Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  Walking slowly across the street, she stepped into the shop. The image in her mind was crystal clear, every detail committed to memory. Where there were gaps in her knowledge, a blur shaded across that area, a trinket on a shelf she had forgotten, blurry and indistinct. James Smith, now alive and well, stood in the middle of the floor staring at her mutely. She had no voice for him, but she would give him chance to tell his story.

  She walked behind him, holding the axe in her hands and swung it in a looping arc, her full strength behind the blow. Both hands held the end of the long wooden handle as her body arched forward. The blow was sickening, the splintering crunch of bone as the back of the axe head made contact, the length of the handle and speed of the blow giving it tremendous force and momentum. Blood lanced out at shocking speed, bright in the dim light, and splattered over Anders.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She would stare hard into the abyss and dare it to return the challenge. She was not afraid of the worst humanity had to offer. She’d endured it, the pain manifest on her body. She saw the darkness reflected in her own image each day and knew herself the embodiment of humanity, capable of both good and evil. She fought for those who had suffered and died because she was touched by darkness yet laced through with light. Just as we are capable of the foulest of deeds, we are capable of the greatest compassion. Anders chose compassion. Had been forged in fire and brimstone, been torn asunder and suffered redemption through transformation. She turned from darkness willingly and so stared hard at the evils of men knowing that she could not be tainted or sullied any further by it.

  Smith’s body slumped to the floor as if a marionette with the strings cut. Anders swung again, crashing the axe into his head as he lay prone on the ground. She stood straight, panting as she did so, leaning on the axe as she surveyed her work. Mentally, she lay the blood spatter analysis over the scene and muttered to herself. It wasn’t right.

  Focusing once more, James Smith stood up, perfectly unharmed, and walked slowly back to the middle of the floor, his eyes following her as she stood in front of him. She swung the axe once more, blood splashing the ceiling in the same spot that they’d discovered earlier. Smith’s body slumped down, crashing against the counter and sitting upright as he jammed against it.

  Anders swung again and again, turning his head into a bloody mess, blood splashing on the floor, covering her face and dripping from her in rivulets of gore. Skull fragments flew in all directions and lumps of brain smeared into the unit behind. An eye popped out from the skull and snaked across the floor, coming to a slithering halt beneath a shelf for Ben to find later.

  Her energy spent, Anders surveyed the carnage. She turned to see a blurred shape to her left. Streaks of blood had stopped at that point and the figure watched as Smith was brutally murdered. Recalling the witness testimony, she pictured the blurred figure shouting, then cheering. Stepping backwards, she placed an image of Mitch over the blurred image. Too tall. Blood spotted the wall behind. Taking Smith’s height and that of his son, the trajectory didn’t match. It was travelling too fast to dip, so it had to be someone shorter. Beth, the cashier. Height matched. Did the wife wear heels? That would make her the right height if she was.

  Thrusting the axe into the floor by Smith’s body, Anders stepped back, blood dripping from her sleeves and hands. She paused the scene in her mind and stepped away to look back at the figure who’d bludgeoned a man to death. Though blurry, she was forming an image in her mind and it came to sharp relief. The second figure was troubling her and she moved around the scene to get a better image, looping round the left to come behind the figure on the right. She then saw a smudge of blood on the floor and frowned at the smear. The direction was all wrong. It didn’t match any other splatter.

  Retracing her steps, she replayed the scene, wielding the axe on Smith over and over again, using different scenarios of the two people, where they would move and how, but that smudge kept coming back. She couldn’t find a reason for it, no matter how she moved the protagonists. Suddenly the answer hit Anders and she snapped her eyes open to find herself back in the workroom, paper littered around her. She gave a rueful shake of the head and muttered quietly in the silence.

  “Well I’ll be damned.”

  Chapter 11

  Beth, Janice and Mitch sat in Abi’s office as Anders and Jesse watched them through one of his monitors. Anders had sent two uniformed officers to bring them in and they’d arrived protesting at the early hour. Anders had wanted them unsettled and thought that a three a.m. call would be good for them. Jesse had disagreed and grumbled at Anders as she sat next to him. Despite the early hour, he was impeccably dressed and Anders thought him the best dressed Blackhat she’d ever met.

  “A man like me,” he said. “He needs his beauty sleep. You think looking this good comes easy? No, that would be a carefully planned routine of exercise, nutrition, positive mental attitude, women and sleep. The five pillars of life. See how they all intertwine. See how they all require each other for a stable foundation to healthy living.” Anders squeezed his thigh and grinned at him. He sighed theatrically.

  “It’s not right you being so good looking and having such scant regard for the welfare of those around you. Makes us susceptible to manipulation.”

  “I’d never manipulate you Jesse,” replied Anders sweetly. “Punching you in the face is much more fun.” He surreptitiously moved his hand to his jaw where she had broken it all those years ago. He chuckled.

  “I did deserve that. I was kinda a dick back in the day.”

