Exposed Evidence

The abandoned building was shrouded in shadows. The air was thick with dust, invisible particles revealed themselves as they floated past the portable work lights. An old Polaroid camera, mounted on a tripod, was bathed in the halogen glow and focused on the boarded-up storefront. A beat-up aluminum framed door with broken glass windows tucked between two counters. Nearby, microphone arms were clamped to the edge of a folding table, wires snaked down into an audio mixing board and a laptop computer.

Cassidy Quinn cleared her throat and licked her lips. Her finger tapped the computer spacebar and she spoke into the microphone with a confident and authoritative voice, each word enunciated clearly and purposefully:

“Like a time capsule buried and forgotten, this video rental store remains a snapshot of the past. DVD copies of Batman Begins and Fever Pitch line the New Release wall. A movie poster for The Polar Express has fallen, now slumped against the wall like a homeless person devoid of hope. Kit-Kats and microwave popcorn packages sit intact on shelves above the cracked and chipped tiles at the checkout counter. A decade ago this Blockbuster Video was a hotspot for weekend entertainment. Then tragedy. A tale worthy of the store's horror section struck one Saturday night in late October. Lisa Steele, a shift manager in her mid-40s, a self-proclaimed cougar known for her promiscuous ways with younger men. Her body was found bludgeoned and slashed to death in the staff room. No cameras, no witnesses, no suspects. It marked the beginning of a series of unsolved murders involving middle-aged women, hunted down by a serial killer we’ve come to know as the Blockbuster Butcher. On the tenth anniversary of the inaugural crime, join me, Cassidy Quinn, and Marcus Shawbrook as we try to uncover the truth. Welcome to The Frozen Files: Unsolved Cold Cases.”

Cassidy reached for the spacebar and the recording stopped. She let out a sigh of relief, impressed she was able to get through the monologue in one take.

A series of lonely claps began to echo through the store. “How lovely to see a professional at work,” said a man. His voice was rich with a hint of mystery like a purring cat enticing you to come closer. “Bravo, Miss Quinn.”

Cassidy’s cheeks became hot and red, like tomato soup fresh off the stove. She was reluctant to look at Sam Stonehouse. He was about a decade younger than her, early thirties, and he possessed a rugged charm. The whiskers across his jaw framed the face of an adventurer. His emerald-green eyes were a mesmerizing gateway into childlike curiosity.

“Thank you, Mr. Stonehouse,” Cassidy said cheerfully, nervously twisting her brunette locks. “It's the result of several years behind a TV news desk. Thanks again for agreeing to let us record here.”

“Certainly, my father still owns the building,” Sam replied, looking around as if soaking in memories. “I spent a lot of time here growing up. However, this hasn’t exactly been a highly sought-after property on the real estate market. Regardless, the events that unfolded here should make for a good broadcast.”

“Podcast,” Cassidy corrected him. “I’m guessing you don’t listen to them?”

“I am familiar with your show, number one in the country. Congrats. However, I’m more of an AM radio listener. 1310 still plays the classics. In fact, the Beatles’ Abby Road album is being played in its entirety tonight.”

Cassidy nodded and walked to the Polaroid camera. She started to adjust its framing; her fingers gripped the device delicately like someone pulling a piece from a precarious Jenga tower.

“I understand that camera has been the secret to your show's success,” Sam said, eyeing the relic.

Cassidy’s shoulders tensed up; her cheerful tone was replaced by seriousness. “What do you know about this camera?”

“Just hearsay,” Sam said, he began circling the Polaroid, captivated by the boxy contraption. “A lot of people claim you’re in possession of a magic camera.”

“We prefer the word ‘enchanted’,” interjected a deep, gruff voice.

A tall man stood in the darkness under a doorway marked “Employees Only.” He wore a well-groomed white beard and slicked-back hair to match. He swaggered over, chest puffed out, carrying a box of equipment in his hands.

“Marcus,” Cassidy cried. “I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s okay,” he replied. “For being such a gracious host, he deserves to at least know the basics.” Marcus stood beside the camera like he was showing off a blue ribbon-winning pie at the county fair. “We’re not exactly sure how it came into being, but the camera develops pictures of events that happened ten years in the past.”

Sam leaned in with a confused look on his face. “You mean, if I took a picture of that TV on the wall, the photo would show me what was playing ten years ago?”

