The curse of ignorance

“Come, please have a respite. No sense in pleasantries spent in perching challenges.”
“Thank you professor.”
“So, shall we swizzle a twiddle of small talk? Or dine on the meat of purpose?”
“Huh?”
“What has brought you to my office inspector?”
“If you don’t mind, I would like to skip the word play. I am here to inquire about one of your students.”
“My students have long since fled from this institutional trapping years ago. Graduated and assimilated into society as best as I could prepare them. My days of classroom theatrics has past on molding young minds. I am little more than a figure head these days. Soaking my lips around the teat of tenure from the accreditation wench. Alas, I am afraid you will have to wade through my so named, word play. It is one of the few indulgences I have left to feed.”
“Do you know a man named Samuel Grint?”
“Inspector. Very few of the students I have taught ever shined bright enough for me to remember their name. From those that I am fond, this Samuel Grint does not chime a recollection.”
“According to his wife, Mr. Grint had constantly spoken about your research. She has stated that you were Mr. Grint’s inspiration.”
“My, my. That is a flattering inflation to the ego, isn’t it. I am assuming by course of reason, something has happened to this Samuel Grint? Less to say that this visit is not one of hospitable condolence. And even if it were, you don’t strike my logic as a man of sentiment coddling.”
“What?”
“Is he dead? Did he do a naughty? Are you looking for him? Did he sprout wings from his pate and make a golden egg shoot from his arse? Come now inspector, beating a bush with vailed praise doesn’t produce a pheasant to hunt.”
“Ahem, um, right. To the point, Samuel Grint has passed and the manner of his demise has raised many questions. A lot of those questions have lead me here, to you.”
“Dear. I see. What year was his admittance?”
“Uh, I have it here… 1995 was when he became a grad student.”
“1995. One moment, I have my student files organized on the far wall behind you.”
“Do you remember what class he attended then?”
“Inspector. If you had done your homework on me, you would know that I only taught one class in 1995. Not to mention the following years through to 1999. This Samuel Grint, as I have already stated, does not sound familiar. Please spare this old man your rudimentary social snares. It only lowers your outward persona of professional skill.”
“I didn’t…”
“Here, Sam Franklin Fitzpatrick. Fitz, now that’s a name one can sink his teeth into.”
“Professor, I am here about…”
“Yes, yes, Grint. I take it you assumed his wife took his surname? Or perhaps he changed his name for other reasons maybe? By any account, Mr. Fitzpatrick is the only Sam admitted into any of my lectures in 1995 though 1999. 1996 to be precise. My lectures only carried a maximum occupancy of 14 students. So we can speculate that this is your Samuel Grint. And no, not many find folklore a viable pathway to make money in this day and age. A shame really.”
“You found that file awfully quick professor.”
“Well, I had my suspicions. I just needed to make sure my memory was still up to par. I was not lying when I said I did not recall a Samuel Grint. But I do vaguely remember a Sammy. Yes, here. He wrote a thesis on the social impact of therianthropy, shapshifting to the layman. The effects of folklore derived from factual experiences. Which in turn promotes the phenomenon a scientific improbability. To the point where no professional in their right mind would consider touching on the subject. Quite clever in his research. He even was so bold as to use my own published research to question my methods of discovery. I gave him an A- on the thesis. The siting of his sources needed a little work. But overall, it was quite brilliant.”
“I do have to inform you that any further information that I reveal to you be kept confidential. You could be brought up on charges. Primarily, interfering with a criminal investigation, if any of this information were to get out to the public.”
“Understood inspector. Do you know the kind of research the late Misses Grint spoke to you about? What made him inspired?”
“She said your research was based in witchcraft.”
“Of course she did. By chance was there a sodden cross hanging in every room? Smelling of anointing oil or frankincense? Maybe even prayer candles in the window sills? I dread to think that the furniture cushions were covered in plastic.”
“I got the impression that he kept most of his own work private from his wife.”
“Did she now? Hmm, And his profession?”
“Unrelated.”
“Really? Are you sure about that?”
“Professor, Samuel Grint was found in a perfect ritualistic circle of his own blood. His body was literally turned inside out. No discernible traces of an attack or forensic evidence pointing to a cause of death.”
“Aside from Sammy’s insides being on the outside? I can’t imagine anyone living with that malady.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you say inside out. Was all of his skin literally in place of where his organs and bones were supposed to be?”
“Yes. It’s impossible.”
“No inspector. Improbable. Just because it has not been seen or proven to be real before now, does not necessarily mean it has not ever happened. Was the circle a ring? Or was it solid?”
“It was like it was painted solid. We don’t know where the rest of his blood went. The body was exsanguinated.”
“Hmm. Ever see the movie Exorcist 3?”
“This is not a joke Professor. The entire room was clean of all particulate matter. It was as if it were in a lab.”
“What kind of room was it?”
“It happened in the metro library. Second story study room. All the furniture is unaccounted for.”
“Uh huh. I bet that dump hasn’t seen that kind of action in decades.”
“Professor, please. In all of your research, is there anything that can help us understand why this happened? If we had a place to start, we might be able to find who did this.”
“I am afraid your abilities as an officer are not adequate in dealing with entities beyond human society.”
“Seriously? You’re saying it’s ghosts?”
“I said no such thing inspector. Lest you have forgotten already, you showed up on my stoop. You can’t drink my milkshake. I can tell you that there is no manner of known law enforcement procedure that can deal with what had done this.”
“It’s a thing then?”
“It is called incantiflaytric. The act of summoning a jinn.”
“A jinn. Like a genie?”
“No. A jinn. An entity from another plane that can manipulate our reality at will.”
“So what, he summoned this jinn in some kind of ritual and it turned him inside out?”
“You tell me Inspector. Would you be happy about being pulled from a late night supper with you family to deal with some idiot insect trying to control your will to live?”
“So it’s a ritual gone wrong.”
“You don’t understand. When you summon something like a jinn into this plane of existence. They just don’t pop in for a cup of tea and pop out after they finish a biscuit. They become trapped here. They become malevolent. It’s like a city carnival and all the rides are free. They become an Ifrit.”
“Ok. Right. This is all a bit too much professor. I am sorry to have waisted your time.”
“Don’t be such a downtrodden mope Mr. Davis. You don’t have to stake out my office to see where I might go. How else am I going to find pleasure in this wonderland playground if you don’t reciprocate any FaceTime pushback? It’s 2020. Engage man.”
“What?”
“Ugh, Jeremiah Abraham Davis, detective Inspector. Do you honestly believe that your mystery serial killer can be stopped? Your partner’s greed got the better of him when he swiped the silver coin from the binding circle. He set this whole game in motion. It must have been quite a surprise finding him decorating his kitchen refrigerator like a spandex cozy. Trying to fit human skin around that large of an object isn’t an easy feat you know. But I gotta hand it to your species, you are quite stretchy. Even Grint’s wife sacrificed her life by telling you about the professor and the coin your partner stole. Pity, her vocal cords would have made her a formidable singer. You really shouldn’t have left it just lying around in that evidence locker. And now? That old buzzard professor is hanging in the closet by his naked spine. Just between you and me, I don’t think the mothballs are strong enough.”
“What the…”
“Your fun inspector. I really don’t think you will ever get rid of me now. Come to think of it, much more of this and people will start to think you are the killer.”
“It’s. It’s you.”
“Call me Steve. Can I call you Jare?”