Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Milton Dammers had seen depravity plenty of times throughout the years. He’d witnessed unspeakable savagery, brutality, blatant disregard for basic human decency. He’d been an FBI agent for nearly seven years now, and in that time, he’d figured he’d seen just about anything that would shock him. That is, until this morning. When he stepped into the misty, overgrown graveyard, he’d had to wrap his long wool overcoat around him just a little bit tighter. The chill that ran through him wasn’t just due to the bitter cold, he shivered as a disturbing image flickered to life in his mind. He imagined the type of individual who could do something like this. The type of mind it would take to so casually desecrate a grave. 

He knelt down at the grave’s edge just beyond the line of police tape, muttering to himself as he gazed into the hastily created, yet somehow oddly precise hole in the ground. He often muttered to himself as he worked through a problem or processed his thoughts. He didn’t really care if anyone overheard him or if it made him look odd. Deep down he was aware of the muttering being something of a coping mechanism. Self soothing behavior, he supposed. A part of him knew he looked somewhat eccentric crouching on the ground murmuring nonsense, but sometimes to work through a strange case, you needed a strange investigator. At least, that’s what he’d overheard Sheriff Crowder say when he’d arrived on the scene. 

“What do you make of this, Agent Dammers?”

Oh. There was the Sheriff now. Milton cocked his head in a very minor acknowledgement of the question, his beady black eyes taking in as many of the gory details as he could from his perch. When he heard the Sheriff shuffle impatiently behind him and repeat the question, he stood, giving one of his black leather gloves a sharp tug, as if to ensure it wasn’t going to slip off. He turned and looked up at the taller man for a brief second, then quickly glanced back. 

“I’d say you have a real head case on your hands, Sheriff,” Milton nodded at the pile of dirt beside the freshly dug hole. “Look at that. Whoever dug this grave has the kind of obsessive compulsion that would lead them to pile the dirt neatly in one spot like you see it there. It had to have been a hasty endeavor, but they weren’t sloppy. This whole crime scene is riddled with insights into the graverobber’s psyche. Look over here.” Milton stepped to the edge of the grave and pointed his finger, drawing the Sheriff’s attention to the perimeter of the hole. “Look at how they precisely calculated just how much to shovel away to get to the part of the coffin they needed without collapsing the earth around them. This individual has done this before, mark my words. This is a habit. Maybe even a kink of some sort. Either way, this isn’t the first grave they’ve dug up and it won’t be the last.”

Sheriff Crowder nodded along thoughtfully enough, but Milton couldn’t help but notice how the man wanted to look anywhere but directly at him. He internally shrugged off the behavior. People usually went one of two ways when they interacted with him. Either they avoided looking at him, like the Sheriff was now, or they looked too much. Milton preferred the former over the latter. He hated when people stared. 

“Were there any witnesses?” Milton pulled out a small notepad and a pen, jotting down some notes for quick reference later. He liked to draft summary reports at the end of each day on his portable typewriter, but he’d never learned formal shorthand, so he’d made up a shorthand of his own. It made him feel good, almost a smug satisfaction, knowing that his notebook was nonsense to anyone but himself. Like a secret language or a code. “Well?”

“There was only one witness. Brad Headstone. He’s the caretaker here.”

Milton sputtered out an awkward little chuckle. “The caretaker’s name is Headstone?” He snickered again as he jotted the new information down in his notebook.

“It’s a family name,” the booming voice of a tall, muscular man nearly startled Milton out of his skin. “Tracing all the way back to our ancestral home in England. I used to find the coincidence humorous myself, when I first took this job. The joke’s gotten old by now though.” 

A smoother man would have probably apologized, or charismatically segued into an introduction. But Milton wasn’t smooth, and he certainly wasn’t charismatic. “You’re the caretaker, I take it?”

“And you’re the weird little FBI man,” Headstone smirked. Milton flinched. He set his lips into a determined line as he tried to look into the caretaker’s face without tilting his head up too much. He wanted to maintain an air of equal footing, even as Headstone towered a foot taller than him and continued to mentally throw him off balance. 

“What did you see last night? Can you tell me when this happened? I’d like the precise time the grave robbery occurred. I also want a description of the suspect. What did they look like? What were they wearing? Were they alone? Did they come on foot or in a vehicle of some sort?” Milton flipped to a fresh page in his notebook, keeping his dark eyes firmly on the tip of his pen. He didn’t like this Headstone character. Milton wondered if there was any excuse he could conjure up to detain him out of spite. 

Headstone looked over at the Sheriff, both of them exchanging a look. Milton saw it out of the corner of his eye. He bristled further. He knew that look. He’d seen it a hundred times before. 

“Well,” Headstone shoved his hands in his overalls and kicked at a clump of earth with his boot. “I heard a noise when I set out for my 3am rounds, so scribble that time down. I figured it was racoons or something kicking up a ruckus. They come around here sometimes to dig in the mortuary trash bins. Families picnic out here sometimes on a nice day, and they often leave scraps behind that attract pests. Why they do that is beyond me. I figure they like to spend some time with their relatives or-”

Milton cut Headstone off with a slicing hand motion and a curt look. “Let’s stick to relevant information, please. What visitors do or don’t do doesn’t concern me. Tell me. What did you see?”

Headstone sent the Sheriff another look. “I saw a guy. Or at least, I think it was a guy. Could have been a woman or a kid I guess, cause the person that was fleeing was no bigger than… well, no bigger than you.”

