by N. M. Brown
He’d been impressed by the Station when he’d first arrived, turning on the spot like a kid on a school trip. The old-aged stone walls on the outside, mixed with rusty red bricks showed the heritage of the site. For years it had been a police station, having been founded in the late Victorian period and McQueen loved the history that came with the place. Old gas lamps still dotted the entrance and he’d been greeted by a stunning, dark wood reception desk. Behind the front desk and through check-in, was a short corridor. To the left were some stairs that carried up to the second floor, with a matching set on his right. In front of him, were a pair of half wood, half glass double doors, with ‘Rippling Police Station’, in gold lettering with the Latin proverb beneath: ‘Justitia In Proelium’. Justice Through Battle.
Walking through those doors had been like walking into a whole other world, McQueen remembered. Suddenly it had been a mass of voices and people hard at work. The tall ceilings amplified every noise, while white pillars that ran down the room. An antique chandelier hung in the centre of the room: though refurbished and electrical it was still very impressive. The second floor ran around in a mezzanine, with painted white railings, that allowed you to look down on the main pen. McQueen later discovered the second floor held the file room, the armoury and the Chief’s office, while other corridors on the main floor led to old, but still working toilets and showers, break room and interrogation rooms. Rough, old blue carpet swept across the station and the place was a decade or two behind modern design, but it had a sense of legacy and culture.
McQueen had immediately taken to it while walking through a sea of desks faced back to back across the pen. Right in the centre, McQueen had found his, with his scowling partner waiting for him and that was the exact expression McQueen saw as Hale walked back towards him.
“Everything alright Hale?” He asked. He didn’t want to pry, but they were partners and he needed to keep reminding himself that.
“It’s nothing.” Hale growled. “Silly no-beat Officers with more hours spent chatting and gossiping like old wives, than doing their Goddamnjob.” The tall man crashed into his seat with anger; shoulders hunched in annoyance. He engulfed the desk. “Tell me what you’ve found. It better be good. I want the case over and done with as soon as possible.”
McQueen caught himself before he gaped. Even if he hadn’t had his strict religious upbringing, as a Detective, McQueen knew they should spend every waking moment possible trying to find these victims justice, no matter the cost. For Hale to wish the Case a speedy end would more than likely result in mistakes, problems, misinformation…?
“Alright.” McQueen opened his latest stream of emails, all from Cassi. The doctor had yet to find the time to send all she’d found in one bulk email; instead sending streams of little ones. McQueen didn’t have the guts, newly arrived to suggest she do otherwise. “Cassi has identified Mr. Farrows to be Mr. Michael Farrows, thirty-eight, husband to Mary-Ann Farrows. He works as a Customer Liaison Officer while she doesn’t seem to work at all. A lady of leisure it would seem.” McQueen spoke to Hale across their parting screen. “He has a record which is why we could identify him, but it was a simple misdemeanour for trespassing when he was at university. Caught trying to break in and collect copies of his exam answers. Dwight Waver, as his birth record states, dropped out of school early and had ended up in several juvenile homes across the span of his life. He’s been in the system for solicitation on only a couple of cases, but he’s been quiet for the past few years. Seems to have found a higher class of clients.”
Hale just glared at his monitor. “I’ll never understand why people fluff up their job titles. If you’re a four walled, sweaty, number punching, call centre parasite, just say so.” He grumbled slamming his fist on the desk top. “And as for Dwight, a higher class of clients’ maybe, but that didn’t make his job any safer. Look where he ended up.” McQueen herd the audible ping of the computer. An incorrect password was entered again.
“I think it’s understandable for people wanting to better themselves.” McQueen answered, feeling Hale sour mood leeching onto his. He wanted to look on the brighter side of life. “If changing up a job title fills a person with self-confidence, then we should allow it.”
Hale gave McQueen a deadpan look before snorting with disgust. “Save your Catholic sermons for Sunday McQueen. Have you found anything useful about our victims? Anything that might link them together? Apart from going to the same location, we have nothing to say why these two were killed. If it’s a random choice-… well, we’ll be in a hell of a lot of trouble.” Hale snapped.
