by S A Tameez
“Oh,” her eyebrows raised, and she sat up straight as if life were being breathed into her. “Do tell.”
“On the way. Grab your coat.”
It was a short and silent drive to Forensics. Among the thoughts rattling in his head was the reminder that he hadn’t responded to Stacey’s message. He hadn’t told her what time he would be back or the status of the Terry’s Chocolate Orange. He knew better than to not respond to a pregnant woman craving chocolate. He couldn’t do it now, he was driving, and he knew by the time they would stop, it will be forgotten. Which is exactly what happened.
Inside the lab, the walls were bright white and the florescent tubes in the ceiling made them appear even brighter. Nick and Zoe quickly put on their thin blue overcoats, face masks and gloves. They entered the room where Marcus and a Forensic Scientist were stood next to a stainless-steel examination bed. Nick braced himself to see the body again. Not something he was looking forward to.
The guilt. The shame. A heavy burden to carry on your shoulders.
After taking a quick glimpse at the face, trying his hardest to not let the guilt sink in, his eyes shot the arms of the victim. He could see fine lines on both arms – looked like self-harm.
“What can you tell us so far?” Nick asked. Trying not to think of her as the girl they didn’t save. The one they failed.
“Well, cause of death was definitely not suicide.” Forensic Scientist, Amanda Higgins said confidently. “She didn’t die from the trauma to the head either – certainly must have caused a concussion and cracked the skull but it didn’t kill her.”
“So, we know she didn’t jump and hit her head and die?” Marcus asked.
“Precisely. From the examination, it seems she may not have been conscious after being struck by a solid object, but she was breathing.”
“Did she bleed to death?” Zoe asked.
“Unlikely. From what we can tell so far, she suffocated and looking at the bruising around her neck, she was likely to have been strangled. She died from cardiac arrest due to pressure on the carotid sinus.”
There was a pause. Nick imagined the horrendous event just before she was murdered. He couldn’t fathom the thought of his last moments being like this. Everyone envisions being old, having lived a long, meaningful, and fulfilling life. Laying on a warm comfortable bed with loved ones circled around sharing stories. Talking of the good times, laughing about the bad times – comforting you while you peacefully departed this world. But having that stolen from you, seeing someone on top of you, hands gripped around your neck, forcefully, brutally, mercilessly squeezing the life out of you many years before your time… no one should have to go through that.
“No signs of rape or sexual assault,” Amanda continued in a matter-of-fact way. Clearly immune to seeing dead bodies – a brutal murder was not extraordinary – just another day in the life of a SOCO.
“What can you tell us about the cuts on her arms?” Nick asked. He knew what they were – the story behind how they got there, but he wanted her to say it. Confirm that she was a troubled soul. A self-harmer – damaged. As if in some twisted way this would reduce his guilt.
“They’re definitely not from the attack – most are old, a few are more recent but certainly before she was murdered. Looks like she was a self-harmer. She has a few more on her thighs.” The words didn’t make him feel the way he had hoped. If anything, he felt worse.
There was a knock on the door, a short plump woman walked in and handed Amanda a sheet of paper. Amanda nodded in what looked like appreciation and skimmed through it. The plump lady left as quietly as she entered.
“The bloods are black. No indication of drugs or alcohol in her system. Which is strange as most self-harmers we get usually have one or the other.”
Nick took a step back and leaned against the table. His feet were murdering him – they struggled to bear his weight. He had been to the doctors, but they weren’t sure why he was feeling pain in his heels. He wasn’t overweight and the diabetes check was negative. He felt it worst in the mornings and after being stood stationary for a while.
“So, we know she harmed herself,” Nick said while trying to put all his weight on the table. “She didn’t drink or took drugs, and we presume she was strangled to death.”
“Assumptions and educated guesses at the moment, but the short answer is yes.” Amanda said.
“What about fingerprints and DNA of the killer?” Marcus asked.
“We got plenty. Fingerprints, textile fibres and blood. The blood spatters on her jersey are probably hers from the impact but the textile fibres are definitely not from her clothing.”
“That’s great, right?” Zoe said, jumping into action at the first signs of hope.
“It is and it isn’t. The body had been in the water for a while – perhaps over 10 hours. Her neck and parts of her face had been scrubbed with petrol, scrubbed thoroughly.”
“So…” Zoe said allowing the ‘o’ to linger.
“So, it suggests that the fingerprints we have were from after the body had been washed up to shore.”
“The people who found her may have touched the body or the attending police? Tampered with the Forensic Integrity.” Marcus remarked.
“We checked the witness statements and the statements of the response unit – they didn’t touch the body.” Nick said, “The only people to go near the body were Forensics and they wouldn’t have left fingerprints.”
“So, someone found the body before the people who reported it found it, tampered with it and then left without reporting it?” Zoe said.
“Why would someone do that?” Marcus asked.
“Perhaps it was the killer – they found the body and panicked – tried to move it or something?”