Milton’s face was downright thunderous, but he didn’t comment. He just furiously scribbled. “A more precise description would be helpful, if you don’t mind,” he said tightly.

“He was short, like I said. No taller than five foot six or seven. Skinny as a rail, and white, by all accounts. Short hair. As for the hair color, all I could tell you is that it wasn’t blonde. I can’t give you much by way of details. It was pitch dark and I just got a brief look when my flashlight glanced off the guy. He did look back at me real quick as he ran. I couldn’t tell you much about his face except that he was young. Maybe 25 to 35 years old. He had big, owlish eyes and a funny little nose, like this.” Headstone pantomimed a button nose, then he pointed at Milton and chuckled. “Kinda like your nose. You sure you aren’t chasing yourself?”

Milton didn’t take the bait, although he was pretty sure if his muscles stiffened any more than they already had he’d be liable to pull something. “Was he alone?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. I heard chattering, but he could just as easily have been talking to himself as someone else. Besides, I only saw the one guy. I did notice something though that struck me as odd. He wasn’t wearing coveralls or anything. He was wearing a button down shirt. Like a dressy shirt. You think that’s strange?”

“I think the fact that he dug his way into a grave and stole pieces of a body is strange,” Milton quickly jotted down everything relevant that Headstone mentioned. “If you think you can manage to give a sketch artist anything helpful, then please see Mr. Gibbs over there, and if you think of anything else, come by the Sheriff's office.” Milton turned to Sheriff Crowder. “I think I’ve seen everything I can here. Can you have your deputy inventory the body? I want a list of everything this graverobber took.”

“Sure thing,” the Sheriff replied, and Dammers stalked away as Crowder gave the order. As his black loafers swished through the dewy grass, Milton tried not to think too hard about how Headstone had treated him. After all, that behavior wasn’t out of the ordinary. Even after his years of experience, people he interacted with during his various investigations never seemed to take him seriously. He could venture a series of guesses as to why, but he’d never outright asked anyone. He’d fantasize sometimes about demanding a direct answer. Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you treating me like the enemy? He heard a laugh drift across the plots. Were they laughing about him? He didn’t know, but there was a small little nagging part of his mind that thought they probably were.

He stood at the bus stop on the corner, mentally reviewing his notes while simultaneously plotting his journey back to Main Street. He thought about the suspect’s possible motives, and about how the graveyard’s proximity to Miskatonic University possibly tied into that. Was someone selling body parts? Was there a market for that here? Or was someone using them for experiments of some kind? He also couldn’t rule out the possibility that it was a fetish. If he caught the number 49 bus, would he make it to Elm Street in time to catch the number 8? The caretaker hadn’t mentioned a getaway vehicle. The perpetrator must live or work closeby. Within walking distance. Unless they stood at this same bus stop with a shopping bag filled with pilfered body parts. If he missed the number 8 bus he’d never make it to Millie’s diner in time for the early bird special. 

Milton sat in his hotel room, perched in front of his typewriter on a soft cushion with an empty to-go container beside him. He’d made it in time to get today’s early bird special. It was steak and eggs. He didn’t care what the menu item was as much as he cared about sticking to his per-diem. Food costs had gone up a lot lately, but the FBI still clutched tightly at their purse strings. 

He stood and stretched out his body carefully. He needed to get in at least 10 minutes of stretching and massaging before bed. That was an important part of his nightly routine after he’d eaten and typed up his daily report, since those things kept him seated for an uncomfortably long time. The scar tissue covering his torso sometimes screamed if he allowed it to stiffen up. He sighed as he unbuttoned his shirt and carefully laid it aside on a chair. He lubricated his hands with some unscented lotion and grimaced as he began gently kneading his skin. He knew he had to massage his scars. He knew they’d ache if he didn’t, and heal better if he did, but he hated touching them. Hated being reminded of how they got there. He thought back to earlier today, when the graveyard caretaker had been so sarcastic. He’d almost thought the man had somehow seen right through his coat and suit and was judging him for these mutilations. He sighed again as he unbuckled his belt and laid his trousers aside too. He knew the man was probably being snide because he’d overheard him snickering about his name, but still. It was an ironic name. Who wouldn't think it was funny? 

Milton washed his hands and rummaged through his neatly packed suitcase, changing his underwear for a fresh pair and slipping into his soft cotton pajama set. His nightly routine was always the same. Eat, compose his report, stretch, massage, change, take care of his teeth, wash his face, rub ointment into the fresh stitches above his left eye, then pad to bed. It was all very mechanical at this point. After he’d carefully and meticulously completed this routine he turned off the light and tucked himself into bed. He hated hotel blankets. Why were they always so scratchy and so thin? He felt a lump form in his throat, then chastised himself for getting so worked up over nothing. But he couldn’t help it. His fingers wandered between the buttons of his pajama shirt and over his mutilated chest, tracing a jagged line running perpendicular to his ribcage as he thought about the last time he’d felt comfortable. He didn’t even remember what it felt like now, but he knew he’d taken it for granted back then. Milton closed his eyes, determined not to let himself get melodramatic. But he knew. He knew that the next time he felt completely comfortable, he’d be in a coffin. And he couldn’t let whoever had disturbed that Arkham graveyard get away with violating the peace and comfort of any more graves. 