“It could be homophobia.” McQueen speculated. “Ms. Headly said Dwight catered to closet cases. Maybe our killer doesn’t like gay people.”
Hale frowned over a fake potted plant, “Speculation might have flown at the academy kid, but just because you see the numbers two and two, doesn’t mean the answer is four.” And as if he was a wise, old master, Hale dismissed McQueen effortlessly. “What else have you got?”
Flicking through the file in his hands, McQueen skimmed the pages quickly. “Mr Farrows was a regular at Cardinal House. His bank statements show multiple cash withdrawals, going up into the thousands and he went at least once a week. His wife, Mary and his two children live in a spacious home to the west. They are financially stable, but have a hefty mortgage on the house, and its seems Mrs. Farrows has no employment records to speak of.”
“Any indication she knew where her husband was going every other weekend? It would be a slam-dunk if the wife did it.” Hale mused.
McQueen pursed his lips but didn’t speak his mind. Hale was cynical, but it was a plausible story. Nine times out of ten it was someone one of the victims knew and if one spouse was cheating on the other, then it wasn’t hard to predict motive. “What about the extenuating circumstance with their legs? Murder over spending all their money and cheating on her is one thing, but shredding her husband’s legs? Both their legs?”
“I’ve seen some crazy things. You’ll get there.” Hale again dismissed. “Did the Officers speak to Mrs. Farrows? Get her statement?”
They had and after speaking with the wife, they’d made a hurried phone call. “She said he worked the night shift on a Friday and that he’d be home any minute and proceeded to slam the door closed.”
“She didn’t even question it?” Hale asked surprised.
“Not until the officers were halfway down the drive.” McQueen raised an eyebrow at Hale. “She was ‘sure’ that he’d be home any minute, but why did they think he was dead. Of course, after explaining the finer details, Mrs. Farrows proceeded to break down hysterically and has been inconsolable since.”
“Guilty people still cry.” Hale argued at McQueen’s tone but offering no other alternatives. “But there is no suggestion they’re in with the Numitor Mob? Shady or illegal behaviour?” McQueen shook his head, filing the paperwork back into the right files. It was a pain if anything became unorganised. “What about the kid? Dwight- whatever his name was. What do we know about him? Any people who might want to take something a little more than his ass?” Hale asked, turning his pen over in his fingers.
The printer next to McQueen’s desk had been shooting out paper since they’d gotten in and the latest was a stream of faxes from numerous sources, with teens and younger who’ve gone missing. He’d also contacted Juvenile Homes to see if any orphans had been reported missing. “So far he’s a bit of a ghost. No police record beyond those of solicitation, and no driving licence, no home address, no work address. He’s been on the streets since a young age.” Pulling the freshly printed papers towards himself, feeling the warmth seep into his fingertips, McQueen looked over the short and wholly generalized descriptions of missing kids.
“Well?” Hale asked impatiently. The station was starting to cool off, many people now heading home or finishing the last of the filing they needed to do before heading home.
“Vague.” McQueen answered simply. Most of the missing children w
ere easily discarded, though not so easily on McQueen’s conscious. “Boy, brown hair, blue eyes. Name: Adam Slightly. Missing six years. Boy, blonde hair, brown eyes last seen wearing a red and white striped t-shirt. Name: Charlie Tootles.” Any boys that were brown or dark features weren’t Dwight, as were any who’d been missing longer than two decades. Heart heavy, McQueen shook his head. “There are so many, but none are Dwight. I’m still waiting on a few Juvenile Homes, but until then, we don’t know his back story… How can we lose so many children in this day and age?”
“Shitty parents.” Hale rolled his eyes, “So, have you found anything useful? Anything at all??”
McQueen repressed his flare in anger. He wasn’t a magician ready to pull all the answers from a black hat. However, he was quite proud of himself for not saying anything and was kindly interrupted by his desk phone.
