Burnside's Killer_Extended Version

by Timothy Ellis

  There was no way I was going to rest until I had my killer in the bag.

  Eight

  As it turned out, there was something different about Heissman's murder scene. Only problem was, I didn't have a fucking clue what to make of it.

  I arrived at the family holdings, approximately the size of my old high school, around noon. In other words, the family owned a good chunk of one section of the Torus. Since the Torus occupies an entire orbit around old Earth, even a big chunk like this didn't rate a decimal point in terms of overall area. But in terms of the amount of space rich families owned, theirs was one of the larger ones. As I said, entire high school in just their personal space. The mind boggled.

  The Heissman family was spread out across the spine, and none of the grown children had bothered to come back to Earth after they'd learned of the old man's death. His wife, a patrician old bird named Millicent, greeted me with all the warmth of a sea cucumber when I arrived.

  "Another detective," she sighed, as the housekeeper closed the huge front door behind me.

  Apparently butler droids weren't good enough for the Heissman clan.

  "Mrs. Heissman," I said. "Richard Burnside, special detective."

  "I'm sure you're quite special," she said drily. "Do I have to go through everything again with you, as well? Or could you and your fellow policemen just talk amongst yourselves instead? I do have a busy schedule, and I'm not in any hurry to spend more time here than I absolutely have to."

  She'd been off the Torus on the night of the murder, and had been living in an apartment in one of the major social centres since she got back. Not surprising, given the fact her husband's corpse was still on the dining room table of their house.

  "I'll try to be quick," I said. "And you don't have to accompany me. We can meet back here, and I can ask you any questions I might have then."

  "Thank heavens for small favours."

  I might have chalked up her indifference to the fact it had been a couple of weeks since her husband's body had been found, but the ESPD detectives told me she was like that the first day. For a moment I wondered if Arnem might have just lopped off his own pecker, rather than face one more night sleeping next to her.

  The servant who'd let me in guided me through the cavernous house to the dining room, where I was met by an Officer Wolfe, a bored-looking man in his twenties.

  "All that money, and this is how he goes out," he said, pointing to the body on the table.

  Special chemicals had kept Heissman's corpse from decaying, but even without them, he wasn't exactly dignified. Lying on his back on the huge dining table, naked as the day he was born, his ample belly rising like a hill over the spot where his penis used to be.

  "And this is exactly how he was found?" I asked.

  He rolled his eyes.

  "I managed to resist the urge to molest the body, if that's what you mean."

  I ignored him. The question was just a formality to make sure that I had it right. Unlike the other victims, who'd been discovered on a bed, Heissman was on the table when he died. It wasn't a huge detail, but it was the only deviation in the MO so far, which made it worthy of attention.

  "What do you figure our man here weighs? Maybe a hundred kilos?"

  Wolfe shrugged.

  "I suppose. Why?"

  I shrugged out of my trench coat, and laid down on the floor. It was marble, and cold as hell against my ass.

  "Try to lift me onto the table," I said.

  "Excuse me?"

  His face looked like he'd bitten into a lemon.

  "I said try to lift me. I'm a few inches taller, but I weigh about the same as Heissman here, and I need to determine if it's possible for someone of average build to hoist someone my size onto a meter-tall table."

  Wolfe looked like was going to protest, but eventually he sighed and grabbed me under my arms. I made sure not to move, simply to act as a dead weight. After about five minutes of trying, he gave up.

  "I'd need someone to get your feet," he said. "It's not possible on my own."

  I pulled my coat back on, and nodded. After a few more minutes examining the scene, I excused myself, and headed back to the front door, and Millicent Heissman.

  She greeted me with barely concealed irritation.

  "Are you finished, then?" she snipped. "Can I finally have my dining room back? I'd like to move back into my own home, if you don't mind."

  "They'll be removing your husband today. I only have a few questions."

  She motioned for me to get on with it, and I resisted the urge to salute her with my middle finger.

  "We were told there was no one else in the house during the time of the murder," I said. "So your staff doesn't live in?"

  "Good Lord, no. They have their own quarters on the grounds." I'd never heard of a Torus dwelling with actual grounds before. "They're never in the house after 10 p.m."

  "Any service droids in the home?"

  "My dear detective, Heissmans do not employ machines."

  She said the last word like it was a slug in her mouth.

  "Except in your mines and factories," I countered.

  "Well, of course. I meant we don't allow them near us in our home."

  "And it was the cook who discovered the body the next morning?"

  "This is all in the report, Detective."

  I nodded.

  "All right, here's something that wasn't in the report, did your husband have any extramarital affairs you're aware of?"

  That got her, and she glared at me as her cheeks went crimson.

  "I'll answer that question after I've seen a subpoena, and talked to my lawyer," she huffed. "Until then, kindly get out of my house."

  I tipped my fedora to her, and smiled as I stepped out the front door. She didn't wait for the housekeeper to show up, she slammed it shut behind me all by herself.

  Nine

  I ignored Flint's messages for the next several days, as I wasn't in the mood for a lecture on how to treat rich widows, and concentrated on tracking down more info on Arnem Heissman. Turns out his womanizing was fairly well known among people in his social circle, at least according to the gossip mill.

