OOC Information: All information is considered Out-Of-Character until you learn it through In-Character means.
Content Warning: Descriptions of horrific crimes listed below - user discretion advised.
Office hours being what they are, to best avoid some of the more persistent students, nothing beats a lecture hall for silence, dominion and a little bit of peace in the school year. Despite this, a few faces dot the seats, although they have the good graces to dream as they doze, their GPAs vaporizing slowly, stewed on low-weight fear and dread, mid-terms still rearing their ugly heads.
To break the monotony, it's a uniformed member of the Chicago Police who stands at the doorway, his hat held in his hand, ducking in long enough to spy Solomon at a lectern, preparing a day's work for becoming a day's accomplishments. The officer approaches, his footsteps not quite loud enough to disturb the sleepers, although one does break wind dramatically.
"Doctor Jessup," the patrolman says, his shiny brass nameplate indicating his name is Mercer. "I've been asked to accompany you directly to a crime scene, sir." He then glances around the mostly-emptied symposium floor, then back to Solomon. "The detectives said this was 'your thing', and .. uh, well, I'm twenty minutes from my overtime cap, so, uh." He shrugs, helpless in the face of modern bureaucracy; in twenty-one minutes, officer Mercer's time will be as a volunteer, and thus, unpaid.
Solomon glances up when the door opens, prepared to scowl at the student he assumes it will be. Which means poor Officer Mayhew gets the full force of his creepy stare for a moment or two. Then there's an apologetic grimace as the cop approaches, and he looks intrigued. "So we should be quick about it, so that you do not end up working for free. Quite." He points at a young woman dozing in the front row. "This," he tells Mercer, "is what GAs are for. Alice!" She jumps, then stares at the cop. Solomon says, "The class is yours. My lecture notes are on the podium. Take up the papers, and there are _no_ extensions."
She hastily rises to her feet and moves to the podium; she doesn't seem panicked, so this probably isn't the first time he's done this to her. With that, he turns to the cop, adjusts his tie, and says, "Let's go, then." And then he's just walking out, assuming Mayhew will catch up.
The ride is blurry, save for the stop at the good doctor's office to retrieve the crime scene kit stored there, then it's a rush through traffic, sirens blaring. Cars begrudgingly move, parting only-just for the cruiser on a mission. With stopwatch precision, Officer Mercer meets the benchmark - arriving on scene with four minutes to spare; exactly long enough to sign the car off to a Robbery-Homicide detective and depart, catching a ride with another departing patrolman.
Thus, Solomon finds himself in an alleyway, the end of it taped off, a thin line of the usual lookie-loos gathered at it for no finer purpose than to hold their cellphones up to capture unique and challenging footage of other cellphones raised up, filming two bored-looking detectives in the shadow of a dumpster. Thrilling content, truly. TikTok awaits.
One of them, Detective Mayhew, gives Solomon a motion, indicating he's to approach, and grunts softly as he rises from his haunches, walking toward the barricade tape line. "Good, you're here," he says, chewing on a slices of orange. There's a thin, glossy layer of orange pulp on his cheek and chin, the stubble masking exactly none of it, although it does have the added benefit on covering his tobacco breath. "Doc, this is Detective Alphonse, out of the Seventh, pitch-hitting for us, and he's the one what found the bug." He then motions to the other detective, who gives no reply, save an empty, vacant expression - new to the tribe of murder, it seems. Hardly hardened, really.
The other detective is the one who holds up a plastic evidence baggie, inside of which lay a crushed insect, looking.. malformed. They did not treat the sample well, it seems.
Solomon enjoys riding in the car with the siren a little too much; the ability to run through red lights is _dangerous_ and _wonderful_, and he's suppressing a grin by the time he gives Mayhew a wave as the guy gets off shift. He walks past the lookie-loos without pausing or acknowledging them; making eye contact is a good way to be forced into some sort of screamed interview.