“Detective McQueen of the Rippling Police Department.”
“Yer-… ‘ello? This be that tod ‘ow wanted information?”
Through the garbled line and the strong Yorkshire accent, McQueen could just make out the hideous sound of a woman’s voice. “Hello, yes, this is Detective McQueen. Are you from one of the Homes?”
“Ay, I’m Mrs. Appleton. Now what’s in it for me?”
McQueen could scarcely get his words out. “Excuse me?”
“This info’, it got a reward attached? Money?” The woman sounded like she smoked ten packs of cigarette a day and was breathing through a weeks’ worth of flem on every word or so, she would also whistle, which made McQueen imagine there were more than a few teeth missing.
“No Miss, it does not. Do you want to help or not?” McQueen was quite proud he didn’t use the Lords name in vain and even more so when the woman ‘humph’d’ and actually thought about it.
“Well, it’ll be a good story to tell, though why you’re interested in this little fucker I don’t know. If you catch ‘im, you tell dat cock-sucker dat he owes me three packs of ciggs’ and all the money he stole from my purse… plus interests!”
“I’ll make sure he gets the message.” He answered through gritted teeth. He didn’t dare tell the old hag that poor Dwight as dead, if it was even Dwight she was speaking of. McQueen didn’t think he’d stay so polite if she started ranting about how ‘he got what was coming to him’.
“Right’o. Well, I got the photo in the email and I knew that face the moment I saw it. The little devil he was, all smiles and kindness until he’d swipe the cigg’s right out from my back pocket the lil’shit. Anyway, ‘is name is Dwight Waver. He was ten when I ‘ad ‘im, but he’d be sixteen by now. He bounced in and out of my house, spitting on my kindness for around eight months after he was removed from his mum. I’d ‘ave kicked him out if he’d come back one more time so when he left for good it was good riddance. I figured he’d gone to his mum’s, but she’d died two months after he’d been taken. Poor bird couldn’t last without him chopping up her crack for her.” The woman snorted like she’d told an Oscar worthy joke. McQueen wasn’t amused.
“Do you have any of Dwight’s thing’s Ms.-,”
“Mrs. Appleton and do I heck. That lil’ shit didn’t have not’ to start with, an anything he was stupid enough to leave behind the other kids took. You want to fight some big kids for it?”
McQueen bristled again at the callous nature this woman showed and it was evident it was more than one child in her care. How many children were neglected or ignored? She had been charged with caring for Dwight and others, butinstead she had just let him drop off the map; threw away his stuff like he could be forgotten. “No Ms., that won’t be necessary. So, to state what you’ve told me: you know nothing of Dwight’s life after he left your care?” Just saying the word ‘care’ made McQueen feel like he was lying in the face of God.
“No, why would I want to know anything about that lil’-,”
“Thank you for your help in this matter Mrs. Appleton. Your information has been very helpful.”
“That’s it? I can tell you lots of tales. I can help you build a case against ‘im. I know things-,
“No, thank you. That will be all.” McQueen quickly and thankfully hung up the phone. With a sigh, he relayed this additional information to Hale who processed it with the same abandonment she had shown. Complete detachment.
“So, a run away? He’d be an easy target for any killer; no loved ones, no one to keep an eye out for him. But, if the target had been Mr. Farrows, he could have been a witness and visa-versa. Street kids are rarely missed by anyone so killing him wouldn’t raise much of a fuss. A strung-out druggy for a mother and no sign of a father, no wonder the kid was screwed up.” Hale sat back, his pen still twisting between his fingers. McQueen frowned at his choice of words.
“The kid could have turned out alright in the end given a chance. Some runaways find good places.” McQueen tried to defend, but it wasn’t like Hale was open to sunshine and optimism. Shaking his head, McQueen ploughed ahead. He couldn’t help Dwight when he was alive, but he could help get him justice. “The only last bit of information I could find was what we already knew: he was a teen who worked on the streets, but seemed to at some point, better himself by getting to Cardinal House. Better clients, smaller working area; it would have made him a small fortune compared with the streets.”