It was another chilly morning, and there was a stiff breeze to boot. Milton was glad his hotel was a mere three blocks from his destination as he tucked his scarf tighter around his neck and buttoned his overcoat. He walked quickly, a determined set to his jaw, his mind simultaneously thinking about the lineup the Sheriff had alluded to on the phone a few moments ago and about how good a hot cup of coffee would feel right about now. He wondered if there would be any in Crowder’s office. He wondered if he should have stopped at the diner to get some, but he was eager to see who the deputies had rounded up. He caught his reflection in a window, noting how the wind had ruffled his short black hair and hastily ran his gloved hands over it, ensuring every strand was pushed back into place before he yanked the swinging door open and strode inside the Sheriff’s station.

“Agent Dammers,” Crowder greeted him. Oh, good. He smelled coffee. His eyes darted around as he stood on his toes a little to locate the pot. There it was. He made a beeline for it, the Sheriff trailing behind him. “Three men matching Headstone’s description were picked up this morning, two locals, and an out of towner. Headstone’s here, we’ll have him take a look at the lineup and see if any one of these men ring a bell. Are you listening to me, Dammers?”

Milton took a warming sip of coffee and tamped down a little bit of frustration. Why did people always assume he wasn’t listening? He could multitask, couldn’t he? In fact, he often found he listened better if he wasn’t standing still. And was it too much to ask to get something to drink before he dove in? 

“I’m assuming you have files on the three men.” Milton led the way to Crowder’s desk, shaking his head as the Sheriff gestured for him to sit and plucking up three yellow file folders Crowder indicated, opening them one by one and skimming the contents. “It looks like two of these men live within walking distance of the Arkham graveyard. I’d like to question them last. First, I’d like to see if this out of towner has an alibi so we can rule him out. Have you questioned any of them yet?”

“No,” Crowder shook his head. “We only brought them in about an hour ago, and I figured you’d want first crack at them. The fellas down at the FBI field office say you're a master interrogator.” Milton was fairly positive that he wasn’t just given a compliment, if the Sheriff’s sly little smirk was any indication. “Follow me. They should be about ready to line the guys up. Let’s see what Headstone has to say.”

Milton trailed behind Crowder, taking another bracing sip of his coffee as he did. It was strong, and burnt, but he didn’t care. He hated the taste no matter what shape or incarnation the coffee took. He just drank it for the energy. He hardly acknowledged Headstone as they crowded into the viewing room, but stuck close, wanting to glean any little facial expression or whispered comment that he could from the caretaker as he viewed the three men in custody. An awkward few moments passed in silence, and then, the three suspects filed in. They turned and faced the one way mirrored surface of the viewing window as instructed, and Milton’s eyes shot over to Headstone’s face. The caretaker was as baffled as he was. 

Headstone’s mouth opened and closed in confusion as he looked at each man in turn. Then he squinted as he looked a second time, then a third. “Do they all look the same to you guys, or is it just me?”

“They do all match the description you gave us,” Sheriff Crowder supplied unhelpfully. “And they all look enough like the sketch to be possible suspects. Does one in particular stand out to you, Brad?” The caretaker shook his head, his eyebrows knit together. 

“No. It could be any one of them. I can’t say for sure if any one of them was the guy I saw, but at the same time, I can’t say any one of them wasn’t. It was dark, and I only got a quick look, but looking at those three in there, I don’t think a longer, better look the other night would have helped.”

With a sigh of resignation, Sheriff Crowder dismissed Headstone, staying behind in the viewing room after he left. “What do you make of it, Agent Dammers? Without Headstone’s help, we can’t hold any of them here for more than 48 hours, but I can’t blame him for being unable to pick one. They do look a bit too similar for comfort.”

Milton stepped closer to the viewing window. “They’re all 5’7”, all between the ages of 25 and 35. They all have short dark hair, and noses similar to mine. Two of the three are wearing glasses. Headstone made no mention of glasses to me or to the sketch artist, but for all we know either one could have been wearing contacts that night. They’re all slender, and not that it means anything since they could have changed clothes, but they’re all wearing button down shirts, which means they’re a staple in each of their wardrobes. They all look eerily similar to Gibbs’ sketch based off Headstone’s description. So much so that if any one of them were in that room alone, there’d be no doubt we had our man.”

Crowder crossed his arms and leaned on the wall closest to the window, staring at the uncanny lineup. “So what do you suggest we do with them? They can’t all be our man.”

Milton sighed. “It looks like I’m going to have to interrogate all three.”

Chapter Text

The suspect from out of town was brought into the interrogation room first. He was the only one of the three that didn’t live in Arkham. Milton figured that could either effectively rule him out, or could be a possible nail in his coffin. What was the idiom the woman at the bureau used when he’d worked up the courage to ask her out to lunch? Oh that’s right. Don’t shit where you eat . A vulgar turn of phrase, but in this case it made a perverse kind of sense. Why not commit a disgusting crime like this when you know you’ll be moving on in a day or two? 

The young man startled when Milton burst into the room, fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair. Milton’s eyes scanned him, quickly picking up a myriad of details. Part of that skill was FBI training, and part of that was experience in the field. He couldn’t help but notice the small shock of white in the front of the suspect’s hair. Headstone never mentioned it, but he supposed that’d be an easy enough detail to miss in the dark. He also noticed the almost obsessive level of fastidiousness in the way he dressed himself. That detail lined up with the strangely tidy way the grave had been dug, but this kid looked young, and almost painfully innocent. 

“Charles Hyler,” Milton flipped through his file. “Aged 17. Occupation, driver. I see you live in Los Angeles. What are you doing all the way out here in Massachusetts?”

