by Amy Cross
"Just chatting to someone," I reply.
"About the case?"
"I didn't find anything out," I continue, feeling a little annoyed with myself. I'd love to be able to solve this whole thing and give her the solution on a silver platter, but I guess I'm getting a little ahead of myself. "What about you?"
"A few things," she says as we reach her car.
"Like what?"
"Like..." She pauses for a moment as she unlocks the door, before turning to me. "I'll tell you later, if you need to know. You're not my partner, Ophelia."
I want to tell her to go fuck herself, but as she heads around to the driver's side, I figure I should probably keep my trap shut. She sees me as some kind of resource, to be used only when convenient, but I'm going to make her realize that I'm way smarter than she knows. I don't know how yet, but I swear to God, I'm going to solve her entire case for her, just to prove a point.
Chapter Three
Laura
"The bodies are piling up," Greenwell says as he lights a cigarette, "and suddenly this backwater case is starting to look like it might be a little more significant."
"I can handle it, Sir," I reply, buttoning my coat. It's 3am and we're standing in the car park around the back of the station, and it's clear that Greenwell is having second thoughts about my involvement with this case. "I've already made more of an inroad in a few days than anyone managed in weeks after the first body showed up."
"But no-one was really pushing back then," he points out, as he wind blows his cigarette out and he relights it. "I put you on this case because I thought it was a quiet one. I wanted you out of the limelight while all this Daniel Gregory bullshit blows over, but now I'm worried you're gonna end up pulling another high-profile gig, and that's something that worries me a great deal."
"You don't have faith in me?"
He pauses, and it's clear that the answer isn't straightforward.
"I'm getting there," I continue, determined to set the record straight. "I'm... coming up with answers. Tim Marshall and I are working on this one together, and we're already making some pretty big strides."
"And what about your other partner?" he asks skeptically. "You've got some kind of weird set-up going with a homeless girl, right? At least, that's what I'm led to believe. To be honest, though, I'm thinking that maybe I've got my wires crossed, 'cause I just don't understand what you could be thinking if you -"
"She has a unique perspective," I say firmly, interrupting him.
"Is that so?"
"She lives on the streets," I continue, "and that means she sees things that pass the rest of us by. She knows people who won't talk to the police. I know it's unorthodox, but we're dealing with a killer who targets homeless people, and that's a community that has traditionally been very resistant to any kind of police intervention."
"These are all good points," he replies as the wind blows his cigarette out again. Frowning, he pulls a lighter back out from his pocket and turns his back to the elements. "Still, I'm not sure they justify the approach you're taking. How do you think the papers would spin things if they found out that you're basically teaming up with some scrawny little kid you peeled off the pavement? You know the media has a way of spinning things, Laura. Hell, have you even checked into this girl's background?"
"It's tricky," I reply. "She won't tell me her surname."
"Oh," he replies with a faint smile, "fine, but apart from that, you can trust her, can you? You have no idea if she's got a history of extreme violence, but that's okay 'cause she's got a nice smile and she doesn't mind hanging around with you?" He stares at me for a moment. "I heard a little story that she was brought in a few days ago after some kind of disturbance with a hook? Please, I beg you, tell me that's not true."
"That was a coincidence," I tell him, "but it was the incident that brought her to my attention."
"And you're sure she's not dangerous?"
"I'm as sure as I can be."
"But you took her home, didn't you?" He pauses, and it's clear that he doesn't approve. "I'm sure this seems like a good idea from where you're standing, Laura, but from my point of view, it's a worrying development. You're making some very unusual decisions and in my opinion you're taking a huge risk. This girl could be anywhere on the crazy scale from zero to ten, and if she snaps, the whole thing could backfire on your spectacularly."
"So you're telling me to cut her loose?" I ask.
"I'm telling you to be more careful," he continues. "The Daniel Gregory case was one type of fuck-up, and this is another. Two different types of fuck-up so close together would have very bad consequences in terms of your continued employment, and that's not even counting the possibility that this girl could hurt someone. For all you know, Laura, she's got serious mental problems. What if she snaps and goes at someone with a knife? What if she uses her association with you in order to gain some kind of advantage? Hell, even if she's sweet as an angel, what if the media latches onto this and splashes the pair of you all over the front page? What if -" He pauses as the wind blows his cigarette out again. "Excuse me," he mutters as he starts to relight it.
"I should get back inside," I tell him, turning to walk away. "It's going to be a long night."
"So where is this homeless girl right now?" he asks. "At least tell me you've got her somewhere secure. She's in a cell, right?"
"Absolutely," I say, stopping at the door and turning back to him with a forced smile. "She's in a cell. More or less, anyway."
Chapter Four
Ophelia
"Can someone bring me a cup of coffee?" I ask, holding down the button on Laura's intercom. "Hello? Anyone there?"
Silence.
I try another button.
"Hello? Can someone bring me a coffee?" I wait for an answer. "And maybe some kind of cake? Hello? A little service?"
Again, silence.
