“At this stage, I would rule the cause of death as blood loss, from the deep tissue injuries he suffered and the low level of blood left in him,” he said, “but we’ll wait on the toxicology report to be sure that something didn’t kill him first.”
I pressed the button in front of me. “Can we assume that the victim didn’t die in situ, then?” I asked. A puddle of blood hadn’t surrounded him when they found him, so I could only assume that he’d bled out elsewhere.
The doctor gave a firm nod. “Killed elsewhere, and most likely drained afterwards.”
I made a note of that. It all seemed neat, I thought. The precise cuts on the feet, and the utter bloodlessness of the victims. It was sterile, meticulous, and deeply unnerving.
The postmortem continued as the pathologists meticulously examined the body, looking for further physical trauma, for needle marks, for evidence lodged under the nails, and a great number of other things. They took fingerprints and DNA samples to be registered in the system; blood, urine, and tissue samples were collected for the forensic toxicologists, and they photographed different parts of the body during the postmortem, in case they were needed as the case progressed further.
When the postmortem wrapped up, the pathologists assured us that they’d send over the written report and photographs they’d taken, and Stephen and I took our leave. Stephen drove us back to York, humming along to the radio while I chewed over what we’d learned.
“If the victim was drugged,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “and the attacker used a scalpel, they could be working in the healthcare system.”
“Could be.” Stephen made a noncommittal noise. “Or the killer just got hold of some sleeping pills, and a sharp blade off the internet. My wife got a scalpel off the internet when she wanted to do some sort of paper cutting craft. Card making or something like that.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, they’re easy to get hold of.”
“Alright, fair point. If that’s true, did the killer know their victim? It seems likely he was drugged, but the pathologists found no needle marks, so we’d have to assume it was an oral drug-”
“And the killer would’ve had to be close enough to our John Doe to get him to take the pills,” Stephen finished.
“Aye.” I turned to look out the window at the greyscale landscape, the leaf-stripped trees and washed out fields looking bleak and pallid. “We’ll have to wait to hear back about his blood tests to see what they find.”
“What about the cuts on the feet, though?” Stephen grimaced. “That’s straight-up bizarre.”
“Aye, there are easier ways to stop someone from running away.” I frowned. “Something like that, so calculated and precise, doesn’t seem like a crime of passion, does it?”
“Nope,” Stephen grunted. “Definitely premeditated.”
“So why wasn’t the body better disposed of?” I said, shaking my head. “There were no marks to show that the victim had been weighed down, and he wasn’t wrapped in any sort of covering, was he?”
Stephen took us around a roundabout near the station, his brows buckled in thought. “It seems careless,” he agreed. “Not like the rest of it.”
I made a noise of agreement and turned back to the window as we approached the entrance to Hewford station’s car park, and Stephen drove us in. We’d been on the case for less than twelve hours, but I was already drawn in by it. I could vividly picture in my mind how the victim’s face had looked when he’d been laid out under the unforgiving lights during the postmortem. Many people looked simply vacant after they passed, their features slack and absent. Some, particularly the old, looked content or at peace, and others had fear caught in their expressions. But something in this man’s face had looked tired, exhausted even, even though the pathologist had confirmed that he hadn’t been over forty. I wanted to know about him, his life, and to get justice for his violent and almost certainly painful death. I wondered whether he had relatives fretting over his absence, or if his disappearance had gone unremarked upon.
Even before I’d become involved with Sam, I’d never had to fear that my death would go unnoticed, if I was unlucky enough to be subject to the kind of sudden, awful death that I saw too often in my work. My remaining family wouldn’t know or care if I disappeared, admittedly, but there had always been colleagues and friends that would have been worried if I stopped answering my phone or didn’t turn up to work. The thought of a lonely death, going unnoticed and unreported until the neighbours or the postman reported a bad smell, was something I’d always found incredibly sad.
