by CM Thompson
Brandi isn’t invited. Brandi is never invited to anything and it just isn’t fair. Mike Jones had promised to walk her home tonight. She had thought that they were getting along well and maybe, just maybe something was happening, but no. The news of the killer’s capture had reached her office, and Marcella had suddenly become the shining bubbling blonde, bouncing around the office talking animatedly about going out for a drink and Mike had looked up and enquired what pub and maybe they could make it a group thing. The bitch already had a boyfriend! It wasn’t fair. They hadn’t said, ‘Brandi why don’t you join us?’ Oh no, she was ignored. Mike was going for a night out with Miss Perfect, Miss Slender Thighs and Miss Bouncy. While Brandi has to walk home, alone in the rain. It isn’t fucking fair!
“I can’t believe you let a fucking killer go.” The officer hisses at Fletcher, an hour after they had released John. Did the reporter hear that? Fletcher quickens his steps, appearing all the more guilty. The press are trailing the officers closely, hungrily demanding updates, has the killer been caught? Who has been released?
Later, Fletcher would see the photo of himself, behind him stand several officers. Fletcher thinks they all look angry, like moments after the picture had been taken, they would have pounced. When the next body falls, Fletcher will be blamed by that same officer, but at that point he will be beyond caring.
John Roberts was an asshole, yes, but Fletcher knows he is not a killer. Not yet anyway. John is too easily angered to be a calm precise killer. If John ever killed anyone, it would be someone he knew in a moment of anger. He is not the type to plan and hide, he is a striker. If John did kill someone he would be easily caught, he could barely clean up after himself let alone clear away a corpse. No, John’s DNA would not match anything they had, Fletcher would put money on that, if anyone would just listen to him. Fletcher believed John when he stammered that he had found Isobel’s purse, on the street close to the convenience store. Normally he would have just handed it in but he vaguely knew Isobel, had rocked out with her boyfriend Frank a few times and thought he would be seeing him again soon. Like the next night, but when Frank hadn’t shown at the club it had ended up on his dresser, forgotten, work had been stressful and he had been drunk a lot lately. Frank would grudgingly confirm most of this – although this casual interview ruins any molecule of friendship between Frank and John. It gives Frank a tantalising hint of who the murderer might be. Frank will be openly hostile whenever he sees John after this. Not that John will leave the house much.
John leaves the police station angry. Anger that increases as he listens to a voicemail from that pathetic twat of an employer. “Oh heard about your recent trouble with the police, we don’t want that kind of image for the store, already on thin ice due to attitude …” Bullshit and more bullshit. “Will put the redundancy check in the post.” Fuck … that stupid bitch has ruined everything. Rage just swells through his body as he stomps home, unaware of what is following him. He is his own tornado of fury.
“Excuse me, do you have the time?”
She pauses and looks down at her watch. That pause is all he needs, striking, ripping across her throat and stepping back as she falls. He is well practised now, has this down to an art. She looks up, locking eyes as she falls. He smiles down at her then kneels and picks up her left hand. Slips off her watch and then begins to cut. There is just enough time to cut and listen to her choke and burble. She doesn’t die instantly. He leaves thinking that it won’t be long, just a few more seconds, he is in a hurry, has just enough time to prove to the city that they are wrong and stupid. Quickly, he turns his jacket the right way round, the little blood splats safely hidden … not that anyone ever looks that closely. No one is around to see.
It’s mid-December, extremely cold, the woman is still alive, still clinging on. It’s going to be Christmas soon, she wants to live so badly, she has three young daughters and just wants more time. The cold is keeping her alive, slowing down her heartbeat but it’s not enough. An off-duty paramedic finds her and rings for an ambulance. But it is not enough. It is enough though, for the reporters, who say that she was taken to hospital alive. It is enough to scare him for the first time.
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth Mitchell is livid, she has seen John storm into his house, heard the loud slam of his broken door, it has sent shivers pacing across her skin. The police have let him go after what he had done to those girls. Her hands wrinkle into tight fists. They have let him go despite all her evidence? All those hours of watching for nothing. After all she had risked going into that house, despite what she had seen in his bedroom, they had let him go? How could they?