"Nothing fucking works around here," I mutter as I stab at the other buttons, none of which seem to have much effect. Finally, figuring that no-one's going to bring me what I want, I lean back in the chair and put my feet up on Laura's desk, before grabbing the first file and opening it.
Sighing, I start reading through the report on Liz Read's murder. It's kind of freaky to think that just a month or so ago, I was probably chatting away to her. She wasn't exactly my best friend, but I liked her enough to talk to her from time to time, although her drug habit meant that I was always cautious. There are some people out there who like to forcibly inject heroin into non-addicts in order to get them hooked, and that's one of the tricks I've always been very careful to avoid. Liz seemed nice, but I could never be absolutely sure that she wouldn't turn out to be dangerous.
I turn the page and find the first of the autopsy photos.
"Bingo," I mutter as I squint to get a better look. The photo shows Liz's naked body on a slab, with a huge gash ripped out in her belly. I should probably be grossed out or haunted by the image, but the truth is, I've seen worse. In fact, there's a part of me that really wouldn't mind getting a proper look at the corpse, although I'm not sure how Laura would react if I made such a request. I guess I'll leave it for a while and see how things are looking later, but I definitely think it'd help my thought processes if I was able to really get my hands dirty.
After flicking through to the next part of the file, I read the coroner's report. It's fairly standard stuff, apart from a few sections that I don't really understand. I fire up the computer on Laura's desk, hoping to look up a few of the details online, but of course the damn thing is password-protected and after a couple of guesses I give up on trying to get into the system. Sometimes, I really don't understand why people are so desperate to keep everything locked down like this. Hell, what would be the harm in letting me access the police computer system?
"Hey," Laura says, leaning into the room suddenly. "You okay in here?"
"Can I have your password?" I ask.
She frowns.
"It's for work," I continue
. "I need to get onto the system so I can double-check a few of the terms in the coroner's report. I'm a little rusty when it comes to pathology."
"Absolutely not," she replies. "However..." Stepping over to the desk, she places a mobile phone in front of me. "This is for you."
"Why do I need a phone?" I ask.
"It's already activated," she continues. "Actually, it's under my name, so be careful with it, okay? I'll have it deactivated if you do anything dodgy with it. I just want to be sure I can get in touch with you without having to wander around shouting your name."
"And so you can track me," I point out. "These things are basically mobile surveillance units."
"You're being paranoid," she replies. "At the moment, I have to fuss about you if you go out of my field of vision. This way, I don't have to worry so much. I can still get hold of you."
"If I answer."
"Please try," she continues. "Come on, it's a free phone, what's the problem? I even added some credit so you can get some apps."
"What's an app?" I ask, picking the phone up and eying it suspiciously.
"You'll find out," she replies. "Anyway, I've got something even better for you."
"I'm fine here," I tell her as I turn the phone around, trying to find the keyboard. Finally, I realize that it's a touchscreen device. "I've only just started going through the files," I continue, putting the phone in my pocket and trying to make it seem that I'm not impressed. "I wouldn't mind some coffee and cake, though. I don't know if that's something you can get for me?"
"Do you want to come down to the morgue with me and watch the autopsy?" she asks.
I stare at her for a moment, trying to work out if she's joking.
"Well?" she adds. "We might actually learn something."
"Sure," I reply, setting the file down as I get up from the chair and head over to the door. "Can I still get coffee and cake, though? You know, for while we're watching?"
Chapter Five
Laura
"So this is Mark Galloway," Tim says as he stands on the other side of the table, looking down at the corpse. "Twenty-four years old, male, seems to have been average weight, height -"
He pauses for a moment, before glancing over at Ophelia, who's standing right next to me.
"Hi," she says with a smile.
"This is slightly irregular," he continues, turning to me. "Unauthorized personnel -"
"She's authorized," I reply. "I authorized her."
"I don't want it getting out that I agreed to this," he says.
"It won't," Ophelia tells him.
Sighing, he grabs a file from the counter.
"I've already examined the wound on Mr. Galloway's chest and neck, and I've determined his injuries to be consistent with the use of a large metal hook, which was inserted through the underside of his chin and then forced up into his mouth. A second hook, of more or less the same dimensions, was then used to rip open his -"
"An old hook or a new one?" Ophelia asks.
Tim looks at her, then at me, then back at her.
"I'm just thinking," she continues, "that I grabbed one of his hooks, so he must have got a replacement. Maybe he had some old ones knocking about, or maybe he went into town and picked up a new one."
Tim turns to me.
"Any ideas?" I ask. "It's a valid question."
"I actually ran a check for signs of rust in the wounds," Tim continues, seemingly a little annoyed, "and I found traces in both sites, indicating -"
"So he already had some other hooks," Ophelia says, interrupting him. "That's significant, right? What kind of person has a bunch of hooks already in his possession?"
"I'll need to run some more tests to be certain," Tim says, turning to me, "but for now I think it's safe to assume that, yes, the hooks used on Mr. Galloway were old and rusty. The main tear, running down from the center of the chest to the belly, was quick and resulted in breaks to seven of the subject's ribs. At this point, I can only assume that the cause of death must have been blood loss, although it's entirely possible that the victim had lost consciousness earlier in the ordeal. The lack of cries for help -"
"He had a big hook in his mouth," Ophelia points out. "Maybe that's the whole idea? It blocks the airway and makes it so he can't do much more than let out a muffled groan?"