  “Was?” asked Anders, ignoring his hurt expression and concentrating on one of the monitors on his desk. The main hub was empty save for the two of them and only the lights on his desk were on. Anders had debated whether to call Mal, but he’d looked so tired when he stumbled from the antique store, that she thought it best to let him sleep. It hadn’t occurred to her to call the others. Everyone had pulled a triple shift and tempers were frayed.

  In silence, they watched the three suspects, Jesse turning up the sound slightly so that they could hear the conversation. Beth’s voice came through the speaker, a thin immature sound that gave lie to the adult that spoke it. She wore jeans and a baggy jumper, though Anders noted that her coat was Dolce&Gabbana and the jewellery she wore far outside her pay bracket.

  “Champagne lifestyle on beer money,” muttered Jesse, sensing Anders’ thoughts. She nodded her agreement as they listened to Beth speak.

  “Why are we here? What’s going on? They can’t keep us here without telling us why!”

  She held Mitch’s hand as she spoke and he stroked her arm reassuringly. He was a little taller than his father had been, but his shoulders were broad. His blue eyes radiated intelligence, but Anders could see that Beth had turned his head. He looked young, barely twenty, but the relationship with Beth jarred a little. Anders couldn’t see the fit. As if Beth suffered him until something better came along.

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “They just want to ask a few questions. Solve this case quickly.” She started to whine again but Janice cut her off. She was a sour faced woman, all skin and bone with greying hair tied severely behind her back. Her voice was husked by years of smoking and came out in a growl.

  “Watch your tongue,” she said. “Shut your trap and this will soon be over.” A sullen silence settled over the group and Anders clapped her hands together.

  “Right,” she said. “Let’s get them their own rooms shall we?”

  The basement held three interrogation rooms, all grey bricks and steel pipes with one table and three chairs in each. They were dimly lit and forbidding, with large one-way mirrors covering an entire wall. Anders and Jesse invited them into each one, maintaining pleasantries and giving the impression that this was merely to wrap up a few loose ends in their investigation. Once they were seated, Anders walked back to Jesse and told him to start recording.

  “Visual and audio please.” He gave her a thumbs up, put some large headphon
es on to listen to the conversation and told Anders to switch to channel three on her earpiece so that he could communicate with her. She decided to start with the wife and opened the door to the room with an apology for keeping her waiting.

  “And I must apologise for the late hour,” she said. “I’m sure you understand that investigations of this nature must be dealt with swiftly. Can I get you a drink at all?” Janice pursed her lips in disapproval, her hands clasping the handbag that rested on her lap. She wore an old coat that had seen better years, let alone days, and her earrings showed the metal glinting through the gold plating as it wore off. Her clothing and shoes were functional. No heels on this lady.

  “Before we start, may I offer my condolences for your loss. This must be a very difficult time for you.”

  “It is,” she said, her gravelly voice a contrast to Anders’ soft American tones. “I’m happy to answer your questions as best I can, but I’ve not slept. If we could get this over with, I would very much appreciate it.” Anders gave an acquiescent nod of her head.

  “Of course. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about your husband. What sort of person was he? Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might have wished him harm.” Janice gave an impatient sigh.

  “I told all this to the blonde detective who interviewed me. He was a wonderful man, a wonderful husband and everyone loved him.”

  “How long had you been struggling with debt?” Janice frowned, caught off guard by the question. It had been a guess, but Anders’ suspicions were confirmed.

  “Antique’s is hardly a booming business. James was always after that one find. The one item that would clear our debts.”

  “Did he have any luck?” Janice gave a contemptuous snarl.

  “No.”

  “Beth is well paid though. How can you afford her wages? I wouldn’t imagine that the shop was busy enough for extra staff.” Janice sneered at the mention of Beth and Anders probed deeper. “How long has she been dating Mitch? That’s a lovely coat he’s bought her. I was looking to get one myself, but I don’t have two grand spare.” Janice paled at that and clenched her hands tighter, gripping her handbag with a creak of leather. Anders changed tack once more.

  “You said you cooked your husband a meal at seven. Why did he go back to the store after?”

  “He loved his silly little shop. It made him happy to be surrounded by the past. Could never see the sense of it myself. We live in the present.”

  “The past informs who we are, shows us where we may go.” Janice coughed loudly as her retort was swallowed up in a fit of hacking and wheezing.

  “Here, let me get you a drink.” Anders stood to leave and told Jesse to get her a drink as she stepped into the next room. Beth sat at the desk, coat over her knees, scowling at Anders as she sat down in front of her.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, and I must apologise for asking you to come here so early in the morning.” Beth shrugged and gazed at Anders wearily.

  “Do I need a lawyer?” Anders gave an easy smile.

  “I’m just asking you a few questions to help with our investigation. If you want a lawyer, I’m happy to call for one. He will arrive within a few hours.” Beth blanched and gave a curt shake of her head. Anders took that as a sign that she wasn’t requesting a lawyer and continued.

  “Mitch’s mum doesn’t like you very much does she?” Beth gave a rueful laugh.

