by Amy Cross
"Sorry," I mutter, stepping out of the way. As he starts to clean the doorway, I look along the street and see that commuters are already making their way to work. I'm usually up much earlier, which allows me to watch the city slowly coming to life in the morning, so it's a surprise to find that it's so late.
Stumbling through the crowd, I feel stiff and sore, not only from all the running I did last night but also from sleeping in an awkward position. The events of the previous night are still something of a blur; my head's always kind of unreliable in the mornings, but I definitely remember running for my life after I was almost killed by two men down by the river. It's kind of hard to believe that I could have been so stupid; I should have been aware that there might be two of them, but instead I just assumed it was a lone killer.
It's pure luck that I was able to get away, and luck is something I hate. You make your own luck, especially when you live on the streets.
When I reach the end of an alley, I shuffle away from the crowd. Stopping for a moment, I reach under my coats and pull out the prize I managed to grab last night: the hook that the man was planning to use on me. It's large, like something that'd be used on a fishing boat or some kind of industrial machine, and there's plenty of rust around the base, suggesting that it's an old hook that's seen a lot of use, but the rust has been removed from the main part, which makes me think that someone has been taking care of it.
Sitting on the ground, I try to get my mind to focus. All my thoughts are rushing in different directions and whereas I usually have a pretty good schedule worked out for each day, right now I'm genuinely not sure what I should do next. Going to the police isn't an option, but I'm worried that the owner of this hook might come looking for me. After all, if I'm right, he's been killing people for a while and I might be the first person who's ever managed to give him the slip. I also heard his voice, and he might be worried that I saw his face.
I need to get out of London, but for that to happen, I need to find Gary.
Chapter Three
Laura
"Jane Doe," Tim says, clearly a little annoyed with me as he walks around to the head of the table. "Late twenties, died some time between the night of September 28th and the morning of September 29th."
The naked body of a dead woman is laid out on the table, while nearby the body of this morning's victim has also been laid out, awaiting his autopsy. Now that they're side by side, it's clear that their injuries are more or less the same: in both cases, there looks to have been significant trauma to the mouth and neck, while the abdominal areas have been cut open and gouged out.
"Prints for both bodies have come up with nothing," Tim continues, tilting the dead woman's head back a little in order to give me a better view of the wound under her neck. "As you can probably see, this is consistent with the idea of a sharp object being inserted and then driven through the flesh until it emerges from the body. Like you said before, it could well have been a hook-shaped object and -"
"Let me see the teeth," I say, interrupting him.
Sighing, I pull back the woman's lips to reveal that several of her teeth have been broken and pushed out of her jaw. It's clear that something large and heavy has been forced out of her mouth. When I look more closely, I see that her tongue has been torn in half.
"See?" he says. "Same as the other body."
"Except on the other one," I point out, "the teeth were knocked inward. So he pushed the hook under the girl's neck and out through her mouth, but with the man he pushed the hook into her mouth and then down and out through her neck."
"It's possible," he mutters.
"It's probable," I counter. "Not a big difference, but it might indicate something about the timing. Maybe one method takes longer than the other, so he was in more of a rush when he was killing one of them." I look down at the man's naked body. "This one," I add. "Pushing the hook into the mouth first seems more brutal and forced. He was in a hurry. Either that, or he's varying his technique each time. Maybe he's trying different approaches, like he wants to develop his methods. He's practising."
"So the situation with the abdominal area is the same on both bodies," Tim continues, walking around to the other end of the male body. "In both cases, cuts were made and most of the intestinal matter was pulled out. Also in both cases, the intestines were found a short distance away, and as far as we can tell nothing was taken. It's quite possible that the victims were alive when this process began, although death was hopefully fairly swift. Then again, depending on how the intestines were pulled out and then removed, it's certainly possible that this wasn't a quick job. At a certain point, pain becomes almost irrelevant to the body."
"He gutted them," I reply. "Just like a fish. He caught them with a hook through the mouth, and then he sliced them open."
"You want to bring Captain Birdseye in for questioning? Pugwash too?"
"There has to be more to it," I continue. "Why go to all this trouble and then just dump the bodies without taking anything? No-one kills without a reason. Even if he knows these people aren't high-profile, he's still taking a risk, but he's not taking trophies or organs... It's as if, once they're dead, he doesn't need them any more."
"Maybe he just enjoys killing people."
"There's always more to it than that," I point out. "There's always some kind of twisted logic, but I'm not seeing it right now."
"There's no sign of any kind of assault," he replies. "Nothing sexual. I'm pretty sure we can also scrub robbery off the list. I mean, these are bums... They didn't exactly have anything worth stealing."
"So why's he doing it?" I ask. "I'm not getting the vibe that this was personal. He's choosing these people more or less at random, based on nothing more than the fact that he knows there won't be much of an investigation. I mean, if he did this to some pretty young blonde, it'd be all over the papers and we'd be devoting all our resources to finding him. A bunch of homeless people barely even register, which makes me think he's been thinking this through. He wants to kill, but he doesn't care who dies, so he chooses victims who are least likely to be missed."