Still, I was confident that we’d discover the identity of this victim who’d washed up in the floodwaters, and I spent the remainder of the afternoon working to that end. There had been a couple of promising tip-offs from the public, and I’d called to speak to the people who’d reported them, but neither had come to anything.
As the evening wore on, I got to thinking about the evening I was hoping to spend with Sam, if she wanted to. Spending time just relaxing together was exactly what I thought we both needed, since recently the only time we got to spend in each other’s company usually involved both of us being asleep after another long day. Sedgwick was keeping her busy with analysing samples for his case, and no doubt, as this case progressed, Stephen and I would need her and her colleagues to do the same for us. We were both looking at a busy November, and like the rain outside, it wasn’t looking like it was going to ease up anytime soon.
Stephen poked me gently in the shoulder, startling me. “You’ve got a face like a thundercloud.”
I shot a look that was deeply unimpressed. “Maybe it’s because of you prodding me in the shoulder.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” He cracked a smile. “C’mon, what’s up? You need another coffee.”
I chuckled at that. “I always need another coffee. D’you want a fresh cuppa too?”
“Do you even need to ask?”
I came back to our desks a minute later with the two steaming mugs in hand, and Stephen eagerly accepted his.
“Seriously, though,” he said, once he’d taken a sip. “Why the long face?”
“Nothing, Steph, seriously,” I huffed.
He looked at me, unconvinced, before giving up with a shrug. “Have we heard anything new? Any leads from the media campaign?”
I checked my emails again, but I’d not been contacted by the officers who handled answering the calls from the public.
“Not yet.”
“Shame,” Stephen murmured.
I clicked over on my computer to the photographs we already had from the crime scene, though the pictures from the postmortem hadn’t been sent over yet. I flicked through them, studying them closely and trying to see anything I might've missed before. Leaning my chin on my hand, I narrowed my eyes at the close-up pictures of the victim’s cut-up feet.
“The pathology doctor,” I started, and Stephen turned towards me, “he said that the cuts to the feet were the exact same length, didn’t he? Like the killer had measured them.”
“Yeah.” Stephen gave a slow nod. “It seemed pretty clinical.”
“I think it might be more than that. We agreed that it didn’t seem like a crime done on the spur of the moment. It seems planned, premeditated.” I paused, rubbing my prickly jaw. “Which makes me worry that there will be more.”
Stephen pulled back slightly, as if to distance himself from the very idea. “We can’t assume that. Perhaps the killer had a specific grudge against-”
“I know, I know,” I said, putting my hands up. “It’s just a thought, mate. And we won’t know until we find out what the motive was.”
Stephen frowned, clearly troubled by the thought that this case could grow in the number of victims. We’d had a number of murders in York last year, around this time in fact, and I knew that it had affected both of us.
“We’ll have to hope it’s just the one, I guess,” he said uneasily.
“Aye, of course,” I agreed, feeling tired. “But why wasn’t
the body weighted down, Steph? That bothers me.”
“Look, we’ll cross the bridge when… if we come to it.”
“It’s like the killer wanted it to be found,” I continued as if I hadn’t heard him, rubbing my hand over my jaw.
“Your wild speculations aren’t helping the man who’s already dead, okay?” Stephen scowled at me, looked uncharacteristically annoyed. “Perhaps the sadistic murderer who did this just didn’t care if the vic was found or not. It doesn’t mean there’ll be more.”
I sighed, backing down. If more bodies did turn up, I knew that Stephen would adjust to working with it, but it was clear that he wasn’t ready to consider the possibility today, so I let it drop. I didn’t want my suspicions to be right.
In fact, I wanted very badly to be wrong.
Three
I hadn’t managed to speak to Gaskell the day before, and it was at the forefront of my mind as I ran into work the next morning. The air felt damp and thick in my lungs but, though the clouds threatened overhead, we’d had no rain yet. The news was full of the difficulties the flooding had brought, driving people out of their homes, destabilizing bridges, and cutting off the roads, causing huge disruption to infrastructure.