  Rumour had it he preferred submissive women, the kind who would always say yes and stroke his ego. After meeting Millicent, that didn't surprise me in the slightest. But I wasn't able to track down any solid leads, which wasn't surprising. Not a lot of people are going to be in a hurry to come forward as the mistress of a member of high society who just turned up murdered in his own home.

  I briefly considered the possibility that Millicent had found out about Arnem's extra-curricular activities, and had paid a thug to hack off her husband's willy, but I dismissed it immediately. First of all, she couldn't have known about the MO of the other murders, so there was no possibility of a copycat crime. Plus my investigation into their friends and colleagues suggested she'd been well aware of his girlfriends, and simply didn't give a shit.

  I'd been back on Earth Torus a week when it was announced that Arnem's oldest son, Dieter, would inherit the controlling interest of the family business. Media reports said union negotiations were already underway to settle a long-standing strike by miners, and an agreement looked to be on the horizon.

  All of which added up to absolutely bugger all for my investigation. I was no closer to figuring out who my killer was, or where he or she would strike next. And that meant I was no closer to retiring for good.

  I holed up in my little place for a week, spending all my time on my PC researching anything to do with ritualistic murders, the occult, severed limbs, and revenge killings. None of it seemed to coalesce in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to force it. My gut kept telling me I was going down the wrong path.

  Finally, after ten days of avoiding him, I returned Flint's messages. Turns out he wasn't calling to give me shit over Heissman's widow, though he did end up doing that, but to tell me that he'd found an expert who might be able to help with the investigation.


  Now, I always preferred to work alone in those days, but I was on my fifth body at this point, with not a single answer, so I gave up, and agreed. As it turned out, the expert ended up being a big help.

  At least that's what I thought at the time.

  Dr. Maddie Pritchett had a PhD in abnormal psychology, despite the fact that she looked about as old as my newest pair of shoes. I kept that thought to myself as she introduced herself in Flint's office, and we settled in to discuss her thoughts on my killer.

  "Captain Flint passed along your files for me to review," she said. "You take very thorough notes, Detective. I'm impressed."

  I shrugged.

  "With all due respect, Doc, I don't need compliments. I need answers, and I need them before the next victim shows up. Although that's almost a foregone conclusion at this point, since I always seem to be a few weeks behind him."

  "Or her," she said, adjusting her skirt. If I'd thrown her off her game with my comment, it didn't show on her face. "I'm almost positive the killer is female."

  "I thought the same thing until the latest victim. Anyone who could hoist Arnem Heissman onto a table would have to be physically strong enough to heft over a hundred kilos, unless they had an accomplice. And at the risk of sounding misogynistic, I've never met a woman who could do that on her own. I'd have a hell of a time doing it myself, and I'm pretty damn big."

  "And yet there's no evidence of an accomplice at any of the other murder scenes, and no evidence of a struggle at Heissman's." She gave me a cool look. "That means he either got on the table willingly, or he was placed there after he was killed. My theory supports the former assumption."

  "All the other murders happened in bed. What's different about Heissman?"

  Flint, who had been watching us in the back and forth, broke in.

  "He's the highest profile victim so far, for one thing," he said. "That's why Dr. Pritchett was brought in."

  "Got it," I said. "The others weren't worth the resources, but when guys with Heissman's level of money start getting sliced up, then you have to start shelling out."

  Flint's eyes flashed at me, but the doctor cut him off before he could say anything. I respected her for that.

  "Be that as it may," she said, "I've been working on a theory that I believe might help you."

  I sighed and shook my head.

  "My apologies, Doctor. I know you're only trying to help. I'm just frustrated at this point, that's all."

  "I can certainly understand, and I share your concern that the killings will continue. That's the basis of my theory, as a matter of fact. I believe the person you're hunting is a serial killer."

  She paused and look both of us in the eyes.

  "And it's a woman."

  Ten

  Dr. Pritchett had said the words I'd avoided saying to myself for months. And once she did, I knew I no longer had the luxury of trying to convince myself I was going to find a more rational explanation to all of this.

  "You think that someone is obsessed with separating men from their penises?" I asked. "If you've got details, I'm all ears."

  "I don't use the term 'serial killer' lightly," she said. "It's been misattributed enough over the centuries since it was first coined. Conventional wisdom often postulated that any murder in which a trophy is taken is the work of someone who has an obsession, but that's not necessarily the case. A serial killer doesn't murder out of passion or opportunity, it's a cold-blooded, calculated act which serves a specific purpose in the mind of the killer. A means of scratching some psychological itch."

  "So you're saying that the killer is planning out each killing ahead of time?"

  She nodded.

  "These aren't random choices."

  "But they don't have anything in common," I said. "I mean, outside of money, and being for the most part hetero. But even the money isn't really a commonality. Augustine Quon had money, but he didn't have the kind of wealth that Arnem Heissman had. And while Quon was popular with almost everyone, just about everyone who knew Heissman thought he was a putz. Meanwhile, Jeremiah Rourke was borderline insane, and Dmitri Willis was just an asshole."