"I am," he says, and nods pleasantly enough to Alphonse. He even offers the man a hand if it doesn't have blood or vomit on it. "Nice to meet you, Detective." His eyebrows go up. "Bug? It's not a--" then there's the evidence baggie, and he he goes, "Ah. Did someone stomp on this? Good lord. Give it to me." He pauses to retrieve a pair of gloves from someone, pulling them on quickly before making 'gimme' motions at the bag so that he can try to do a preliminary identification. "Relevance to...some sort of crime?" he asks, absently. Since he doesn't think the CPD has taken up bug collecting as a hobby.
The two detectives exchange a glance of 'you tell him, you did it' before the newer detective is the one to speak. "It fell out of the plastic tote over in that dumpster," he says, his tone a hair's breadth from defeat. "At first, I thought it, y'know, was a stick, caught by a breeze or somethin', so.. I.. stepped on it." He looks vaguely guilt-ridden, then he moves on, gesturing to the dumpster. "It was sitting on a severed human head, kind of balancing on it?" He furrows his pale brow in confusion. "You're the bug guy, so.. what's the story on these things?"
The other detective, Mayhew, simply watches, not involving himself, only stepping away to return to the barricade tape line, speaking with one of the patrolman, who then retrieves a pair of rubberized boot covers; suitable for fitting on all manner of footwear, they mask footprints and leave no tell-tale markings which are unexpected - each one has a unique identifier, making it easy to spot in future photos and surface printing instances. "Doc, a pair of booties for ya," he adds, then tosses them to Solomon. Presumably, the good doctor is to climb into the dumpster and examine the situation within, offering up what advice and insight that he can.
"You _stepped_ on it." For a moment, as he realizes what the poor crushed thing is, Solomon looks like he might cry. He gives Alphonse a narrow-eyed glare. "This is one of the rarest insects in the world. It's not even carnivorous! What the hell is it doing on a corpse, half-way across the world from where it is supposed to be, living only to be trod upon by oafish feet who do not understand what treasures they ruin." He carefully unpacks his crime scene kit and hands the insect back, saying, "Once it's logged, I expect it to be brought by the lab so I can do a more thorough investigation."
Then, he's taking the booties from Mayhew, slipping them on his leather shoes, and taking a few instruments and sample bags with him as he hops into the dumpster without hesitation. Okay, there is SOME hesitation, but only because he doesn't want to squash any more rare finds. Then, he gets to work, assessing the scene.
Inside of the dumpster is a grey plastic tote, the lid set to the side, covered in the assorted debris of what must be a fabric shop or the like. Rags, fragments of cloth, a couple of mannequin limbs and a distended, much-abused torso, already liberally coated in gangland artwork. Within the tote is a pair of ashen-gray hands, originally those of a dark-skinned individual, long-since drained of blood, the ragged stumps at the wrists indicating rapid removal by some sort of heavily-applied blade or similar force multiplier. There's also a severed human head, eyes wide and terrified, mouth frozen in a rictus of fear, tongue lolling slightly to one side, and a few whitish dots littering the left hand side of it.
It takes under ten seconds to determine that the head, definitely that of a man in his late sixties, perhaps, has been temporarily used as a breeding site for the Lord Howe Island stick insect.. and that the breeding pair are separated somehow.
Solomon hums to himself as he studies the lolling, severed head of the victim. He carefully sorts through the tote for evidence, then examines the hands and head, looking for the onset of insect eggs and other things that can tell him the time of death of a corpse. Usually, that means things like...maggots. Not incredibly rare large insects that aren't even known to be in this part of the world. When he gently, gently raises the tongue looking for more conventional infestation and instead finds the little whitish eggs, he sucks in a startled breath. "Fascinating. Absolutely _fascinating_. But where's the female?"
He raises his voice. "Detectives! Has anyone seen another of these bugs about? And I don't mean _squash_ it, for the love of god. But it appears to be a breeding pair. Your victim might be a bug collector...or smuggler; these are not commercially available for captive raising."
