Chapel Black: The Roots Run Red.

The summer days grew colder as my time in the killing field continued.

In this small town, life seemed to remain stagnant, with familiar faces from school days still residing in the same neighborhood.

I delved into the bottomless well of the life of the victim, realizing that she might have been caught in a cycle of addiction and abuse. The tale of the central valley was lined with addicts and artists.

 The case left a haunting impression of a town grappling with its past and present, where the echoes of forgotten beliefs and social injustices continued to wake the dead.

The yawns are contagious in the truck stop diner. The truckers who went over the limit hoped to not get caught. The staff hopped in uppers after an overnight. The wall contained a myriad of articles and photos of the last fifty years in the valley. 

A hundred memories were imprisoned within the confines of the grim walls, each whispering a tale of its own. I found myself consumed by curiosity regarding the enigmatic story behind the children donned in feathered headdresses and deer attire.

The frayed remnants of the once-buried memory, clad in faded black and white hues, compelled me to fumble incessantly with my holster. With trembling hands, I gingerly plucked it from its resting place, clandestinely securing it within the sanctuary of my wallet. Although it felt blasphemous to purloin such a relic, the adage of seeking forgiveness over permission resonated in my mind, a testament to the chilling depths of human desires.

     Bacon fat screamed on chrome tops and black elixir filled porcelain mugs. Neon vests and tan boots clamors together as they waited for breakfast burritos to go.  

Detective Emma Price uploaded her notes across the internet. Most rookies wanted the thrill of their own beat, Emma did her best as a part-time mentor to filter out wannabes and weirdos. The mountains of paperwork and divorce stats help change the minds of starry-eyed students. 

I witnessed brutality, she saw reverence. The body farm tour did little to prepare me for a case like this. It felt more like a sacred journey than a mere murder investigation.

"Inspect the feathers for their authenticity, for if they are carelessly plucked from a craft store, you are dealing with an echo. However, should they originate from local fauna, you have a revivalist on your hands."

Emma went to the body farm back East. She’d watch the animals pick apart the bodies under the cover of darkness. The snap of a femur echoed differently from the crackling of a collarbone. Bloated bodies in a truck was just a slow Tuesday for her. She applied her anthropology thesis papers to understand victims and their killers. 

 She believed religious revivals were triggered by social upheavals and cracks in the system.

The crown crafted from twisted branches and decaying shrubs evokes haunting memories of Dryads. Her response was laced with an eerie chill as the steam from the coffee curled around her spectacles like spectral tendrils. She seemed to materialize from an ethereal realm, a visitor from another world.

"Wood nymphs or spirits are commonly referred to as Dryads," she whispered, her voice tinged with an otherworldly echo.

The feathers strewn about bear a somber resemblance to the tattered remnants of Indigenous lore. 

They were ruthlessly extinguished or twisted under the weight of Christian overseers. In the adjacent counties, more than a hundred branches of Pentecostalism preside, casting an ominous shadow on the land. One can only fathom the ancient beliefs and rituals that were shattered beneath our feet, giving birth to this deceptive oasis of faith.

July held an ominous presence in the annals of human civilization. Ancient Native Americans and pre-conquered Celtics rituals centered around the lengthening days, a bittersweet reminder of the encroaching darkness of winter.

The harvest, once a celebration of abundance, now became a desperate race against time. The village elders' and shamans' desperation knew no bounds as they resorted to extreme measures to stave off famine and drought.

I listened to her words, and my mind absorbed the weight of her ancient knowledge. The coffee, once a source of comfort, now served as a feeble attempt to regain equilibrium before I presented the medical Examiner's report. The report held dire implications for the bottom line of the fairgrounds, overshadowing the five other active cases I had on my plate. The realization hit me like a proverbial car crash - the residents of Middle America were more likely to succumb to the grasp of a ruthless automobile accident than to encounter a serial killer.

Yet, this chilling truth did little to assuage the palpable fear that permeated the air, causing the inhabitants to clutch their metaphorical pearls in anticipation of unseen horrors.

The needle pricks on her left arm, accompanied by the scorched fingertips, divulged the woman's troubled past within an imperfect home. If she was bound by chemical dependency, she would relentlessly seek ways to satisfy her cravings. 

Crimes committed against sex workers and individuals of color fell to the depths of the priority hierarchy. They lacked influential allies who could exert pressure on my supervisor for additional resources and attention. I observed the depiction of a hoop etched onto her left shoulder, capturing a glimpse of her tainted experiences.

The body art presented a  black spoke. Emma touched a copy of the photo and moved her fingers like a spirit board. She embraced the craftsmanship and tradition embedded in the performance piece. I winced at the thought of calling the crime, expressionism but no other word would come to mind. 

The wifi cut out as she attempted to explain where he would strike next. Outside of the truck stop The glowing embers of spent menthols illuminated the dark asphalt of the parking lot. The trail of hazel butts lead to the back end of the gas station. 