The young man squirmed in his chair. His eyes blinked up at Milton from behind his glasses. “I’m a chauffeur for a Mr Shahn. He has business out here this week. He works in pharmaceuticals you know, and the University here has a big research department. I guess he has a whole bunch of meetings with them about some new drug they’re testing or something, but I don’t know much about that really. I just drive him around.”

“You seem nervous, Mr. Hyler.”

“Chaz. People call me Chaz,” he blurted out softly with an awkward toothy smile. “And I don’t just seem nervous, I am nervous. I’m scared, sir. I was just eating some pancakes at the local diner when I was dragged into a police lineup and stuck in an interrogation room, and nobody’s told me why I’m here or what I’m being accused of.” Milton wasn’t entirely unsympathetic, but he had a hard time believing anyone this skittish wasn’t hiding anything.

“This big research department where your employer meets with scientists. Do you know if they test their formulations on animals, or- on something else?”

“Oh I don’t know if they test them on anything living at this point. It’s all just big whiteboards and test tubes and computer simulations. At least from what I’ve seen. But I’m no scientist.”

“Right,” Milton tossed the folder to the table. “You’re just the driver. I imagine someone as young and intrepid as you might go the extra mile for your employer though, wouldn’t you? Maybe run special errands for him?”

“Sure, yeah, I guess,” Chaz nodded, licking his lips. “I get his drycleaning sometimes. And one time he was jonesing for fish tacos, so I drove all over Atlantic City to find him some.”

“Has he ever asked you to run any errands and not tell anyone about them?”

Chaz’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “No, why? Is he in trouble? Is that why I’m here?”

“Where were you on the night before last, Friday April 13th, 1984, between the hours of midnight and 3am?”

“Asleep,” Chaz shifted uncomfortably in his chair again. “I always go to bed promptly at ten, because Mr. Shahn likes the car ready at 8am and I need to make sure it’s clean and ready ahead of time.”

“Can anyone verify your story?”

Chaz’s eyes flashed with fear. Milton’s own eyes narrowed.

“I uh, no,” Chaz stammered. “I’m supposed to sleep alone.” Milton latched onto Chaz’s particular choice of words like a hungry piranha. 

“And were you?” Milton probed, “Sleeping alone?” He watched with some measure of satisfaction as Chaz gaped up at him, a deep blush creeping up his neck. “I don’t think you were. I think there is someone who can corroborate your story, but you can’t tell me who. Why? Because you’re supposed to be sleeping alone. Which means you were with someone you aren’t supposed to be sleeping with. Am I right? Who is it? The boss’s wife?” Chaz’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline as Milton began to pace the room, waving his arms animatedly. “No, not the wife. The revulsion in your face was plain as day when I mentioned her, but so is the guilt. No, it’s someone just as close, but even more taboo. That’s it, isn’t it? You were sleeping with the boss’s daughter. Or his son.”

“Please,” Chaz pleaded, clasping his hands together beseechingly. “He can’t find out about us. Not yet. I love her, and I have big plans to make something of myself someday. I want to make myself worthy of her, you know? But right now I’m just the kid that drives her father around. We didn’t even do anything. We just talked about books and movies all night and fell asleep. But he certainly wouldn't believe I’ve never touched her if he finds out I was with her all night. If he finds out, it’ll all be over. I’ll lose her, and I’ll lose my job. Please, sir. You can’t tell him.”

Milton’s heart softened a fraction as he watched the kid unravel. This wasn’t some evil mastermind, or even a dumb lackey. This was just some lovestruck kid in distress who was about to drip snot on the interrogation table. 

“I’ll have to take a statement from her to confirm your alibi,” Milton’s voice softened a bit. He may not have found the graverobber, but he was still filled with a sense of accomplishment. Despite Sheriff Crowder’s snide insinuations, he was an effective interrogator, and he derived just as much satisfaction from ruling a suspect out as he did from nailing one, most of the time. “If there’s anyone else who saw you and that girl together Friday night, I want you to write them down.”

“Yeah, ok,” Chaz nodded eagerly. “Anything you ask. As long as I can get back to the hotel soon. Mr. Shahn wants the car at noon for his lunch meeting across town.”

“Well?” Sheriff Crowder sauntered over as Milton exited the interrogation room. 

“It’s not him." Milton handed the file on Chaz over to Crowder, trading it for the next one. “He’s just a kid in over his head with the boss’s daughter. That’s the big secret he’s failing at hiding. Poor guy couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag. Don’t let him go just yet though. When I’m done with the other two, if I don’t get anything concrete, I may want to see if they revealed anything to each other when they thought no-one was watching. I’m assuming the room you're holding them in has discreet surveillance in it.”

“It does,” Crowder nodded, “But I’ve had my eye on the room all morning, and they’re a tight lipped bunch. The medical student is the only one who’s said much, and that boy has a razor sharp tongue. I think he’s intimidating the others into silence with his sheer unlikability.”

“I’ll interrogate him last. Please have your deputy take Mr. Hyler back to the holding room and bring in Mr...” Milton flipped to the front page in his folder. “Tillinghast.”

This one was almost as skittish as the one before him. As the door closed with a metallic clang behind Milton, the suspect now seated at the table jumped a good inch at least. Milton made a show of flipping through the folder, but what he was really doing was taking the opportunity to observe this young man. He was the bookish sort, Milton could tell by the graphite stains on his fingers and on the elbows of his sweater. He must lean on his notes a lot. He was dressed a bit sloppy, his clothes looked faded and threadbare, and he looked rumpled, like he’d slept in those clothes a time or two. He bore a striking resemblance to young Chaz. In fact, the resemblance was downright uncanny, despite the lack of white in his hair or a smart pair of browline glasses.