On his return trip from the barricade tape, Detective Mayhew looks irritated and aims it solely at Solomon. "Hey, doc?" he says, his tone deeply concerned. "Keep your fuckin' voice down, maybe. We've got about sixteen fuckin' idiots at the rope, all of them looking to turn this shit into a fuckin' hashtag." He rolls his eyes, then he seems willing to help Solomon dismount the dumpster. "Prelim identity on the vic is.. well, he's not exactly what I'd call a squeaky-clean angel." He snorts, then he hands his phone to his partner, who angles his head as if the phone were a new item in existence for him.
"Says," says Detective Alphonse, "He's Rene 'Papa Lanmou' Claret, age seventy-four, from Haiti. Death squad leader, ran with the OGs of the Tonton Macoute." The fearmongers of old, long-since banished. "Jesus, he's got a rap sheet. Kidnapping, assault, rape, maiming.. that's a new one.. witness tampering... fuck, I'd bet there's a parking violation, too." He snorts, and Mayhew doesn't laugh. He then hands the phone up to Solomon.
"Then push them away. What's the point of widespread corruption and brutality if you don't deploy it for anything useful?" Solomon mutters under his breath. But hey, he does keep his voice lower as he pokes his head up over the dumpster and reaches down to take the phone and study the information. "Hm. Even bad men can have interesting hobbies." He hands the phone back. "The insect you found isn't native to this part of the world, or common anywhere. And yet, here was a breeding pair which...proceeded to breed. Those eggs must be protected. But more relevant to your investigation - it suggests that either the killer or your victim had an interest in rare insect keeping. And possibly interacted with a supplier recently, seeing as the insects were on them. My money would lean towards the victim; with his background, he certainly would have knowledge of exotic animal smugglers, while I doubt that a killer would take such valuable specimens with him on a murder and then just _leave them_." This seems more offensive to him than the actual, well, murder.
"Since the insects bred and laid eggs postmortem, the female must be around here, somewhere. Unless someone," a glare towards Alphonse, "needs to check his shoes again."
"Hey, fuck you, doc," comes the reply, shortly before Alphonse is shoved back toward the barricade tape. "Go, off you fuck, keep the rope safe from tape thieves, you fuckin' degenerate." With a derisive snort, Mayhew nods to Solomon. "Alright, so we got this torturer-rapist-murderer guy, he suddenly takes up .. bug collecting?" He pauses, then considers the thought, nodding his head again. "I'll slide that, sure. Then, he.. what, swallows the eggs? Puts the bugs in his hair or somethin'? Me, I'm thinkin' it's the killer. Guy turns his back, two of them bugs flitter on in, making fucky-fucky on a dead guy's head in the dark, and.. well, then dipshit shoes it, and here we are, making love to an idea against its fuckin' will." He snorts. "I like neat. This ain't." His gaze falls on Solomon alone. "Alright, the head'll be in the basement soon, same for the hands. The eggs, not my call - take it up with whomever is doin' the.." He pauses. "..see, normally I'd say, 'chest-cutting', except.. well." There's no chest *to* cut. "Thanks, doc. You did help, though." He sounds grateful, at least. Mayhew can't lie well to people he holds in respect. All others, they take their chances.
"The possession of anything rare and forbidden is a power move, Detective. Doesn't matter if it's a bug or a painting or a fucking Beanie Baby." Solomon hops out of the dumpster with remarkable grace for a guy in a suit. "The phasmids are opportunists. They would have needed an opportunity. It _could_ be the killer, I suppose, if he were taking the bodies back to his collection area." A thoughtful pause. "Quite a few insects are very adept at disposing of flesh. It might be why you don't have the torso or other limbs, if he has some of the more voracious varieties. Leave out the heads and hands so that you can identify them, so that you can see he's killing _bad people_, then dispose of the rest in such a way that no inconvenient bits float out of the lake or something." He flicks his fingers. "That's speculation, of course. And will these go to Dr. McReady? If so, I'll inform her of the _highly endangered_ species involved before the EPA gets wind of it."