“In my experience,” Amanda said, “A killer who has gone through this much trouble to cover their tracks is not likely to find the body and carelessly touch it, leaving their fingerprints all over it. The killer knew what they were doing – the petrol – dumping the body in the river to try to wash away the evidence.”
“This wasn’t the killer.” Nick said. “What about the textile fibres?”
“Now that is a different story – not many people know how easily we leave textile fibres on other people’s clothing and the fibres get intertwined with others. So, there is a good chance that some of the fibres may be linked to the killer.”
“So, you’re saying the killer was smart but not smart enough?” Marcus said.
“I’m saying that the killer is smart but if they were really smart, they would have stripped the victim’s clothes and burned them, dowsed the entire body in petrol and then dumped it in the river.”
“But they didn’t,” Nick said, “Which might give us something to work with. How long before we get something from the textile fibres?”
“Working on it. But this takes a while.”
“Ok but can you please make it a priority.” Nick said.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s all I ask.” He smiled.
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“Have we heard anything from Vivian yet?” Nick asked as he sat at his desk and scanned the subject headings in his inbox. He longed for the day that someone just emailed him with a full confession or the complete details of the perpetrator along with all the supporting evidence needed to save him weeks, possibly months of work – it hadn’t happened yet.
“She just called the office a moment ago,” Zoe said as she shuffled through the stack of papers on the other side of the desk. “She’s talking to the distraught mother with a Family Liaison Officer,”
“OK, good. Hopefully she can ID the body to make it official but the cuts on the arms were confirmation enough for me.”
“And we still haven’t managed to get hold of her other friend, Melisa Maddison. Apparently, she’s visiting her sick uncle in Saint Vincent.”
“Do we know when she left?”
Zoe
shuffled through the paperwork before putting a sheet in front of Nick.
“13th September.” He looked up at the cluttered notice board on his wall, “The same day Sarah didn’t return home and her mother reported her missing. Do we know what time her flight was?”
“You think she’s a suspect?”
“I’m not sure – either way, we need to speak to her. She may know something that helps us trace Sarah Fowler’s last movements.”
Chapter 8
Before
“Norman?” Sarah said, surprised but relieved. A familiar face. “What are you doing here?” The realisation that she did not know much about him dawned on her. He was a guy who attended her university, seemed like a recluse – didn’t talk to anyone – always on his own. Melisa thought he was a freak, and she was usually a good judge of character. And Sarah was the worst.
Would she be safer if he was a stranger? She read somewhere that most victims were murdered or raped by people they knew.
She didn’t feel scared.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. They both stared at each other on the empty street with rain pouring on their faces. “I work at Superdrug, around the corner.” He unzipped his coat and pointed at the name tag pinned on his shirt. “Or, I did work there.”
“What do you mean did?”
“I think I just got fired.”
“Oh, that’s not good news.”
“It is for me,” A childish smile formed on his face. “I was heading to the underground and saw you. I wanted to apologise for earlier today… in the library… I—”
“You don’t need to apologise to me,” Sarah said cutting him off. She didn’t need an apology or an explanation. If he knew her, he would know she understood exactly what he was going through – it was only the ‘why’ that was different, everything else was the same. The noise – the hurt – the seclusion – the need for dark places. The pain.
“We should probably get out of the rain,” Norman suggested. He zipped up his coat and walked towards her, “You heading to the underground?”
Sarah nodded but said nothing. She walked almost hypnotically alongside him. The drama at the restaurant with her ‘so-called’ friend replayed in her mind. None of it felt real. Not the fight with Jane or walking the empty streets in the rain, in shoes she hated, a ridiculously expensive dress that made her feel like child’s doll, and with a stranger. The rain and the stranger were the only things that made her feel like herself. When she was with her friends, she was living someone else’s life – that wasn’t her, she lived in the shadows of that girl. She watched enviously from a dark place. It was there that she was her – the real her.
Using her peripheral vision, she observed the misfit who walked the night with her. He looked lost yet exactly where he needed to be. It was as if, like her, he was not meant for this world – they ended up here by accident, a flaw in the Matrix. Never able to adjust to the atmosphere. They didn’t live life, they simply roamed through it – searching for something they will never find and finding what they should have never found.
Freaks were drawn to freaks.
A few people stood waiting for the tube. She should have felt safer in a place with more light and in the company of other people, but she didn’t. She felt safer alone and in the dark. People made her nervous and on edge. Not angry people or happy people, good people or bad people – just people. There was only a faint line that separated the good from the bad. And then there was the ugly and that which resided on both sides. The safer option was always to be alone.
They sat silently next to each other on the tube. She wondered where he lived, where he was headed. She didn’t ask. Her stop would be in another 20 minutes and she would walk another 15 minutes until she reached her doorstep. He wouldn’t walk that way – he couldn’t possibly live that close to her; their paths would have crossed at some point and they hadn’t. Would he stay on the tube? Would he get off with her?
Although the silence was comfortable, Sarah wanted to know more about the stranger sat next to her. Usually people made trivial small talk; the weather or complaints about the lateness of the tube – nothing sprung to her mind.