"Cold," Tim points out.
"Calculating," I continue, "and not a sign of some crazed killer. He's thought about it and he's come up with a way to avoid drawing attention to himself." Pausing for a moment, I finally realize that this case could be much bigger than I'd ever anticipated. "What happens when a vagrant is found dead?" I ask, turning to Tim. "What's the standard procedure?"
"We always take a look at them," he replies wearily. "It's not like we tip 'em into a bin-bag and toss 'em away."
"But you don't exactly prioritize this kind of case, do you?" I continue. "I mean, even if there are signs of trauma, no-one's pushing to keep investigating. It's not like with Natasha Simonsen. We had her family constantly pressuring us to come up with answers, and the media were on our backs. Hell, that was half the problem. Without all that pressure, I might not have moved to charge Daniel Gregory so quickly. But this case is different. No-one gives a crap about a bunch of dead homeless kids." Walking over to the dead male, I look more closely at the wound in his neck. "If I wasn't making a fuss right now," I add, "what would you have done with this guy? Be honest."
"Laura -"
"Just tell me," I say firmly. "Forget the political correctness for a moment. What would you have done?"
"I'd have taken a look," he says with a sigh, "and I'd have noted the similarities between his wounds and the wounds of the Jane Doe body, and I've have mentioned those in my report for the investigating officer. The report would've gone up the chain, and then if there were any supplemental requests for information, I might have had to go back in and take another look, but most times..." He pauses. "People are busy, Laura. It's not that we don't care about these people, it's just that we care about other people more."
"And then what would happen?" I ask.
"And then the body would be put on ice for a while, someone would see if they could identify the victim, and eventually.
.." Heading over to the counter, he grabs a clipboard and passes it to me. "Actually, I was going to get you to sign this today. It's a body disposal form for the Jane Doe. We've tried to identify her but there's nothing to go on, so I want you to authorize a cremation. She's been taking up space for a while now, and we don't have the resources to keep her on ice indefinitely."
"Cremation?" I pause for a moment. "Then what? Where would her ashes go?"
"Officially, they'd be disposed of by the crematorium in a respectful manner. Unofficially, they'd probably be tipped into the bin. That's kind of what happens if no-one gives a damn about you."
"She's evidence," I reply as I take a look at the form. It's already been filled out, and all that's left is a space for my signature. Still, the whole thing feels so quick and clinical. "We can't just bin her."
"You think you can identify her?" he asks. "You've got nothing to go on. What exactly do you think you can do? Take a photo and go around asking a bunch of bums if they recognize her?"
"Someone must miss her," I point out.
"You sure about that?" he replies. "Run her through the missing persons database, but I guarantee you won't come up with anything. These people are on the scrapheap for a reason, Laura, and it's a one-way street. At most, there's probably some poor bastard somewhere who's glad she's gone. People don't tend to end up like this if they've got a nice caring family."
"I think..." Pausing, I realize that he's right. The odds of getting a name for either of these bodies is extremely low, but at the same time, I figure I should at least try. "One more week," I add, passing the clipboard back to him. "I've only started this case today, so I want one week to identify her. If I can't manage it, you can dispose of both these bodies, one week from today. I'll sign any form you like."
"You're just wasting your time," he replies. "This isn't the moment to get up on some moral crusade about the value of human life. It's a shame that this is how the world works, but you've got to face facts. By the time these poor bastards are killed, they've been off our radar for years. London's filled with people living on the streets, and most of them just sit around waiting to die. In a sick kinda way, you could almost say that they're better off dead."
"It's not about that," I continue. "It's about the possibility that there's a man with a hook out there, killing and gutting homeless people based on the assumption that no-one gives a damn. Call me crazy, but that's not the kind of London I want to live in, and there's also the fact that eventually he might move on to more photogenic victims. It's almost as if he's using homeless people for practice." I pause for a moment, finally starting to feel as if this case is attracting my undivided attention. "He might be working his way up to something more eye-catching," I add finally. "There has to be an end-game for him in all of this."
"Fine," Tim says with a sigh. "I suppose you're still gonna insist on a full autopsy for this poor bastard, aren't you? Just to really stuff up my day a bit more."
"Let me know the results as soon as they're in," I reply, heading to the door, "and don't forget to do that toxicology report. I want to know if there was anything unusual in his system. Maybe he was drugging them before they died, or maybe he was using addictions in some way. I just want all the bases covered. There are going to be more bodies like this, and we need to find the common factors."
"He's right, you know."
Stopping, I look back at him.
"The killer," Tim continues. "He's bang on. No-one cares about these people, and no-one misses them when they're gone. We can stand here all day, pretending that society values the people who've slipped through the cracks, but all we're really doing is trying to make ourselves feel better. The truth is, no-one really gives a damn. Whoever this killer is and for whatever reason he's targeting these people, you can't argue with him on that score."
"I care," I tell him.
"About the victims or about solving the case?"
Without answering him, I head to my office.