“Crawford Tillinghast. That’s an unusual name, isn’t it? Quite old fashioned.” Milton scanned the first page of his file, waiting for a retort, but none came. “You were born September 9th, 1954, which makes you 30 years old, but you look a lot younger than that, don’t you? I see your occupation is listed as a teacher’s assistant, is that right? What does that mean, exactly? What department are you in?”

“Yes, that’s right,” came the soft, well articulated reply. “I’m working as a TA at Miskatonic University for the moment, but I’m hoping to get a fellowship soon. I’m a physicist. I mean, I really am. I have a PhD in particle physics. I don’t know whether you’ve heard of him or not, but Edward Praetorius is one of our nation’s leading authorities in theoretical physics, and he just got a new research grant. I recently applied for a position with him.”

“Working as a TA can’t possibly pay much. Are you having any trouble meeting your basic needs? Have you had to pick up any odd jobs on the side? Maybe procuring things for the labs at Miskatonic?”

“Actually no,” Crawford ducked his head. “I like to spend my spare time studying. Since I don’t go out much it’s easy enough to live a frugal life. Plus I have a small trust fund, which helps. If I get the position with Praetorius, I’ll not only get a generous stipend, but I won’t even need to rent a room any more. So I guess I’m pretty excited about the possibility.”

Milton grew silent, leafing through the meager folder, waiting for the awkwardness to reach enough of a fever pitch to encourage Mr. Tillinghast to fill the void. But it never did. He just sat there patently, looking at Milton with wide, curious, frightened eyes. 

Milton finally broke the silence himself. “Can you tell me where you were between the hours of midnight and 3am Friday April 13th, 1984?”

“Day before yesterday, you mean? Sure. I was out with Praetorius, actually. He wanted to interview me for the research position I was just telling you about,” Crawford blushed furiously, breaking eye contact. Milton’s eyes sharpened as he leaned his body closer to the table.

“Are there witnesses that can confirm your alibi?” Milton’s eyes narrowed further as Crawford grew more flustered. The young man's eyes were darting around as though plotting an escape route in case the opportunity came for him to flee. 

“I suppose so. Praetorius, obviously. And, uh…” Crawford swallowed hard and tugged at the collar of his sweater to unbutton the top button of the shirt beneath. “Everyone else.”  Little beads of sweat began to form on his upper lip. Milton’s beady eyes dropped to where Crawford’s black Reebok was bouncing nervously under the table. 

“Everyone else… where?” Milton probed, leaning in even further to closely observe the naked fear that flared up in Crawford’s expression, fear that each following question stoked higher and higher. “Partying a little too hard, maybe? Where you weren’t supposed to be, perhaps? Did things get out of hand? Did you get in over your head? Do you have regrets about that night? Something you might like to confess? Maybe it’d feel good to get it off your chest. I can see the guilt clear as day in your face.”

Tillinghast’s chest was heaving now, and his lower lip trembled. He hadn't expected Milton to suddenly question him so intensely, and it showed.

“Yes,” Crawford whispered. “Not that confessing would do any good. What’s done is done.”

Milton could hardly contain his excitement. “Go ahead. And don’t spare any details.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know if you’d want to hear the gross parts.”

“I especially want to hear the gross parts,” Milton’s chest all but puffed out in triumph as his eyes darted to the red light on the camera in the corner. Good. It was recording. “A full confession would clear your conscience. Trust me, a priest told me that once, and I’ve found it to be true every time. Why don’t you start at the beginning, and then wrap up your story with the moment you made your escape.”

“How did you know I ran?” Crawford’s fingers pressed into the edge of the table a little too hard.

“A witness saw someone fleeing and I’m assuming it was you. Go on. Start at the beginning.”

“Alright,” Crawford picked at a little fuzzball on the arm of his sweater. “So I was all set to meet Praetorius Friday night over dinner. I was really excited, because I’d read several of his publications, but I’d never met him in person, and I was eager to pick his brain. Anyway, I showed up at Luigis, carrying my knapsack in case he wanted to read through any of my theories, but he didn’t seem much interested. He glanced at a few of my equations while we ate, asked me a few questions, and even answered a few of my own, but he seemed more interested in what I got up to outside of work. He told me that he didn’t want to bring anyone on to his project that would stifle his creativity. I didn’t really know what he meant at first. I think I do now. Anyway, when we finished eating, Praetorius suggested we head somewhere else. It was Friday and I didn’t have work the next day so I figured I might as well continue to hang out with my prospective boss, but what he suggested shocked me.”

“He took you somewhere you didn’t want to go? Somewhere that made you uncomfortable?” Milton wanted desperately to sit opposite Tillinghast, but he hadn’t brought a pillow for the chair. He settled for his usual pacing.

“Yeah. I figured I could swallow my discomfort for a chance to get him to like me. I wanted to see what he meant when he said he knew a way to get his creative juices really flowing. I know it’s silly and wrong to indulge someone that way, especially with our potential future power dynamic, but I wanted this position so badly. I still do.”

“Badly enough to do whatever he asked you to do?” Milton paced.

