crime scene tape around a large portion of the property. When he finally reached the body dump site, he knelt down and studied the body indent that had been left behind in the soft mud.

“How many freaking humans have walked through this place?” Ranger murmured.

“Enough to throw my senses off.” Shaw closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to locate anything paranormal that might still linger in the air.

After a few minutes, he stood, shaking his head. “It seems that we’re going to have to see the local authorities after all and the body.”

“Let’s do it.” Turning on his heel, Ranger marched back to the car and Shaw followed after him.

Shaw was disappointed that the answer wasn’t staring him straight in the face. He couldn’t confirm or deny the participation of a paranormal, and he couldn’t leave New Orleans without having the answer. Opening the passenger-side door of the rental car, Shaw dropped into the seat and shut the door behind him.

Ranger started the engine and did a quick U-turn and headed back toward town.

They were both silent, waiting impatiently for the mystery to be revealed. Shaw could easily feel Ranger’s nervous energy. The man was obviously concerned. Shaw didn’t blame him though. One of his friends could be found guilty of killing a human. Nobody in their right mind would want to punish a friend. He regretted putting Ranger in a very difficult position.

When the two finally walked into the police station, the man at the counter looked up, “FPA, right?”

“Right.” Shaw nodded.

“The coroner’s office is one floor down. Just take those elevators.” He pointed over to the wall of elevators.

“Thanks.” Shaw didn’t say any more as he followed the man’s directions down into what appeared to be the basement.

The doors opened on a ding and Shaw stepped aboard. He pressed the button and faced forward as the doors closed them inside the metal box. He could see Ranger’s reflection. Although blurry, he could tell the man was as uncomfortable as him. Classical music played from the speaker overhead as the elevator moved at a snail’s pace. When the door finally opened, he stepped out into a long white hallway. The place was void of any color and there didn’t appear to be any other people around.

“This place is creepy,” Ranger murmured, and Shaw couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

Florescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering as they walked. At the end of the hall, there was a pair of double doors. Peering through the small window, Shaw looked both ways. Bodies were lined up on individual tables, white sheets covering them from head to toe. He pushed the door open and immediately covered his nose. The scent of dead bodies assaulted his senses, and Shaw did his best not to breathe.

“Can I help you?” A petite African-American man stepped in front of him, blocking his entrance.

“I’m Shaw Iza, with the FPA.” He fished out his badge from his back pocket and flashed the silver star at the man.

“Aww, yes, sorry. I’m not used to having walking visitors down here. Most folks steer clear of the basement.” He walked over to a metal desk and picked up a clipboard. “It looks like you’re here to see Paul Darren,” he read before dropping it down. “Over here.” He tilted his head and Shaw followed him.