She is alone tonight, he could easily come for her. She won’t be able to protect herself against him. If those younger stronger girls couldn’t do it, what chance does she have? Maybe she should call her husband and ask him to come home, but he would be no match for that murderer. Maybe she should call her son, he would laugh at her of course but maybe if she told him what had happened, maybe he would come over for a while, maybe even invite them to stay with him for a while. Just a little while, surely it wouldn’t take long for the police to come to their senses and arrest him again.
Her hands shake as she reaches for the phone, out of habit her other hand reaches for the blind. The phone smashes into the floor before she has even begun to dial.
Looking at her from across the road, from his own window, he stands watching in the dark.
Most people don’t expect to die. These people don’t close their eyes and peacefully slip away. Inconsiderately they keep their eyes open, staring at those around them with astonished or accusing eyes. This is especially true of those who die suddenly or violently. They stare directly at you, Fletcher decides, blaming you. Mrs Donaghue especially had a questioning stare, a frozen expression of accusation. The officers around him are also shooting reproachful glares his way. Angry mutters occasionally buzz like wasps, directed at him out of his hearing, as they move around Mrs Donaghue, photographing and swabbing. One officer is now lifting her left hand so Fletcher can see, and so that another officer can photograph, the rushed angry red scratches that formed the number 38 on her arm.
Thirty fucking eight.
Thirty fucking eight. Number 39 might be Claire. Maybe he deserves it. He failed to protect Mrs Donaghue, maybe now he should be punished. Maybe of all the people in the world, he deserves to be punished. Maybe he should know how it feels to really lose a loved one to violence. This is the price of failure. Thirty fucking eight. Fuck he is tired. He is fucking trying, OK, and he just needs you to stop fucking staring.
Mrs Donaghue’s blue eyes, just like fucking Claire’s eyes, seem to fixate on him. He, the bastard, had stood over her like Fletcher is now. If only Fletcher could see what she had seen, right now, he would give up everything just to see what she has seen.
She had been on her way home from a pre-Christmas party, the first of the season. She was dressed in a glittery silver number, festively tinted with red jewellery and … her thick black leather gloves meant that there would be absolutely nothing under her nails belonging to the killer, even if she had fought against him. (Why couldn’t they catch a fucking break?) The evidence seems to be showing she was caught unaware, just like the others. He is smooth. He could stop a girl innocently in a city where everyone is going crazy. He must be handsome, but a trustworthy handsome.
They had done all they could but Kim Donaghue died on the way to the hospital. They had let the killer go, hadn’t they? He had been allowed to leave, as angry as hell, No one is blaming you Fletcher – wait no, everyone is blaming you, Fletcher. This seemed a rushed fast kill, and not a well thought through kill. The kind of kill Fletcher thought John Roberts was capable of, isn’t that what he had been thinking when John left the station and now…? No, this was a well-planned kill. No one had been around to hear any attempt at a scream. It was fast but he was careful. He must have been waiting around for someone like her, just waiting in the shad
ows. It was fucking December, too many people in hats and dark clothes – thick, concealing coats. Too many people with their heads down, rushing to be somewhere.
They had even less evidence than usual. She had been alive when found. Instead of officers looking over every little detail on the scene, paramedics had trampled through it all. Instead of the photographers documenting every little detail, her clothes had been cut off in an attempt to revive her. They were investigating her now, hours later, looking for any small little trace. Anything now was likely to be contaminated but it would be a start. It would have been worth it had she survived. But instead she had slipped away at the hospital, just to spite him. Had she died with her eyes closed but someone opened them? Or, or … why is he focusing on the fucking eyes. Where the fuck is Bullface? Bullrush? Bullface? He really needs to focus, needs to get away from the scolding eyes. He needs to talk to the off-duty paramedic, which will be hopeless but he still needs to. He needs to have a shower. He needs to go Christmas shopping. He needs to get away from the woman whose kids are expecting her home. He needs to get the fuck together and get some sleep. Man up. Thirty fucking eight. It is just a joke now, isn’t it?