“Bet he’s regretting that now.” Hale said thinking out loud. “Perhaps Mr. Farrows, being in the closet, was a regular: He’d need someone he would trust enough not to spill his secrets. They could have had a routine. Something to check up on.”
“They also weren’t killed on site. The Officers on scene said they found drag marks across the grass to an abandoned dirt path. It probably once went to a mill on the grounds, but it hasn’t been used in years. Whoever knew it was there could be our killer, which means they’re connected to the House.” McQueen also summarised. “For something so elaborate, I’m surprised if this is our killers first time.”
Hale paused at the idea. “Not bad newbie. I’ll search the data bank for any similar cases as well. See if our killer has struck anywhere else or tried his skills somewhere before.” McQueen smiled as he watched his new partner start to attack his computer with new vigour. He felt a spark of hope. His boss was good. They needed to be good every day and just maybe they could solve this one and get the victims some peace.
✽ ✽ ✽
The evening was slow, and McQueen was starting to feel the early morning kick back at him. His lids were heavy; his brain kept stuttering over the simplest sentences and he was in desperate need of a reprieve. The other two Officers, the four of them in total, milled around the station floor: Hale, Officer Rocher and Officer Ramirez, new like McQueen but quiet. The tall, hunking Latino Officer did his shifts, never complained and if rumours were true, didn’t have a spot on his record. Officer Rocher however, was a man with many grey areas; on his record as well as in his hair. Rotund, balding with a dodgy looking moustache, Benny Roach was not McQueen’s idea of a cop. He had no qualms pushing his authority too far and would polish is badge whenever possible. McQueen had yet to converse with the two men much, as they worked the night shift and as of yet, the little town of Rippling hadn’t given the Detectives anything to keep them up at night. Now things might change.
Unfortunately, grisly murder’s always got peoples blood pumping and this crime was no different. So, McQueen wasn’t surprised when Benny clapped Hale on the back, a shit-eat grin on his face. “Got a ‘Ripper of Rippling’ have we Hale?” He laughed.
“Officer Roach,” Hale spoke into his monitor, not bothering to look up. “I would advise you, like your fellow officers not to conclude the acts of a serial killer before evidence has been found. We have two bodies. That doesn’t equal a killing spree.” Rolling his shoulders, Hale knocked Benny Roach’s hand from his back.
“Ah, you’re just wishing Hale.” Benny spoke, undeterred. “I remember that last one that rocked this little old town. Did you hear of this McQueen?” McQueen shook his head, earn
ing a heated glare from Hale. “Well, I was just a rookie not even past my training yet so… over a decade ago. I knew some of thenow long-gone detectives back then, mates of my Dad, but they had no clue what to do. Running around like headless chicken after this bloke.” Benny was getting into story mode, grabbing the spare seat next to McQueen's desk he sat on it backwards, settling himself in for the long-hall.”
“How does thispertain to our current case?” Hale asked, pissed. McQueen knew then and there he should tell Benny thank you very much and quickly find some form of evidence to please Hale, but Benny was having none of it.
“Ah, give the kid a break Hale. He needs to hear the tale. Maybe he can figure out how he did it.”
“McQueen blinked at that. “It’s still unsolved?” He asked surprised.
“Nah.” Benny scoffed, “They caught the kid; because that’s what he was, some lanky, teenaged kid, but they don’t know how he did ‘it’. The complexity of the stalking. He was pro; in and out of houses like a shadow, never seen or heard, never noticed or stood out. This isn’t London, it’s not like this is a big town, but no one had a clue. The only clue the old big-wigs got was the small, intricate gifts he left behind. Tiny things that the recipient never would have bought: a fairy box for a grown man, old fashion pocket watch for a teenager. Weird stuff. They were all old as well, worth a pretty penny in a broker. There were always eight numbers on them too, stamped out with a black label maker. Creepy right?”