Detective Mayhew scratches his chin before he gives a grunt and nod combo. "Doc says the bodies, they're cut with something metal," he says, referring to the ME's office. "And, yeah, looks like the last two, maybe even these two, are kicked under her door again." He shrugs; another person powerless in the face of the bureaucracy. "I'mma get these chunky bits boxed and bagged, catch you on the flipside." Then he chances a glance to the man working at the tape line, shaking his head in irritation. "That fuckwit, he's pissed because we got five more bodies to take a look at again before the dinner bell rings."
An astute observer would note that means the body count of the heads-and-hands killer, already labelled such by the media, has a 'body' count of six, not four.
"Oh, yeah," he adds, pointing down the block before he returns to the dumpster and likely some electronic paperwork to file on the laptop balanced on a few milk crates. "Found some Russian guy, Org Crime says is a Bratva 'Houdini', about two blocks from here, doc. Food for thought, hmm?" He chuckles darkly and returns to his life, already in progress, the good doctor's presence no longer a necessity. Polite, yet firm.
"Huh. That's four bodies. Did someone else autopsy the other two partial remains?" Solomon is excellent at feigning obliviousness to social cues when he wants (and sometimes it's not a feint), so he lingers just long enough to get the answer to his question, fixing the detective with that unsettling stare of his, before he does, in fact, take a polite leave.
Mind you, as soon as he gets past the barrier again, he'll remember that no one offered him a ride _back_ and he'll say some filthy words.
There's a faint tickling sensation. Of being trapped for a moment, like in cling film, then it is gone. A sensation of hunger, then of the joys of freedom, all filtered through a mind the shape of an insect. As the flow of the Wyrd moves within and from Solomon, it leaches into the air and ground, ferrying the impulse to come, to follow a scented trail, to join with the unity, become one and forever.. and it is slow. Dangerously so, like moving through treacle, tar, pitch or syrup, and still, persistence is the benchmark upon which all insects thrive, and thus, it does end - albeit almost an hour after it began.
At his feet, a very swollen, quite-pregnant Lord Howe Island stick insect looks up placidly at Solomon, gently tapping his foot, testing it for viability, then begins the arduous climb up his body, each step a trembling motion, oozing the effort required, precise and precious simultaneously. It has finished the journey and angles its angular head at him, regarding him as a funny bush, perhaps, or simply a polite, very still form of landscape that breathes and is warm. He has found it, and it is with him.
An hour is a while, but Solomon has a predator's patience, and those flickerings of that tiny, alien mind thrill him enough that it's not even a terrible wait. When he looks down and sees that bug, his whole face lights up with a joy and pleasure that some people might think he's wholly incapable of. Tenderly, he reaches down and carefully scoops her into his hand so that she doesn't have to strain herself. "Hello, beautiful. I'm sorry about your mate, but I'll take good care of you, and see about reuniting you with your kin. For now, you will stay quiet and still until I get you home. Then we'll give you a safe place."
He carefully places her in a sample box - with plenty of air flow - in his crime scene kit for the drive home. No point in freaking out an Uber driver.
After collecting the very-pregnant stick insect and determining the likeliest place from which its temporary hiding place was formed, being that of a discarded tote's clear wrapping, Solomon heads to the tape line being worked by a pair of overworked officers, one of whom seems to be scrolling Tinder, Grindr or eBay - something is for sale, in some fashion, and he looks to be a determined buyer. The other officer, his nameplate reading K. Loiste, is somewhat more attentive at seeing an approaching scholarly individual, and almost raises the barricade tape on reflex. There's some cursory scrutinizing of credentials, and then it is time for Officer Loiste to speak.
"The, uh, detectives, they said they found that Russian guy's head and hands, like, stuffed into one of them plastic tubs?" He sounds unconvinced. A natural skeptic, perhaps. "Anyway, nobody said nothin' 'bout no bugs or such. They got a call, like, two hours ago, pissed all of them off, so they ran down the block." Then he points to exact same alley that contains the other crime scene. "Said there was a second tub thing." He shrugs. "So, you're the bug doc, right?" He furrows his eyebrows and holds up his phone, scrolling through images rapidly, an expert at it. Then he shows off what must be a gigantic roach of some kind.