 Tanya and her crew put in work, prepping for the upcoming season. Migrant workers, mechanics, and harvesters put in endless shifts to fulfill the demands of mass consumption. Soon, bright green stalks and orange pumpkins would light up the valley. 

Tanya was well-traveled in her field. Downtown back alleys had a different aroma, from a romp fest behind the almond groves. It was the small details she kept in the back of her mind that she saved for a rainy day.  If you were looking for a runaway or found a pretty  Jane Doe in a foreclosed home with copper pipes ripped out of the wall, an investigator went to see Tanya.

She possessed a secret collection of numbers, photographs, and voice recordings that spanned multiple years. When I relocated to remote protected areas, our paths rarely intersected. I made a conscious effort to avoid their presence.

The pitch-black ledger served as the benchmark for maintaining impeccable standards. It ensured the safety of sex workers by harboring crucial data, such as license plate numbers, detailed descriptions of clients, and photographs depicting the aftermath of physical harm.

The majority of sex workers remained voiceless, paralyzed by the constant dread of incarceration or even graver consequences. Our conversations revolved around inconsequential topics like the ever-present scorching heat and its suffocating grip on our bodies. Venting about the monotonous routines of our profession served as a temporary escape. Tanya and I both confronted perilous situations daily, but she faced them with a graceful composure that left me in awe.

 "Everyone's so obsessed with the crown and the altar. They don't even care about the person who's under the crown." We finally stopped doing the shadow dance and got down to business.

 Her words echoed in my mind long after she spoke. A small town unit had six other cases with faces frozen in time. The clocks stopped in my world when I followed the trail to the body.

 “What can you tell me about a  john with a cherry scent?”  We didn't release that information to the public, but the stone-fruit crown left an aroma that blocked out the gas that began to leak from unsavory places.

 Tanya's fingers tapped a new second faster as the question passed my lips. 

The orchard man narrowed the list to a few thousand seasonal workers. None of the women knew about the seeds and stone fruit we found in the victim. 

"He spoke of Chapel Black, the tabernacle of our nightmares. Tanya anxiously pushed a bottle aside, desperate to hold on to every detail of this man's presence. His movements were calculated and methodical, like a seasoned predator stalking its prey.

There was an uncanny intuition in him, as if he possessed a third eye that could sense when one started to retreat before a devastating strike. My skin crawled whenever he insisted we bathe in the sacred well water, claiming it held otherworldly blessings.

His intentions were not just to seduce me; they were something far more sinister and chilling. It felt as if he wanted to wear my very essence rather than share a physical intimacy. The lure of rotten fruit and noxious fumes clung to him, emanating a repugnant aura.

The steely mask of stoicism melted away, revealing the raw agony beneath the surface. The tears cascaded down her face, leaving haunting stains on the soaked napkins."

 “I can get the State Attorney General to look into it, but I can't do that without help.”  Tanya had been through the system enough to know an inebriated witness was less likely to be bothered with a subpoena. “We are both people of color. Take the badge away and no one sees us any different.” 

Trust me, sweetie, they do. Tanya would tell the nurtured ones from the neglected. 

The rain of sadness smeared her eyeshadow. “You’re really out of your element here. Larger cities like San Francisco or the City of Angels had advocacy groups and helplines. The valley is still owned by the moral majority.” I knew which majority she was referring to. 

There were churches on every block in the two-oh-nine area. They ranged from aspiring mega-churches to  worship centers that could barely afford a fresh coat of paint. Everything revolved around the church and the land. Sex work was seen as a sin along with the drug epidemic as well. 

“We are lepers, but Jesus isn’t coming to save us.”

. These girls would instead take their chances at the rusty motels. 

“These people are going to keep hurting your friends again,” I said while she opened the door to see me out. 

“This is the world's oldest profession, sweetie. It’s happening every day in every corner of the world. Paved or not.” 

I descended further into the abyss of numbers, following the trail of burner phone digits to credit card transactions and discarded addresses.

This reality was saturated in ones and zeroes. As I arrived at the decrepit trailer nestled by the canal channels, I realized I was entering a realm beyond the five senses. The eerie path constructed of sticks entwined with grass and hair led me to the worn-out trailer.

It wasn't intended to lure a small creature, but rather to keep the unknown at bay. The rhythmic tapping on my revolver intensified as my heavy footsteps approached the door. A familiar scent, permanently etched in my mind, provided me with the justification to pry it open.

A cautionary hunting adage echoed in my thoughts - an eerie warning. When nature falls silent, you must also remain silent. And if they call out your name, deny it.

The deafening silence was shattered by an inferno of fire and brimstone. The production of stimulants served as a grotesque imitation of alchemy in the desolate towns south of Sacramento and Stockton.