“Where have you been? I have been looking all over for you,” Fletcher mutters, truth be told, he hasn’t been looking for Bullface, the last thing he wants is another fucking criticiser.
“I have been going over the evidence from the previous murders.” She has been staring at the faces of the women young enough to be her daughter and nothing else.
“Anything?” Please don’t let him have missed something, he would be lynched at this point.
“Nothing.” Bullface’s voice is laced with defeat.
“Do you think he targeted Shannon Leona on purpose? Knowing she was a cop, knowing it would damage the people investigating the case? Destroy morale and such?”
“It is possible, she was a visible cop most of the time. Lots of the public knew her.”
“So maybe we should look at questioning those who knew we would be searching? It was a planned attack wasn’t it?”
“Great idea. Since it was announced on the radio and the television it will only be what a hundred or so people …”
“It was just a fucking suggestion. Have you got anything better?”
“Calm down.”
“We need to do more, the press is all over the fact that the police released a suspect on the same fucking day a mother of three was killed.”
“What did they want us to do? Arrest an innocent man because his neighbour is an interfering old bat?”
Fletcher never thought he would see the day when Bullface called a member of the public anything even remotely disrespectful.
“Are we even sure he is innocent?” Shit, Fletcher is even starting to doubt his decision, “Hundreds of people can’t be wrong can they?”
“The officers I had tailing him confirmed he went straight home. He spent the night blasting rock music, drinking and stomping around his living room before passing out.” The officers hadn’t seen the brief moment when Elizabeth Mitchell had peeked out of her window to see an angry John Roberts glaring at her, they had unfortunately seen him turning and mooning her. Bullface thought there will be a better time to tell Fletcher about that.
“You had officers tail him?” Why hadn’t he thought of that? Fuck, he is messing up. Then again he doesn’t trust the other officers any more. They are just out to get him.
“I thought it would be wise to keep an eye on him and his neighbour.”
Bullface had his back, even though she wouldn’t say it. Fletcher gives a dry half-hearted laugh, some of the anger balled in his stomach subsiding.
“Fill me in on Kim Donaghue,” she says and there it is, back again.
He is worried. For the first time since he started killing, he is worried. He is listening to the news report that the woman has been taken alive to the hospital, he is worried. She had seen him, hadn’t she? Looked straight in his eyes as she crumpled. He is going home now, to shout at his wife then blame the Christmas stress. Stupid cow will believe him. She is too stupid to put anything together. The stained coat was going in the bin. He never liked it anyway. His wife had brought it on sale, sale! He is worth more than that! He will blame the Christmas pounds if she says anything. Not that he gains anything at Christmas, not like her. He sits, watching, waiting for an update, trying not to seem too eager. Hell, nothing wrong with seeming too eager. He can just say he is hoping she will survive. Most people are glued to the sensation eagerly, aren’t they? He is just part of the masses. Finally an update, she is dead! Thank Santa, she is dead! But then … what if … what if she is still alive and this is how they are protecting her? No, they wouldn’t have shown her sobbing brats on the news if she had lived. They wouldn’t have put the children through that. He might have but they wouldn’t. The bitch’s throat was cut, there was no way she could have said anything. She is dead now. Dead and dissected. He has other work to do. He should have done two tonight, taken advantage of their relief, it is too late now.
It is supposed to be a friendly. A little match to help relieve some of the stress. Perhaps even work away a few unwanted pounds before the engorging Christmas season. Fletcher wants to play because his mind will not shut up. He is being driven insane by hundreds of voices whispering problems, advice and criticisms. A thousand nagging mothers-in-law all proclaiming quite simply, ‘I told you so.’ Fletcher just wants a break, a few hours of running up and down after one simple little ball. A chance to clear his head.