"Is it normal to poop one out, like.. at all?" He sounds.. concerned. "My dog, not me." The mystery deepens.
"I am, indeed, the bug doc," Solomon says, without noticeable offense. In fact, poor Loiste is getting Solomon at his _best_ possible mood...which is no more reassuring than his other moods, since it involves standing too close and grinning. Or at least baring his teeth. And he leans in even closer to take a look at the bug. "Intact? No. In pieces, sure, if your dog ate a bug. But usually the pass through the digestive system knocks bits off so you get a head here, a bit of carapace there. If it's only happened once, that's likely not a problem. But," he fixes the officer with a stare, "there are some insects whose eggs might still remain viable even in the digestive tract. Sometimes, there have been cases of such eggs lodging in a throat, or an intestine, and hatching there." He lowers his voice; it goes soft, inviting the cop to listen close, and more, to _imagine_. "Can you imagine, Officer? What such a thing should feel like? The tickle of tiny, scrabbling feet against your innards, pushing their way along your soft tissues, eating whatever they can find of the soft, living flesh inside of you as they blindly make their way towards an exit from your body...one way or the other?"
After a long moment, Solomon leans back and smiles, blandly. "You should probably take your dog to the vet. Get him checked out. Just in case."
There's a slowly growing look of horror on Officer Loiste's face as Solomon begins to speak, culminating in him backing up several steps, his phone stashed rapidly into his tacvest. "Yeah, I, uh," he says, demonstrating a certain prowess with words, "Y'know, maybe, I.." He pauses, then he stiff-legged walks to his partner, nudging him hard at the shoulder. "Pete, I got shit to do, so, uh.. call us up for some boots, yeah?" Then he casts wary eyes to Solomon, still reversing from him. "This is your headache."
Five more steps and Officer Loiste is no longer at the barricade tape, mounting up on one of the bicycles left for patrol, pedaling away as Pete drafts himself up enough to at least radio call for new recruits to relieve him, and by extension, his now-departed partner, at whom he stares dagger. He looks to Solomon and furrows his eyebrows. "The fuck's wrong with him?" he asks, the question soon to die, left hanging before it fades.
Solomon rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug. "He was worried about his dog," is all the professor says, quite sympathetically. "Cut him some slack." He offers a thin smile to Pete. "At any rate, is there any chance I could see the tote that this body came with, or has it already been bagged and tagged? I'd like to compare some insectile evidence with my files."
Shaking his head, Pete presumes basic access was granted, and works from the honeybee-hive principle - if something has survived the gatekeeper, it belongs. "Nah, the ME's people came, bagged it up, took a bunch of photos and shit, rolled out, like.. an hour ago?" He shrugs. "It's in my notes. Do I really gotta dig those out, man?" He then glances to the ID lanyard on Solomon's neck then raises his eyebrows. "Say, did he tell you about his girlfriend's dog shittin' cockroaches?" He says those words with a baffled, conspiratorial tone. "Fuckin' weird, man. Ran into 'em out at the Whole Foods on 9th, fuckin' dog takes a crap, and it's half roaches, half crap." He shudders. "Is that, uh, y'know, a .. 'Entomological Forensics Specialist' kind of thing?" He sounds legitimately curious. One of the few who are, it seems.
"Usually only if the dog ate a human body that was infested with roaches," Solomon responds, deadpan. "More usually, it's a vet problem. Dog probably got into a harborage and just lapped them up. You know how dogs get; if it's on the floor, it's food, no matter what it used to be." He snorts. "The dog'll be fine, unless they were filled with pesticide or something." At the information, he nods. "Thanks, I appreciate the info. Good luck getting off on time; stay safe out there, yeah?"
With that, the doc waves and ambles his way to somewhere he can order an Uber.
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