The chemical cauldron pounced on me as fiery sparks licked the withered grass surrounding the homestead. As I reached for the radio, a sinister black hand intercepted mine, resembling a demon from Dante's Inferno. Grasping for a police officer's weapon felt akin to buying a one-way ticket to the devil's playground. Yet, it was in that moment, when the man's masked visage collided with my t-zone, that I finally realized I had already descended into that nefarious realm

it's astonishing the vivid images that race through your mind as you approach the brink of death. The man before me eerily resembled the lessons from my childhood Sunday school, where it was written, 'Then the earth shook and trembled. The foundations of heaven quaked and were shaken because he was angry.'

The man's aura of piety diminished slightly as I pulled the trigger, unleashing three bullets that pierced his formidable figure. The rounds struck the giant, but the effects of drugs and the engulfing darkness overpowered his ability to sense pain.

"We are all tainted, and their touch has reached us," I declared, as a second explosion jolted the man, igniting flames that engulfed his existence.

The aroma of ripe stone fruit delicately wafted in the air, infiltrating my nostrils. Amidst the wailing and gnashing of teeth, he desperately sprinted towards solace, unaware that neither of us would find it on this fateful day.

The smoky essence, reminiscent of grilled meats that evoked unsettling memories of summers with my father, invaded my thoughts as I pursued the elusive stonefruit phantom through the orchards.

The Valley's burn victim units bore semblances of the living. Victims of methamphetamine labs bore skin ravaged like caramelized sugar at a county fair. Their hollow mouths mirrored the hollow hope that we all cling to, desperately seeking escape from this wretched place.

As my mind screamed for survival, the sound of sirens and the searing pain reaching every corner of my being, I fought my way toward the truck. "Son of a bitch!" I cursed, realizing he had exploited the explosion to drown out the noise of the tires plunging into the abyss. The scent of the treacherous trail compelled me to abandon the safety of the truck and venture into the sinister darkness that consumed the surroundings.

The land bore witness to unspeakable violence. The seeds waged a relentless battle against the suffocating weeds, struggling to emerge as strong stems.

The roots valiantly fought for dominance over the depleting aqua channels. California's vines, like macabre tapestries, were drenched in blood reminiscent of the crimson bottles sold during the era of prohibition. The settlers, driven by insatiable greed, unleashed a fiery devastation upon the native camps, all in the name of progress and industry.

I, shackled by the ties of ancestral trauma on an unfathomable cosmic scale, found myself entangled with the perpetrator. These orchards, only vast expanses in my tortured mind, held a morbid secret. Within mere minutes, I stumbled upon a man concealing the grotesque blisters that had fused with his body, submerged within the depths of a colossal pond.

Black spokes bled themselves on The weathered stones encompassing the once lush green grove capitulated to the scorching inferno that was the valley. It was during this time of year that the fish resorted to savage frenzy, clawing and devouring one another for meager space and shelter, as the merciless sun siphoned the life-giving vapors from the water.

Law enforcement dramas often depict detectives as fearless and trigger-happy. However, the reality is far from that stereotype. Most of us lack marksmanship skills, and even those who excel in shooting, are aware that every bullet recovered at a crime scene carries immense weight. The knowledge that a whole committee scrutinizes their actions adds to the pressure and hesitation before pulling the trigger.

As he wiped away the bloodstain from his forehead—an unsettling mixture of pig's blood and guilt—he muttered, "They were cleansed of their sins." He believed that only sacred water could rid these tormented souls of the demons that plagued them.

With one hand deliberately concealed, he knew I had enough evidence to justify an arrest once the forensic team matched his fingerprints to those found on the victims. The deafening sound of my own heartbeat slowly faded into the background, leaving behind an eerie silence. I desperately tried to chart a clear path from the end of my gun barrel to his brainstem.

"In the end, it's all futile," he whispered. "This land harbors beings far older than even the devil himself. Satan holds no dominion over the essence of life and nature."

The chilling realization dawned on me that this investigation was not merely about solving a crime; it was a confrontation with forces more ancient and malevolent than anything I had encountered before.

He was legion.

His hand slowly exposed the concealed secret submerged in the abyssal depths. An anchor fastened to a boulder. I merely required a motive. No one existed here to accuse me of succumbing to my inner demons. However, he opted not to meet his demise by my hands. He elected to perish by the ethereal whispers.

"All these impure specters shall descend with me. I implore you, refrain from pulling the trigger, for it shall unleash them back into the wilderness."

I bore witness to the bewildering acts of lunacy and veneration as the final traces of the enigma sank to the riverbed. The boulder dragged him beneath the emerald lily pads, the ebony depths concealing his whereabouts as the bubbles ceased their ascent. The last bubble dissipated into silence.

I confronted the water's edge, only to be confronted by the stare of the mask. The small mask, adorned with feathers, rested beside the reeds. From my wallet, I withdrew the minuscule photograph. The young boy in his costume. The skulls and headdress resurrected vivid memories as I examined their tactile nature. The tales it could impart, the ancient, lifeless passages radiated from the talisman.

Trapped eternally in an unending cycle. No different from paperwork from this.