It is supposed to be a friendly. Just some of the police force, the lads playing against other lads. Fletcher knows just about everyone on this pitch, everyone knows him. Drank with him on special occasions, endlessly discussing every single aspect of the winning games. He has spent the last five years of his life playing friendlies against these lads. Usually a friendly means a friendly.
Fletcher has already had his ankle kicked. Joe had accidentally kneed him in the back and Mark had trodden on his hand. Fletcher suspects that one of his own team is responsible for the stomach blow which leaves him dry retching for nearly a minute. “I am sorry mate,” is beginning to sound like an insincere chorus. Fletcher isn’t even sure what is keeping him on this pitch as their piñata. Whatever it is, it is urging his tired beaten body to keep running, despite all the muscular protests. He can hear Joe’s footfalls pounding behind him, slowly catching up. Joe seems to be incensed by the rag-tag row of supporters, screaming for blood from the sidelines. Fletcher can’t even see where the ball is any more. He just seems to be running away from the fate behind him.
Should he just give up now? Why is everyone so angry at him today, he can’t send an innocent man to prison, what good would that do? He can’t make evidence magically appear that isn’t there. He can’t do anything, they can’t do anything. Except kick him further down into the mud. Fletcher can’t hear Joe any more, he is hoping that somehow he has run far enough to be out of the game, just to take a quick breather. That’s all he needs, just to breathe for a few … the whistle blows from a far off right corner as the ball sails past his head. Fletcher turns to run away from it just as Joe lunges forward, knocking him down into the freezing cold mud.
“Foul.”
“Sorry ’bout that, Fletch.”
“Fletch?”
Oh just fuck off.
“What happened to you?” They haven’t spoken in days. Fletcher wasn’t even expecting Claire to be home.
“I tripped.”
“Well, I am not washing those filthy clothes.”
Christ, Claire isn’t even going to let him through the fucking door without starting. Why has he bothered coming home? Why is he bothering with anything? He spent part of his day interviewing people who were as dumb as monkeys and twice as curious. The paramedic had seen nothing more than a shadow retreating in the dark. He was more concerned with trying to save Kim Donaghue. More concerned with doing the impossible, what if it had been someone else? Wha
t if they gave Kim up for dead and went running after the bastard? Everything would be different then wouldn’t it? The bastard would have been caught. No, he can’t think that way. Shit, he just needs to get through the door in peace. Take some aspirin; put some more ice on his knee. But no, Claire has to be there, waiting.
“Aaron?” Fletcher doesn’t recognise his own name for a minute, he is Fletcher to everyone but Claire. He tries to swallow the growing anger, he doesn’t want another shouting match, not now.
“Claire,” he says finally. “Don’t worry, I will wash them.”
“I think we need to talk.”
Shit!
Chapter Thirteen
Christmas arrives subdued and dark. Some greet it with relief, any excuse to try and forget what is going on. Some greet it with anger. It was spring when Fran Lizzie Taylor’s discarded body had been found. They still haven’t got anywhere. No leads, no real evidence, nothing. All due to incompetence, and the police who don’t know their ass from their elbow. They hadn’t even found the other bodies. Everyone knows that there are other bodies. It has leaked out that Kim Donaghue was branded with a number 38. Fran Lizzie was been 22. It doesn’t take a cop to make a connection. They had only found six bodies! Six out of sixteen or thirty eight! Fail! The police are failing. The police don’t even know if there is one killer or more. The amateur detectives think there are at least two, maybe even three. They might all be working together. That would explain how they are able to overpower so many different women. Why are the police only looking for one man, not three? Why haven’t more details been released? They could help if they knew more. Why could the cops on TV catch a man within half an hour but these fucking useless guys are taking well over a year? Security is at an all-time high this Christmas. Security locks are selling as fast as they can be ordered. No one is going anywhere alone. Bosses are encouraging everyone to take taxis home from Christmas parties and even then, two people at least in the taxi. More houses go up for sale; more people go to the in-laws for Christmas and never come back. It won’t last. People always value convenience over safety; they will start to relax again. Until the next one.