“Precisely,” Marcus returned. “To the exact second, granted the TV was in that particular spot a decade ago. However, I won’t reveal further details, Mr. Stonehouse. No offense, but I don’t trust you and our acquisition of this camera wasn’t exactly by legal means.”

Sam nodded. “So the idea is to capture an image of the Blockbuster Butcher.”

“We’ll be the first people to ever get a look at this monster,” Cassidy answered. “That gas station across the parking lot had some grainy security footage, so we know he broke through the front door at 11:06 p.m. All we have to do is take a Polaroid picture at that exact time and boom, we’ve got a suspect description. It’s how we’ve jumpstarted many other cold cases.”

“I will leave you to it then,” Sam said as he pulled out his phone and clicked on the flashlight. “I think the radio still works in the office.” He wandered off into the darkness.

Cassidy checked the time on her wristwatch. The anticipation took the form of butterflies in her stomach, trying to force their way out through the belly button. “Get ready Marcus,” she yelled. “We’re inside one minute to show time.”

Marcus’s body snuggly pressed against the tripod. He eased his eye to the viewfinder and his index finger found the red shutter button on the front of the camera. Cassidy counted down from five and the storefront illuminated twice, like bursts of lightning. Broken glass and plywood became perfectly visible, only to be swallowed once more by shadows.

The mechanical winding of the camera spits out two pictures, which Marcus placed on the folding table. An empty canvas stared back at them; a grey blob surrounded by a white border. They stood in silence as the first photo began to take shape. What appeared to be arbitrary lines morphed into a polished door handle and counter edges lined in bright blue and yellow.

“What the HELL is that?” Cassidy screeched.

Pressed against the outside of the door glass was a sizable patch of fur, its short strands marked with blotches of orange and black.

Marcus shrugged his shoulders, “Tony the Tiger, maybe?”

The pair watched as the second photo began to materialize. The door glass was now shattered, and a humanoid figure stood between the counters. Sleek, shiny fur covered every inch of its muscular frame. Whiskers and a small round nose protruded from its face, while its cat-like ears were twisted backward.

“Oh my god,” Cassidy gasped. “Those eyes, I recognize those green eyes.”

A clicking sound from above startled the podcasters, causing their breathing to become shallow. The overhead speakers emitted a fuzzy static. A radio began tuning, swiftly moving across the dial with quick bursts of musical chords breaking through the static. It finally settled on an upbeat and catchy melody. It was the Beatles.

Marcus assumed a defensive stance, his focus fixed on the office. Fear tightened its grip on Cassidy, forcing her to crouch beside the table. Peering over its edge, her eyes strained past the audio mixing board. Suddenly, a blur of orange and black burst from the darkness, lunging at Marcus with ferocious speed. Cassidy watched in horror as her partner's legs disappeared into the darkness. His screams echoed through the air, abruptly silenced by a single, resounding thud.

Out of the shadows emerged the beast—a creature holding a ball-peen hammer. It appeared to be part cat, part human—a werecat. From between its fangs, Sam’s voice began singing along to the radio. “Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer came down upon her head. Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer made sure that she was dead.”

The werecat pranced over to the table and brought the hammer down on the mixing board, laptop, and work lights. Electronic pieces and glass showered the floor around Cassidy as she curled up in the fetal position. She could do nothing but convulse with sobs in the darkness.

“Do you know how damn hard I’ve worked to protect my secret?” werecat Sam asked. “At first, I had this curse under control, until that cougar Lisa started to toy with me. Made me think that she loved me. How funny, the hunter became the hunted. After that, I got a taste for stalking prey and spilling their blood. Can you blame me? It’s instinct. But in this case, I guess you could say the cat killed curiosity.”

Sam flexed his razor-sharp claws, then raised the ball-peen hammer high above his head.

Epilogue

The studio lights dimmed as the woman slipped a pair of headphones over her ears. Her hands adjusted the levels on the mixing board, and she pressed a button labeled “Host Mic”. A red light flicks on above the nearby door, illuminating the word “RECORDING”. She spoke into the microphone with a confident and authoritative voice, each word enunciated clearly and purposefully:

“They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. However, for one unlucky building in the city’s northwest, lighting seems to have struck twice, exactly ten years apart. A Blockbuster Video shift manager was brutally murdered by a serial killer who was never caught. A decade later, two podcasters investigating the cold case suffered the exact same fate, in the exact same place, at the exact same time. Was it a copycat killer?  Or did the Blockbuster Butcher come out of retirement? I’m Tracey White, welcome to Echoes of Crime.”