We had our own set of problems to deal with at Hewford, and unlike the weather, there was someone directly to blame. On top of that, I was convinced that Gaskell knew something crucial that he hadn’t told us, though why he would do that, I didn’t know.
I arrived at the station earlier than usual and washed off in the shower, roughly towel-drying my curly hair before I headed upstairs. I’d hoped to catch Gaskell before the majority of the other officers, including Stephen, arrived, and I was in luck. The light was on in his office, and I knocked on the door.
I heard a muttered reply and took it to mean that I could come in, pushing the door open. Gaskell looked up from the paperwork on his desk and considered me for a moment.
“Sit down, if you’re coming in, Mitchell.”
“Yes, sir.” I took a seat and considered how to tackle the subject tactfully, but Gaskell spoke before I could begin.
“You’re here early.”
I cleared my throat. “Yes, sir. You’re always in early on Thursdays.”
Gaskell’s dour face cracked into a smile, and he huffed a laugh. “I suppose I should expect my movements to be tracked, when I work in an office full of detectives.”
I smiled. “Aye, probably.”
“Thursdays are when I see my nephews,” he told me, rather to my surprise. He wasn’t a man who usually shared anything much at all about his personal life. “I expect you’ve noticed I also leave early.”
“I did, sir,” I admitted.
He shook his head, looking amused for a moment before the expression faded. He exhaled heavily and leaned back in his chair, folding his weathered hands across his stomach.
“I know you’ve got something to say, Mitchell, so spit it out, lad.”
I glanced at him and away again. “I couldn’t help but notice, sir,” I said, “that you seemed to recognise the marks on the body of the John Doe, the case I’m on. The cuts on the feet, and the knees.”
Gaskell gave a slow nod, but I couldn’t tell if it meant he was agreeing with me, or just acknowledging my statement.
“Is the postmortem report back?” he asked instead of replying.
“Not yet, sir. It’ll probably come in today or tomorrow.”
He grunted, falling silent for a second. I was about to prompt him when he spoke, “I did recognise the gashes on the bloke’s feet, or I thought I did,” he admitted. “There was a case when I was first made DCI that involved mutilations like that.”
I stared at him for a moment, taken aback, before I patted my pocket for my notebook and pulled it out.
“What case was this?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, lad.” Gaskell saw me flip open my notepad and shook his head. “The murderer was locked up. He has been for ten years.”
I made a note, regardless. “This was in York?”
To my surprise, Gaskell shook his head. “No, I trained down in Cornwall. Which is why I doubt this has anything to do with it, really.” He furrowed his brows as he spoke, and I could see that he wasn’t entirely convinced by what he was saying.
I stayed silent for a moment before offering, “It could be a copycat.”
“Could be.” Gaskell gave a reluctant nod. “The murders hit the press-”
“Wait, murders?” I repeated sharply. “Plural?”
“Aye. Five in all.”
I grimaced, thinking that that wasn’t good news, not good at all. “Did it get nationwide coverage?”
“It did. It was a big story back then, for a few weeks. He was dubbed the Snake Killer, or something like that.”
“Snake? Why?”
Gaskell rubbed a hand over his short hair, looking tired and worn down. It couldn’t be easy for him, I thought. He’d thought the case was wrapped up long ago, the public safe and sound from the killer locked up tight in prison, and yet here we were with someone killing people in the same way.
“Oh, it was some idea about how he killed them.”
I couldn’t see what he meant. “With venom?” Gaskell shook his head, and as he was opening his mouth to tell me, I understood. “The grazes on the elbows- the cut tendons! The victims, they must…” I swallowed, abruptly feeling so disgusted that I felt ill, but I made myself finish. “They must have to move on their stomach, like a snake.”
“Aye, exactly,” Gaskell sighed. “God knows why he did it that way. It’s sick.”
“He never explained it?” I said, puzzled. Usually, these kinds of killers were absolutely desperate to explain their grand plan, their messed vision behind what they were doing.
