Ashes! Ashes!

“Have you ever really thought about it, Meyers? How so many of the rhymes people sing as kids are related to death?” Detective Larkin looked down at his partner who was hunched low beside a fire pit. “I wonder if it’s to soften the blow,”he said sadly while shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

“Don’t,” Detective Meyers said as she stood up. “The minute you get used to it is the minute your humanity is gone.” Meyers drew the back of her hand across her forehead. This wasn’t her first run-in with a burned body, but something was off about what remained of the hand jutting out of the pit. “Where’s the photographer? We need to get this documented.”

The coroner’s report confirmed Meyers’ observation that something was odd about the hand. The first knuckle had been removed from each finger prior to the blaze. The teeth, jawbone, and liver had also all been removed. The coroner concluded that the unidentified man had died as the result of exsanguination from a deep slash across his throat.

For a while the brutal slaying had everyone in the homicide unit on edge. The precinct had already dealt with a series of unsolved murders once before. Detectives feared it might be the start of a gruesome spree, but no new bodies surfaced. Weeks gave way to months then to years with no change in the case.

Eight years later Detective Meyers was preparing for retirement. She had recently pulled the John Doe cold case, hoping to try to find some missed detail. Meyers had never liked unfinished business. As she looked through the reports and photographs her phone rang.

“This is Detective Meyers,” she stated curtly. There was silence on the line then crackling. She repeated herself and waited a moment. There were snippets of voice interspersed by static noise. “I think we have a bad connection. I can’t hear you. Try calling back.” Just as Meyers started to put the receiver down a faint voice called out.

“Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!”

The line went dead. Meyers dialed back but reached an out of service recording. She’d received spam calls from spoofed numbers before but had never had any that quoted nursery rhymes. Bonus points for creativity, she thought as she turned back to the case file. The photo of the charred hand reaching out from the fire pit refused to yield any further clues. Aggravated and tired, she filed the folder and went home.

“Hey! Angela!” Meyers turned to see her neighbor trotting up with something in his hand. “This was left on our porch but the note is to you,” he said as he handed her a small package. “I didn’t want to just leave it outside your place. You know, because of temptation like you’ve told me.”

“Oh thanks, Tim. Glad that you’ve been listening,” she said with a brief smile. Tim returned the smile and jogged back home.

Meyers set the package down without so much as a glance before getting on with her evening routine. It was a few hours later before she finally looked it over. The package was simple, a small box wrapped in brown craft paper and tied with twine. Her name was on a little note card attached to the twine. There were no shipping labels.

It has to be from Sue, Meyers thought. Her sister was often dropping little things off. Sue did sometimes leave them with the neighbor when she knew Meyers was working. She shrugged and opened the box.

Inside Meyers found a note and another smaller box. The note was faded and hard to read. Squinting she was able to make out the words.

“These men get too much glory. These monsters. These beasts. They are thieves of the daylight pulling beauty and innocence from the world with their twisted cruelty. Let their names be forgotten and their actions unsung. Let all that remains of them be as ashes in the wind, a stinging irritant to the eyes for an instant obliterated with the breeze. Names are too great a gift for their kind. This world glorifies the madmen and the murderous lot. I have no pride in what has been done, only thanks that this name remains off the records of our sick obsession with those that kill. The only answer is erasure. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!”

Meyers had never been prone to being spooked but this letter coupled with the earlier call left her feeling beyond uneasy. Her hand hovered over the smaller box as she wavered between curiosity and fear. It was only for a moment but it felt eternal - that liminal space between knowing and not knowing was incredibly full. Her need to know won out and she opened the box.

Inside was a black leather pouch with “Tips” written on it in silver ink. Meyers recalled the stark contrast of the blackened hand against the white ashes of the pit. She didn’t dare open the pouch. Meyers set everything down and picked up her phone. “Larkin? I think there’s been a development in the Doe Case.”

After over thirty years on the force, Angela Meyers retired her badge with honors. The remarkably well-preserved fingertips that had shown up on her neighbor’s porch had linked the unnamed body to a series of prior murders. Six women had been killed over the span of four years, their bodies burned and dumped along service roads throughout the county. Angela had cut her teeth on those cases, but she felt truly ready to slow down. The dead man responsible for those women’s deaths was still unidentifed. Leave this gruesome work to a younger crowd, she thought, and perhaps, yes, leave this monster unnamed.