Page 9 of Whispers in the Quarter

“Lucas? What are you seeing?”

“Hmm? Oh, just science doing something particularly poetic. Do go on about your murder victims. Though technically, I suppose they’re our murder victims now. Sharing is caring in the pursuit of truth and justice and all that.”

Ethan sighs, but I detect a hint of fondness in it. We’ve developed an odd friendship over late-night calls and shared mysteries. “The latest victim, James Montgomery?—”

“Ah yes, my Tuesday afternoon appointment! Delightful specimen, if a bit dead. The tissue samples were particularly chatty.”

“Chatty?” There’s that mix of exasperation and curiosity I so enjoy provoking.

“Indeed! They told quite the story. You see, the toxin used was trying very hard to mimic a particular signature. My Chim— I mean, a signature I’ve seen before. But whoever did it clearly doesn’t understand the basic principles of molecular polarity. Amateur hour, really. Like watching someone try to forge a Van Gogh with crayons.”

“Lucas.” Ethan’s voice sharpens. “What aren’t you telling me?”

I spin in my chair, watching the ceiling tiles blur pleasantly. “My dear friend, I tell you everything! Just... perhaps not in the order or manner you’d prefer. For instance, did you know that Mr. Montgomery’s liver showed traces of a very rare alkaloid? One that, theoretically, could only be derived from a specific combination of plants found in the bayou?”

“And?”

“And our previous victims had similar compounds in their systems. But here’s where it gets interesting—the concentrationsare all wrong. The execution is... messy. Like someone’s working from an incomplete formula.” I pause, grinning at my private joke. “One might say they’re killing people with photocopies of a masterpiece.”

“You sound almost offended.”

“Professionally? Absolutely! Bad science is an affront to nature itself. These deaths lack... elegance. Precision. They’re crude attempts at something far more sophisticated.”

The silence on the other end of the line tells me Ethan’s piecing something together. Finally, he asks, “How do you know what they’re trying to copy?”

Ah, there’s the detective’s instinct. I laugh, perhaps a touch manically. “My dear Blake, a scientist never reveals his sources. But I’ll run every test I can think of on our latest guest. Maybe even invent some new ones! For science, of course.”

“Of course,” Ethan replies dryly. “Just... be careful, Lucas. These deaths... there’s something bigger going on. Something dangerous.”

“Danger is just opportunity in a sexier outfit,” I quip, but my eyes drift to my wall of evidence, to the beautiful complexity of my Chimera’s work. “Don’t worry about me, friend. I’m exactly where I need to be.”

We say our goodbyes, and I turn back to my microscope, mind racing with possibilities. Someone is trying to recreate my Chimera’s perfect formulas, and doing a brutally inelegant job of it. The question is: are they failing because they lack her brilliance, or because they lack her grandmother’s secret gardens?

“The game grows more interesting by the hour,” I murmur to my latest experiment. “Though I do wish they’d stop cluttering up my morgue with their subpar attempts at homicide. It’s rather like watching a child with a chemistry set trying to recreate molecular gastronomy.”

I turn back to my specimens with renewed vigor, mind crackling with theories and possibilities. “Right then, my lovely test subjects, let’s see what other secrets you’re hiding.”

My private lab notebook—volume six since meeting my Chimera—lies open on the bench, its margins filled with sketches of molecular structures and the occasional love letter to particularly elegant chemical bonds. I really must remember to burn these before anyone with actual professional ethics gets their hands on them.

“Subject Montgomery exhibits similar degradation patterns to subjects Thompson and LeRoux,” I dictate to my voice recorder, carefully placing another sample on a slide. “Though the execution is, quite frankly, insulting to the art of homicide. Like watching someone perform surgery with a plastic spork.”

I pause the recording, remembering the way my Chimera’s original work had practically sung under the microscope. Pure poetry in protein chains.

These new deaths? More like a tone-deaf cover band.

“Amateur hour in the bayou,” I giggle, the sound perhaps a touch more unhinged than usual. Probably should have eaten something in the last... when did I last eat? Tuesday? Is it still Tuesday?

My wall of evidence catches my eye—specifically the photo I’d managed to snap of her working in Madame Laveau’s shop. She’d nearly caught me that day. The memory sends a delicious shiver down my spine. The way she’d moved, all lethal grace and barely contained danger...

“Focus, Lucas!” I scold myself, slapping my cheeks lightly. “Science now, inappropriate attraction to possibly homicidal botanical enthusiasts later.”

I pull up the chemical analysis of Montgomery’s tissue samples on one screen, comparing them to my notes on myChimera’s work. “Now what are you trying to tell me, you beautiful disaster?”

The patterns start emerging—like a symphony coming into focus. Whoever’s behind these deaths is working from an incomplete formula. They have the basic components but not...

“The catalyst!” I cry out, jumping up so quickly my chair spins across the room and crashes into something expensive-sounding. “Oh, you clever, clever girl!”

I race to my private storage unit—the one not listed in any official records, thank you very much—and pull out a small vial of amber liquid. A sample she’d given me weeks ago, claiming it was “just something to analyze.”

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