  Flint had made himself useful by getting the doctor and myself some coffee. He placed the cups in front of us, before sitting back down at his desk.

  "That's where the challenge comes in," he said. "Trying to find that common thread between the victims, at least in the mind of the killer."

  "He's right," said Dr. Pritchett. "The pathology is there in the MO. Always the same cut, always the clean murder scene, always a corpse totally devoid of any signs of struggle. You have the 'how' part nailed, the really hard part is figuring out the why."

  I took a sip of my coffee and cringed. It was weaker than a kitten with the flu.

  "Once we've got the why, I can start to predict the where and when," I said. "So I'd appreciate anything you've got."

  "First and foremost, I think we're dealing with someone who has control issues," she said. "The fact there are never any marks on the body, tell me this woman can do what she does without arousing suspicion in the victim. That's a form of control."

  "Maybe," I said. "Or it's possible that she has some kind of unknown nerve agent or knockout drug that doesn't show up on our tox screens."

  Dr. Pritchett surprised me by smiling.

  "Captain Flint told me you wouldn't be easily convinced," she said. "You're right, it's possible, but highly unlikely, unless she's a genius in biochemistry and pharmaceuticals. And if she was, she'd be making a fortune off of her invention on the black market."

  She had me there.

  "All right, I'll stop being a pain in the ass for now. Go on."

  "Thank you. Now, the pathology for serial killers is in the payoff they get from the act itself. They crave something they only get from doing what they do, not the trophy itself. So I believe this killer isn't looking for the severed penis as an end in and of itself, but rather the feeling she gets from removing it. Do you follow?"

  I crossed my legs.

  "Yeah, in vivid detail."

  "The sense of power over the victim would be absolute. By the time she severs the penis, she has somehow managed to subdue him, and keep him from fighting."

  "You're saying she's having sex with them."

  It wasn't the first time it had crossed my mind, or even the hundredth.

  "It would explain quite a bit," she said. "She gains control over the victim through sex, then strikes when they're most vulnerable. By doing so, she proves that she has the power over them."

  "All right," I nodded. "Let's go with that. You're saying she's looking to make sure her victims end up not just dead, but stripped of their manhood."

  "In a nutshell, yes."

  "But why these particular men? Heissman I suppose I could see, but Quon never hurt anyone that I could find. Neither did Rourke, and if anything, he seemed to be his own worst enemy."

  "That part is a challenge," she said. "It's possible that each of the victims displayed a common characteristic that set off the killer. Something as simple as a particular phrase, or perhaps they ordered a particular drink. We have to remember we're dealing with an abnormal psyche here, one that follows a peculiar set of thought patterns."

  Flint apparently thought he was being left out of the conversation, because he chimed in.

  "Maybe she's lashing out at someone from her past."

  Dr. Pritchett stared at him for a long time, which was enough to shut him up again. I was beginning to like her.

  "Anyway," she continued, "as I said, finding the commonality will be the challenge. What triggers each killing? What draws her to each victim?"

  "Do you have a profile?" I asked. "Some sort of character sketch I could use as a base for my investigation? I'm willing to take anything at this point."

  Her eyes glazed over for a moment, as she consulted her PC.

  "I pulsed the information to you," she said. "Basically, I believe your killer is highly intelligent, though not necessarily
educated. It's possible she has a history of sexual abuse at the hands of one or more men, but that isn't necessarily the case. The penis is, of course, the ultimate symbol of male power, even in this supposedly enlightened era. She may simply target it because she sees it as the best method of bringing her victims low."

  "At the risk of being blunt, Doc, that doesn't help the next victim a helluva lot."

  "Unfortunately, even now, in the age of interstellar travel, the human mind is still a mystery. We can profile based on what we know generally about psychopathic behaviour, but each killer is unique, and has his or her own methodology."

  "You're right," I sighed. "Sorry, I'm in a bad mood."

  "It's perfectly understandable, Detective. To continue with my evaluation, I believe the killer may be homosexual, or possibly even asexual. In any case, her disdain for men is obvious."

  "So even though she's having sex with the victims…"

  "It's just a means to an end. A way for her to get close to her prize."

  "Then we have to assume she's exceptionally attractive," I said. "The victims were all different. Rourke was as attracted to men as he was to women, and yet she was able to bag each one of them. That's unusual, don't you think?"

  "As I said, she's intelligent. It stands to reason that she's an accomplished actress as well."

  I chewed on that for a while. At his desk, Flint was tapping his fingers, as if waiting impatiently for me to catch up. I knew he wanted this thing off the books as quickly as possible, but that wasn't going to happen if I just rolled over and accepted this doctor's theory. That's not how cases get solved.

  "I still don't get the payoff here," I said, holding up my hand as she opened her mouth to answer. "I know, I know, she gets off on it. That's the psychological prize. But how's she paying for all this? It's not cheap to jump all over the spine and pull off these killings, and as far as we can tell, she's not stealing anything from the victims."

  Dr. Pritchett blinked a few times, and even Flint looked confused. I may not have a fancy education, or a pair of captain's bars on my shoulders, but I'm not as dumb as I look, either. The serial killer theory may have held water, but that didn't mean there weren't holes in it, too.