“I suppose so, but part of me almost wishes I hadn’t. The place he took me to… it was creepy. And what he goaded me into doing was wrong. I know that isn’t a popular opinion these days, I mean, it’s the ‘80’s, but I want to be respectable, you know? I shouldn’t have run, I know it was stupid, I know I had a responsibility to stay and explain myself, and I regret potentially blowing my chances for my future, but…”

Milton was on the edge of his proverbial seat. He stopped pacing as Tillinghast trailed off, a look of deep shame painting his cheeks pink. “Yes?” Milton pushed. “And?”

Crawford looked like he wanted to disappear into the cracks in the floor. “Well, when the stripper sat on me… I uh, I finished. Right there in my pants, right in front of everyone. If any of my students find out I was at The Goldmine much less that I… oh god.”

Milton had fully deflated by the time Crawford had buried his head in his hands. He was only half listening as Crawford continued.

“Nothing I did was illegal, right? Is that why I’m here? Did someone tell you I ran without paying? Because Praetorius said he was buying.”

Milton sighed as he exited the interrogation room for the second time. “I have no doubt that this Tillinghast character was nowhere near a graveyard last night. We might as well corroborate his story just in case, though,” he handed the second folder to Sheriff Crowder and snatched the last one. 

“His alibi’s that air tight?”

“I should say so. Almost as tight as the guy is up-tight. I’ve never seen someone so worked up over something so trivial. I guess I can’t really blame him, he seems like the timid type. Not to mention that virginity virtually radiates off him in waves.”

“What?” Crowder looked up sharply. 

“Nothing. Bring in the last suspect. At this rate, I’m not expecting much. Arkham seems to be stocked with an endless supply of doppelgangers. For all we know there are ten more guys with variations of the same face running around this town. What’s the name of the last one?”

“West,” Crowder replied. “Herbert West.”

Chapter Text

Milton let the last suspect wait in the interrogation room for a little while before he went in. He figured he'd let the young man stew a bit. Frustrated and impatient suspects never failed to blurt out something useful, and this suspect was looking to be the most promising of the three. The file on Herbert West wasn't large, but it was certainly a little more colorful than the others. He’d never been accused of anything specific, or rather... nothing so far had stuck, but he'd had a rather tumultuous and incredible past. West was born in Canada to two research scientists, both his mother and father had died tragically in a house fire when he was a child, then he grew up bouncing from one home to the next in the foster system until he won some sort of foreign research scholarship. Milton skimmed a few pages. Medicine. He was studying medicine over there, and his mentor had died under very strange circumstances.

Milton carried the folder into the interrogation room with him, still flipping through it as an officer closed the door behind him. The room was as silent as a Baskin Robbins in December. After an uncomfortable beat, Milton looked up.

West was glaring at him.

The suspect was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap. His mouth was set in a grimly determined line, his brow was seemingly furrowed both in obvious contempt and simmering frustration, and his eyes were disconcertingly wide and accusatory behind his glasses. His suit and tie were immaculately tailored and pressed, and his wireframe glasses were polished to a perfect shine. Not one hair seemed out of place, ‘seemed’ being the operative word, because his hair was actually a little ruffled. But despite the slight unruliness of his hair, West exuded an air of carefully calculated precision. Maybe this was due to the amount of time he had lived in Zurich. Milton had heard they liked their regimented tidiness over there. Or perhaps it was something else entirely. Milton had questions, but before he could utter so much as a single syllable, the young man barked tersely, “Why am I here?” Sheriff Crowder was right. This one was a live wire.

“You’re here because I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Milton flipped open the folder to the first page. “Your name is Herbert West-” 

“We both know my name," West interrupted. "Am I being charged with something?” 

“No,” Milton could feel his chest tightening. “And if you abstain from further interruptions, we can get through this more efficiently.” Milton felt a small flush of satisfaction as West's mouth snapped shut, but the tightness in his chest remained. He may have temporarily silenced West, but he had a sinking feeling that he’d lost control of the room. “Herbert West, born- hmm. That’s odd. You were born on September 9th, 1954.” Milton leafed between pages, scanning for any redundancies that could indicate a typo.

“Yes, I was. Why’s that odd?”

Milton looked up at West’s pinched expression. Really looked. “Are you by any chance related to the other young man who’s being held here? Crawford Tillinghast? Did you know the two of you were born on the same day?”

West scoffed, “I suppose you’re going to tell me that only 365 people can be born per year, because the universe would implode if two people were born on the same day.” 

“Surely not two people who look-” Milton found himself stammering. West’s face was a brick wall. “That is to say, the resemblance is uncanny. You both live in this same town three blocks from each other, have the same birthday, and you look alike. You don’t find that.. coincidental?”

“I’ve seen Tillinghast around campus before, always scurrying like a little mouse between the physics building and the engineering labs. Lately he'd been spending far too much time in the human biology department, and to be honest, despite some tasteless jokes I've heard on the matter, I don’t see the resemblance,” Herbert crossed his legs elegantly and sneered in blatant disdain. “He's a pathetic excuse for a scientist and a frump. Frankly, I’m insulted that you’d even insinuate I could share DNA with that imposter. He has theories about the pineal gland that would make a first year medical student laugh him out of town. He has no business mixing physics and medicine, and if you ask me, he has no business at a university as prestigious as Miskatonic.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Milton snapped impatiently as West's verbose dressing down of the meek young Tillinghast grated on his nerves. He barely suppressed the urge to giggle at the way West’s eyebrows raised to his hairline in surprise, his mouth forming an almost perfect O in stupefied shock at the outburst. The subsequent six seconds of silence thrilled Milton to the bone. He knew he’d take the satisfaction of befuddling West to bed with him that night. His triumph was short-lived, though. The dumbfounded look on the other man’s face vanished nearly as quickly as it had appeared. 