"The injury to the neck might be consistent with such an approach," Tim says, clearly a little annoyed by the fact that Ophelia seems to be jumping in to anticipate almost everything he says. "It would certainly compromise his ability to call for help, although obviously we can't be certain that this is the primary motivation. Nothing about this situation makes too much sense, but if you look here..." He reaches out and indicates the torn skin just below the bottom rib. "I might be reading too much into it," he adds, "but it looks like he paused before finishing the job."
"Maybe to say something to the victim?" I suggest.
"I was thinking he might have been savoring the moment," he replies.
"Or letting someone else take over," Ophelia says.
We both turn to her.
"He started the job," she continues, staring at the dead body's chest, "and then he stopped so someone else could take the hook and finish it off. That'd explain the pause, and also..." She points at the tears on the lower part of the body. "The line isn't quite as straight here," she adds. "Less definite and controlled, almost like someone else was taking over, someone who wasn't quite as sure or..." She pauses. "Someone who wasn't quite as into it."
"That's a valid theory," Tim says, sounding a little surprised.
"It's almost as if there are two of them," Ophelia continues, "and one of them is teaching the other one how to do it. Like, he starts off and then gets the other one to finish, but the other one isn't quite so keen so it's a bit messy. Maybe that'd also explain..." Her voice trails off for a moment, and she seems lost in thought. "When I grabbed the hook the other night," she continues eventually, turning to me, "I wasn't trying to pull it out of his hands, but he let go anyway, and he made a noise like he was in pain."
"Maybe you caught him at an awkward angle," I reply.
"Or maybe his hands hurt." She pauses again. "Maybe he has a medical problem that limits his ability to do all of this. Arthritis would be a good fit."
"A serial killer with arthritis?" Tim replies, sounding a little skeptical. "That's... not something I've ever considered before."
"But it'd fit," Ophelia continues. "There are two of them, right? One's older and one's younger. The older one, I don't mean he's ancient, but he's at least in his fifties and he's got bad hands. The arthritis makes it hard for him to carry out a clean kill, so he has a kind of assistant. At the same time, the assistant isn't quite as into it as the older guy, so he's more careful, he's slower..."
"You're making quite a leap there," I point out.
"But it fits the facts," she continues, before turning to Tim. "Then we just have to work out why he's still doing it? If his hands hurt and he just wants to kill, there are easier ways to go about it. For some reason, he really wants to keep using the hook, even when his body is starting to give out on him. He's persevering despite the pain."
"It's a little off-the-wall," he replies, "but I guess it more or less fits with what we're seeing."
"Are you going to perform a full autopsy?" Ophelia asks him.
He nods.
"Can we watch?"
"I think we might have to start doing things by the book," he replies. "There are definitely rules about this sort of thing, and I've already bent them as much as I can. If you want to -"
"Can I use the rib-cracker?" she asks.
"The..." He pauses. "I'm sorry?"
"The thing you use to crack the ribs open," she continues, suddenly filled with enthusiasm. "I've always wanted to try one out." She turns to me. "Always!"
"Maybe another time," I say, patting her on the shoulder. "There's something I want to run by you, but we need to go back to my office -"
"Please,"
she continues, turning to Tim. "I swear to God, I won't tell anyone, but I really want to try it. Whenever I used to crack walnuts when I was younger, I always used to close my eyes and pretend that the sound was coming from the chest of a dead body." She pauses. "Is that weird?"
"Come on," I say, taking her by the arm and steering her toward the door. "You've come up with some good ideas, but we need to hammer them out and see if they actually lead anywhere. Tim works better alone, so we should let him get on with the autopsy in peace."
"You're no fun," she replies, although she's not resisting my efforts to get her out of the room. "I don't mean we'd have to stay for the whole autopsy, just for the bit when the ribs are cracked open."
"I'll call you when I've got the results," Tim calls after us.
"Thanks!" Ophelia shouts back.
"I think he was talking to me," I tell her as we head out into the corridor.
Chapter Six
Ophelia
"So there was a murder in the 1970s," I say, going through the file, "and then two more in the 1980s, and then nothing until recently?"
"There really might not be a link," Laura replies wearily. It's 7am and she's clearly not used to being up all night. Yawning, she takes another sip of coffee. "The only thing to really connect them is the use of a hook."
"And the way they were gutted," I point out.
She nods.
"So let's assume that it's the same guy," I continue, turning to the next page and then the next. "One murder in 1975, then another in 1980, one in 1982, and after that there's nothing for more than thirty years. It's clear that there are only two possible explanations. Either there were a lot of other murders that you guys missed, which is unlikely considering the way he goes about things, or for some reason he stopped for several periods in-between."
"No-one just stops like that," she replies.
"Unless they've got no choice," I reply. "What if he went to prison?"
"We were thinking about that, but -"