“No, not really. He didn’t talk much at all, really.”
I found that strikingly odd and was about to ask Gaskell further questions when he looked at his watch.
“You’re welcome to look at the old case files,” he told me, straightening up in his seat. “Though I don’t know how much help it’ll be. It could very well be a bizarre coincidence.”
I made a noncommittal noise, privately absolutely certain that it wasn’t a coincidence at all, but I could see that Gaskell was finished talking about it.
“One last question, sir?” I said, continuing when he gave a stiff nod. “When was this?” I could no doubt find the case notes if I did some digging, but I didn’t want to waste time with that when Gaskell could simply give me the dates.
Gaskell was silent for a moment, clearly thinking, before he glanced over at his computer screen. I wasn’t sure why; perhaps an email had just arrived. A shadow seemed to pass over Gaskell’s expression, and I regarded him closely. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“It was, uh, ten years ago.” He paused, and I waited, hoping he’d have something more specific than that. “Ten years ago, this month, in fact.”
Well, now I was certain there was a connection. I gave Gaskell a nod. “Thank you, sir,” I said and saw myself out.
As I sat back down at my desk, I wished that Gaskell had told us this immediately after they had found the body, when he first recognised the marks. I could understand why he wanted to claim that it was a coincidence, but this was far too specific to dismiss off-hand like that. No matter, at least I knew now.
I was busy searching the system for the old case files when Stephen arrived, looking surprised to find me so focused.
“Did we get the PM report back?”
“What?” I said, before looking up. “Oh, no. I asked Gaskell some questions, and it looks like a solid lead to me.” I shot him a hopeful look as I added, “I’ll fill you in if you get me a fresh coffee?”
Stephen grumbled at me as he took his coat off, but he went off to the break room to get us both drinks, anyway. I gratefully inhaled the steam coming off my coffee and, when I took a burning-hot sip, I found it as lethally strong as I liked it.
“Thanks
, mate,” I said as he settled in his seat, looking at me expectantly. I filled him in on what Gaskell had told me about the case that had happened ten years ago, but which had such obvious connections with the one we were looking at now.
Stephen looked concerned as I spoke, and I could guess why, even before he opened his mouth.
“A serial murderer? There were five deaths before he was caught?”
“Aye. That’s what Gaskell said.”
Stephen took a sip of tea, his brow folded up like corrugated iron. “Have you read the case files yet?”
“Nope, haven’t found them yet. I was just looking.”
“Well, send them over when you find ‘em,” he grunted.
I got back to searching the system, and it wasn’t long before I found the records for a case that matched what Gaskell had told me, and which happened ten years ago this month. And there was the name the media had given the murderer, the Snake Killer, because of the way he’d made the victims drag themselves on their stomachs.
“Found it,” I told Stephen, emailing them over to him before I started to read.
As Gaskell had said, the case had taken place in Cornwall. The bodies hadn’t been found at the side of a river, then, but weighted down in the sea, and I frowned as I read on. If this was a copycat, as Gaskell was so sure it was, what had prompted them to focus on this particular killer, and why transplant it to York? Perhaps it was as simple as the killer living in York, so they’d chosen to do it on their home turf, but it seemed strange to me. Copycat killers usually attempted to mimic every last detail of whoever they were emulating and changing the location so completely was a fairly drastic deviation.
On top of that, the earlier killings focused on targeting a completely different demographic of victims, older women in their sixties and seventies, not middle-aged who weren’t much beyond forty. For the first time since I’d heard of the link between the cases, I wondered whether they weren’t connected after all. The differences were stark, and I couldn’t see a reason for them. But I dismissed the thought relatively quickly. There might be clear and unexplained differences between the cases, but the similarities were just as striking, if not more so. I couldn’t accept that the distinctive mutilations to the feet and behind the knee were merely a coincidence, as well as the grazing on the elbows and knees.
Snakes in the Grass (A DI Mitchell Yorkshire Crime Thriller Book 5) Page 3