“And what was it you did want to ask me?” Herbert bit out. “You seem to be wasting a great deal of time for someone who wanted to get through this quickly.” And with that, Milton lost any ground he thought he’d gained.

“Fine,” Milton pulled out the chair opposite West with a metallic screech. “You want me to get straight to the point? Then answer me this. Where were you on the night of Friday April 13th, 1984?” Milton’s rear end touched the hard metal chair only briefly before he stood up again with a small grimace and began to pace instead. West’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the sudden movement and subsequent reaction, and they narrowed behind his glasses. 

“Why did you do that?” West asked, pointing to the chair. “You got up as if you were afraid to sit down. Or as though it were uncomfortable.”

Milton stopped dead in his tracks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied. 

“Yes, you do,” Herbert retorted insistently. “It was painful, wasn't it? I’m only asking because I’m studying to be a doctor. If it hurts to sit down you should really see someone about it.”

“I already know why it hurts to sit down and don’t try to change the subject. You haven’t answered my question about your whereabouts the night before last.” Milton ached to resume his pacing, but West’s cold, clinically appraising gaze had him pinned to the spot like a mounted butterfly. He internally chastised himself for letting West get to him again. And why did he feel guilty all the sudden? It wasn't as if he needed to answer the suspect's questions. He wasn’t the one under investigation right now! 

“Is it a chronic condition or an injury?” West stood from his chair and glided around the outside corner of the table, his head cocked to the side in open, albeit emotionless, curiosity. He stepped closer still, and something deep inside Milton recoiled. 

“Both, if you must know, but that’s not any of your business. Please answer the question.” Milton felt a sudden and intense urge to flee as West slowly made his way forward, but he stood his ground as the distance between them was closed. Milton could smell the crisp scent of his aftershave as West pulled a pair of white latex gloves out of his pocket. 

“Oh, Friday night I was home with my roommate until the wee hours. Daniel Cain. That's his name, but he goes by Dan. You can ask him if you like, he’ll verify that I was up all night studying. I rarely sleep.” West pulled the gloves on slowly, one at a time. “Dan rarely sleeps when that Halsey woman is over. She can vouch for me as well, but I imagine she’d be a little more begrudging about it. She was none too happy when I merely poked my head in to ask the two of them to keep it down. You'd think she'd be less perturbed about me seeing some skin, given that I find her particular carcass to be repulsive. Besides, I am a doctor, after all. At least, I will be soon enough. Honestly, I think Dan would do well to save some of his lubricant for his bedframe, but what he really needs to do is spend less time cozying up to the dean's daughter and more time studying with me. Now let me take a look at you.”

Milton took a deep sidestep away from West and waggled his finger in a frantic brushoff. “No looks will be taken, thank you. Tell me, Mr. West, as a man of science, why anybody might want to sneak into a graveyard in the dead of night and steal an ear and three fingers? The police report said those are the parts that went missing, and I find the random nature of the selections deeply disturbing. Why would someone burrow into someone’s final resting place, rip into a freshly planted coffin and tear appendages clean off? Is there a scientific application for those pieces? Some sort of disturbed collection being built? Or perhaps, some sort of disgusting fetish being indulged?”

Now it was Herbert’s turn to stop dead in his tracks. He looked genuinely bewildered. “No, and if you’re stupid enough to insinuate that I had anything to do with it, might I remind you that I’m studying to be a doctor. I’d employ the use of a scalpel or bone saw if I needed anything for any reason, and I wouldn’t go to a graveyard to get random little pieces when hospitals are bursting at the seams with that kind of medical waste. They don't even catalogue it, they just incinerate it. Besides, I think anyone in my profession wouldn’t find much use for random small body parts that had been savagely ripped off. Imagine how difficult that kind of damage would be to graft.”

Now it was Milton’s turn to blink in surprise. He was disturbed by the amount of thought Herbert had put into the topic, but he continued to push to the best of his professional ability. “A man matching your description was seen fleeing the scene.”

“And two men matching my description are sitting in a room across the hall,” Herbert shot back without missing a beat. And he had a point. That statement hadn't been the ‘gotcha' moment Milton had banked on. In fact, it had fallen horribly flat. Milton had nothing on West. Nothing at all. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take a look at your condition while I’m here? I may not have my MD yet, but I’m far more educated than a lot of so-called doctors I’ve met. I'd wager I could give you a sound opinion and a variety of treatment options. Here. Take off those pants and bend over.”

“No! No, thank you,” Milton backed over to the door, keeping his bottom well away from Herbert as the young man continued to advance on him even as the officer posted outside unlocked the door. Milton slipped out with a high pitched and rather humiliating squeal, his stomach doing flip flops as if he'd just narrowly avoided a mugging. He couldn’t explain why, maybe it was just a glimmer of intuition, but Herbert West set him on edge. There was something disturbing about him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there. He could feel it in his gut. He would be verifying that man's alibi. He had too many indicators of sociopathy to ignore.

Milton stepped out into the bullpen in a daze, reeling from the surreal conversation he’d had with West. His hemorrhoids throbbed from his brief touchdown on the steel chair, and his mind was in a whirl processing West’s acerbic attitude and odd behavior. He was still standing there muttering to himself when Sheriff Crowder slapped him on the back, startling him out of his reverie with an embarrassing yelp. God, Milton thought with a private little grimace. Why do I have to make so many silly noises all the time?