“I… I feel like I know you.” Sarah said without thinking. She cringed as the words played back in her head. That’s not something you say to someone. It didn’t even make sense. Stupid!
“Why do you say that?” He asked after a few seconds and without facing her.
“I don’t know – I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I see you in lectures at uni.”
“I see you too.”
“I see you for who you are…” he said and then faced her. Sarah’s heart picked up pace. What did he mean by that? “Perhaps you do the same,” he continued, “That’s why you think you know me.”
Sarah paused. She didn’t understand what he was saying yet in some strange way it made complete sense. She did see him differently to the way other people saw him. But what did that mean?
“I have to go,” she said as the tube slowed to halt and she came back to her senses, “This is my stop.”
Norman didn’t say anything. She thought to say something as she put her bag over her shoulder, but she already felt crazy.
“I’ll see you in lectures…” she said as she walked to the exit.
Norman remained seated and nodded.
The walk to her house was quick – she lived on a busy road; cars constantly rushed by. Though her mother hated the sound of the traffic, especially in the mornings, Sarah didn’t mind it. Just like the sound of a fan set to full power, it helped her relax. Noise cancelled the noise in her head.
She sped up as she approached her doorstep as if someone were right behind her and would grab her just before she entered. She usually felt like this as she approached her house. She rummaged through her bag frantically.
Just relax… it’s fine… no one’s behind you… there’s no Bogeyman!
She inhaled the icy air and allowed herself to slow down. The problem with using keys in locks is that the more you panic the less likely you are to get it in to unlock it. Sarah was experienced with the inability to find the right key, dropping the keys on the floor and snapping the key in the lock and then banging on the door until her mother opened it. This would be the fourth key – she couldn’t keep doing this. She had to stay calm – there was no need to look back ten times to check if anyone was behind her – there wasn’t. The only thing she needed to focus on was getting the key into that lock and turning it anticlockwise, nothing else. She sometimes felt like a toddler first learning to walk – don’t focus on walking, just focus on that first step – get that stupid key in the lock and turn.
After she got in and closed the door behind her, she leant against the door and took another few deep breaths. Her chest was tight, and she felt lightheaded. She dared not take another step for the fear of falling on her face.
Why is this happening again?
It had been so long since she felt like this. The panic – the tight chest – the sharp stabbing pain with every breath. The fear. Fear of falling, fear of something falling on her.
Fear. Fear. Fear.
The smell of recently smoked cigarettes, as revolting as it was, gave her some respite. Her mother was home. Not that she would be anywhere else at this time. She rarely left the house these days. She had become the ultimate recluse.
The flicker from the television emanating from the living room provided just enough light to see ahead. She staggered through the hallway and into the room where her mother sat slouched, asleep on the sofa with a half-smoked cigarette still jammed in between her fingers.
She sighed and shook her head. Falling asleep while smoking – the perfect way to start a fire. She glanced at the smoke alarms that had not been tested or had batteries replaced since her father died. A nasty taste formed in her mouth as memories of her father broke the barriers she built and flooded her mind. Things would be so different if he were here. He would know what do. He would f
ix everything. The flickering hallway light, the leaking tap in the bathroom, the hinges on the garden fence. He would fix everything.
Sarah carefully removed the cigarette and stubbed it out into the ash tray. She grabbed the grey blanket on the floor and shook it before placing it gently over her mother. She watched her for a moment, head back, mouth open wide and snoring lightly. A ghost of the person she once was. Her father dying didn’t just take his life, it took all of theirs.
She almost screamed as she felt the phone vibrate in coat her pocket. She sat on the two-seater sofa next to her mother and stared at the bright glow coming from her phone.
‘Hey Honey, you OK? Where are you? Did you get home OK? Call me Melisa. X’
She swiped to cancel the call and put the phone back in her pocket. She glanced in the direction of the stairs – she thought about walking up them, rummaging through her draw to find the unopened packet of shaving blades.
She should just stay downstairs where it was safe, away from the blades, away from the dark place – except, she carried the dark place with her – deep inside. Never able to escape it. A prisoner who both can’t and won’t break free. She longed for the pain – longed for the release.
The phone buzzed again. She didn’t take it out to see who was calling. It would be Melisa demanding to know if she was OK. She didn’t want to talk – lie that everything was fine and conjure some lame excuse for why she abandoned them earlier. If she were brave, she would just say it – she didn’t fit in with them. She lived a pretend life where she played the role of a young confident girl who smiled, had aspirations and loyal friends. But once the curtains were drawn, she was her – the real her.
She moseyed towards the stairs. Her phone held out in front of her like a torch helping her see. It buzzed again and she stared at the screen robotically. Her eyes stung from the brightness – she had been meaning to find out how to use the phone’s blue light filter but never got around to it.
A friend request on Facebook.
Sarah was used to getting friend requests – usually fake accounts with half-naked people photoshopped to perfection that she ignored, or the odd old friend from school, which she also ignored.