Chapter Four
Ophelia
More idiots.
"Hey, love!" one of them shouts. "Over here! Love, oi! Love!"
I keep walking.
It's too dangerous to look back.
There's something about me that just seems to attract attention from certain types of people. Most of the time, I can go about the city almost unnoticed, but every so often some asshole will spot me and give me some grief. I can usually get rid of them by walking away, although there have been times when I've been properly hassled. Inevitably, sex comes up.
"Hey!"
I just want them to leave me alone.
"Darling! What's wrong? Come over here for a minute, yeah?"
I keep walking.
"Can you flash us your tits for a fiver?"
Turning the next corner, I spot two police officers up ahead. They're chatting as they wander along the street, but there's no point in trying to get them to help me. I made that mistake once before, and all I got for my trouble was more hassle. The problem with cops is they think they know everything, and some of them are just bored enough to start probing. They ask who I am, what I'm doing on the streets, why I'm not at home, and a million other questions that are none of their business. Once, this overbearing bitch even tried to get me to go with her to some homeless shelter. I didn't even bother to tell her why I'm never going to one of those places again.
I ran then, and I'd run now.
Sometimes, I think the cops have started to recognize me. They give me shifty looks, and sometimes they smile. I've long assumed that they talk about me, although there's a part of me that worries I'm becoming paranoid. I suppose I really should look in a mirror some time, so I at least know what I'm working with. God knows what I look like, but after all this time on the streets, it can't be good.
Glancing down at my left hand, I see that it's mud-stained and pale. I guess the rest of me is much the same.
Nearby, a woman laughs.
As I walk past, one of the cops glances at me, but at least he doesn't try to stop me as I hurry past. I'm fully aware that I probably look a bit weird, but again, that's my business. Making my way around the next corner, I hurry on for another hundred feet or so, and then finally I look over my shoulder. Fortunately, there's no-one around, so I force myself to relax a little. It's no good living like this, always pumped and alert, and I need to get to my usual spot. I don't even have time to beg today, so I'll roll this afternoon's target over until tomorrow and just hope that I hit a good streak. Some people call it luck, but I call it hard work.
Trying to avoid the crowd as much as possible, I hurry toward the river.
Chapter Five
Laura
"August 1st, 1975," says Greenwell, placing a copy of an old newspaper front-page on my desk. "Ring any bells?"
"Not really," I reply. "That was ten years before I was born."
"It was five years after I joined the force," he says, sounding a little disgruntled. "God, I feel old sometimes."
Reading the headline, I immediately see why he's brought this to me. The story concerns a young woman from Rochdale who was found dead in a park, and it's clear that her injuries were remarkably similar to those we found on the two homeless victims. In fact, the similarities are so extreme, I find myself double-checking the date at the top of the page.
"Her name was Rachel Hemmingway," Greenwell continues. "I thought the M.O. rang a few bells, so I checked in the archives. It's not often that you come across a case where someone's taken a hook to a body, is it? The only difference is, Rachel Hemmingway was a bright, happy student who lived at home with her parents and had a boyfriend. Believe me, when she went missing, there were a lot of people who cared. Her father happened to know the assistant superintendent of the day, so you can imagine there was plenty of pressure. It was almost two days before she was found, but there must have been more than a hundred people out there joining the search."
"This is almost forty years old," I point out. "It can't be
connected."
"There was another one, about five years later," he continues. "I'm still trying to pull up the details, but it was in Edinburgh. A girl again, I can't remember her name. Two years later, there was a third victim, another woman. I wasn't assigned to those other cases at the time, but obviously people talked. We'd just started to link the murders together and investigate the possibility of a serial killer when, poof, it all stopped. No more deaths, no more disappearances, no more hook. After a while, it just seemed like it was all over."
"And they were all killed with a hook?" I ask, still reading the article.
"Through the mouth," he replies. "They had their bellies sliced open too."
"Was anyone ever arrested?"
"Such as?" he asks "There were no leads. About ten years ago, a cold-case team went over the forensics evidence again, but they still couldn't find anything." He pauses. "Those were different times back then, Laura. The media picked up on the deaths and ran a few stories, but they moved on pretty fast. There wasn't the viciousness back then that we get today. We didn't have the same pressure, and since the cases were never formally linked, there wasn't the impetus to keep investigating once the killings stopped. By the late eighties, it was clear that if one person was responsible for all three deaths, he'd stopped."
"Serial killers don't just stop," I point out. "No serial killer in history ever got to a point where he decided he'd killed enough and just wanted to bow out gracefully. They keep going."
"My theory was always that maybe he died," Greenwell replies. "Maybe one day he accidentally stepped in front of a bus, or just keeled over when he was heading out for a spot of murder. Ordinary people die, so why not a killer?" He shrugs. "Not every campaign of mass murder has to end in drama, does it? Then again, maybe something else stopped him. I suppose he could have gone to prison for an unrelated crime and we never put the two together. I know it's all very unlikely, but there are a few possible explanations. You're right, though. Something must have intervened."