“We’ve had a break in the case, Dammers. We got an anonymous tip about the grave robbery. Looks like two boys got drunk as skunks, dug up their momma to say one last goodbye, stole the locket from around her neck, and left town a couple hours later. Turns out it was a pack of racoons that came by after the fact and, well, ate a few pieces off her. Anyway, the boys were boasting about their escapade in a nearby bar before they called it a night, but not before they gave their names to some of the local girls.” Crowder looked at his notebook. “It was a… let's see... a Roger and Lonnie Hawks. A couple of country boys. Brothers. It was the younger one, Lonnie, who matched Headstone's description to a tee. By all accounts those two have already packed up their shit and headed to California. It's not looking like we can pursue them or press charges, since they've pretty much disappeared. I guess that’s it then, huh?”

Milton just nodded absently. “I guess that’s it.” He was frustrated at being cut off at the knees like that. All this work, all these interrogations, all these rabbit trails, and for what? To find out that the list of men with this face was seemingly boundless, and he missed his chance to catch the grave-robbing culprit. Or in this case, culprits.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Crowder shook his head. "Three young men, all matching Headstone's description of the suspect, and they're all innocent. Seems we rounded up everyone except who done it. You just have to scratch your head on that one, don't you? Their fourth doppelganger was the perpetrator. Fourth, Dammers! Have we got a case of close relatives here? A sperm donor with damn strong genes flooding the market, so to speak? Or do all these boys simply have a face so common you'd see it everywhere? Hell, I'll bet if aliens came down to our planet right now at least one of them would have that same face. Damn Dammers, even you bear an eerie resemblance to those boys, at least in the face shape and stature department."

Milton gave Sheriff Crowder a withering look, wrapping up his day in a bit of a funk. He gathered a few more details for his report from the sheriff's deputies, then made his way back to his hotel. He dragged his feet on the way back, feeling drained, and feeling the weight of a giant lead balloon on his shoulders as he contemplated the fact that he’d be sent off to another assignment as soon as this case report was filed.

He gingerly sat at his desk, perched atop his fluffy pillow, and dutifully wrote his report. It was short and to the point, far less detailed than his usual report, but given this case turned out to be a whole lot of nothing, he figured what he wrote was more than enough to satisfy his superiors.

Case Number: 010147858

Date: 15 April 1984

Prepared By: Agent Milton Dammers

Incident Type: Grave Desecration 

Address of Occurrence: 666 Ash Park Way, Arkham Massachusetts 01914

Witnesses: Brad Headstone, caretaker, Arkham Cemetery & Mortuary

Weapon/Objects Used: Shovel and a pickaxe 

On April 13, 1984, at approximately 1:00 to 3:00am, Brad Headstone called in an unverified report of a white male, slender, approximately 5’7” tall, fleeing from a grave robbery. The FBI assigned me to this case due to strange and unexplained reports of body part theft in the surrounding area surrounding Miskatonic University. The following morning, April 14th at 8:00am, I viewed the crime scene and took a statement from the witness. The grave was indeed partially exhumed and the body appeared to be tampered with. Deputies verified that one ear and three fingers were missing, presumed torn or hacked off. 

A sketch was compiled of the suspect, detailing his small stature, lean build, dark brown or black short hair, high shallow cheekbones, and 'button' nose. 

On April 15th at 6:00am three possibly unrelated suspects who all equally matched the description of the perpetrator were brought in on suspicion of grave desecration, and interrogated individually. It was soon determined that all three had verifiable alibis. 

Sheriff Crowder received a report at 9:45am the same day from a caller who remained anonymous, claiming that two young men had boasted about digging up their own mothers grave, taking a memento, and leaving. The young men were identified as former Arkham residents Lonnie and Roger Hawks. Lonnie Hawks appears to have matched the description of the perpetrator. The perpetrators did not tamper with the body. It would appear that this was the work of a pack of local raccoons following the opening of the casket. The Hawks brothers had already left town by the time the investigation began. No formal charges are being levied against them at this time, due to them being the only living relatives of the deceased and their having absconded from the state of Massachusetts.

There is nothing further to report.

Milton stood, shrugged out of his suit jacket, draped it carefully over the back of the chair, moved over to the bed, and laid on his back atop the covers. He stared up at the popcorn ceiling, crossed his arms over his chest and breathed in a deep, shuddering breath. He knew that this was the sort of case that would be a blight on any FBI agent’s record. What a mess, from start to finish. The crime was overblown, every suspect was a dead end, the actual perpetrators skipped town, and he was left holding the empty bag. This was all the ammo his assistant director would need to give him another deep cover assignment somewhere out of the way. Somewhere where he'd be hidden out of sight, unable to embarrass them again with abysmal results.

He briefly considered delaying his report and instigating a manhunt for Lonnie and Roger Hawks. He wondered what would be worse. Reporting a big, steaming load of nothing or blowing FBI resources hunting down a young man for the relatively petty crime of exhuming his own mother.

Milton toed off his loafers, letting them drop to the floor as his fingers snuck in between his shirt buttons to fidget with a jagged ridge of scar tissue. Would his superiors be disappointed enough to send him back to the Cult Crimes Unit? He hoped not. One more assignment like that would break him, he knew it. He just knew it. Oh, god, anything but that. He closed his eyes as a single tear rolled down his cheek. Anything but that.