  “Not much. Says an airhead like me isn’t good enough for him.”

  “You were with Mitch last night?” Beth nodded.

  “Yeah, watched some TV, had a pizza. The usual. Boring really.”

  “Tell me about Mr Smith?” Beth gave Anders a sad look. One that seemed genuine to her.

  “I liked him. He was always nice to me. Not like Janice. Paid me well and let me have the odd day off here and there.” She gave a look of such sorrow that Anders almost misread it.

  “Nice coat.” Beth smoothed the material as she considered it.

  “Yeah. Mitch likes to spoil me.” Anders gave a conspiratorial grin.

  “He do everything you ask?” Beth returned the grin.

  “Pretty much!” Anders chuckled and leaned back in her chair.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot to get you a drink. Tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee please. Black. No sugar.”

  “Coming right up.” Anders left the room and moved to Mitch’s, telling Jesse to get Beth a coffee.

  “I’m not a bloody waiter,” he muttered through her earpiece as Anders sat down opposite Mitch. He gave her a surly look and paced the bare room like a caged cheetah. Anders noted that his clothing looked as worn and threadbare as Janice’s.

  “Thank you for your patience Mitch,” started Anders and indicated that he could sit. Mitch pulled back the metal chair with a screeching sound and threw himself down. He leaned forward aggressively, hoping to intimidate Anders. He wasn’t successful. She continued leafing through her notes as if she wasn’t even aware of his anger.

  “How long are you going to keep us here?” he demanded. Anders indicated the door.

  “You’re not under arrest Mitch. I’m here because your father has been brutally murdered and I need you to help me find the killer.” Mitch gave an immature sounding laugh and rubbed his hands through his hair. Deflated, he sat back.

  “You know, according to the Peelian principles of law, you are just a citizen in uniform. You police by consent. If I don’t give that consent, you wouldn’t be able to legally arrest me.” Anders ignored his statement, leading the conversation to where she wanted it.

  “Were you and your father close?” Mitch made himself comfortable in the chair as he considered his answer.

  “No more so than Socrates was with his.” Anders sighed inwardly. In her ear, Jesse spoke with a wry chuckle.

  “Oh yeah. He studied philosophy at Bristol University.”

  “Socrates was the son of his mother,” she replied. “Are you close to yours?” Mitch gave her a sly look.

  “I guess.”

  “Plato often talked about how the interests of the father correlate to how well their sons actually turn out. What exactly is it that you do?” A glare of contempt.

  “I helped my father with his work.”

  “You don’t seem that shook up about his death.”

  “I’m no expert in death. As a concept it is an abstract notion, hardly real.”

  “Loss is real.”

  “Loss is real. Grief isn’t. How we cope with loss, how we manage that and articulate it to ourselves is what causes the pain.”

  “But if death isn’t real, then neither is loss.”

  “The pain from the loss cannot be if death isn’t an absolute.” Jesse grunted in Anders’ earpiece.

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Anders reached up and switched off the earpiece. Her mind was racing to try and tease the information she needed from Mitch.

  “Death is an absolute if you believe in it,” she said. “Either way, it’s not an experience you’ll ever have.” Mitch, suddenly animated, leaned forward to exchange his ideas as he warmed to the topic.

  “Exactly! So I deny the absolutism of death. It most certainly is not contingent.”

  “It may not be true and our perception of it may be imperfect, but the reality of nature is not imperfect despite what Spinoza would have us believe.” Mitch rapped the table in delight.

  “That’s it! So our perception of the world is wrong. We see things as we want to. We give definite terms to death and life and meaning, but the true reality is that we cannot do so. If death is real, then it is a rebirth, a gateway to another world, temporal or otherwise. If death is not real, then it is simply the end.” Anders leaned forward, drawing him in further.

  “So we’re led to metempsychosis. The transmigration of our souls. How can you kill someone if death is either not real or if they reincarnate if it is real? You’re telling me that no one can truly die?” Mitch slapped his hand on the desk in triu
mph, grinning with enjoyment.

  “And here’s me thinking all cops were dumb!” Anders cackled with delight, seemingly attuned to Mitch’s way of thinking.

  “So by that rationale, how can you have killed you father when he can’t die?”

  “Exactly!” cried Mitch. His features dropped as he realised his mistake.

  “Hang on,” he said, suddenly nervous. “That wasn’t a confession.” Anders pushed home her advantage.

  “Beth is way out of your league. You try that philosophy crap with her?” He flushed, his cheeks burning red with anger.

  “She loves me,” he declared.

  “Sure. She loves the two thousand pound coat you bought her and the flashy jewellery. I’m pretty sure I’ll find a Magistrate in the morning who’ll let me look at your finances. How much debt do you have?”

  “She loves me!” he repeated. Anders gave him a pitying smile.

  “Aww shucks,” she said. “All your highbrow talk and fancy ideas and you still need to buy her affection. Mitch Smith, I am informing you of your rights to a lawyer. You are being detained here on suspicion of murder.” Mitch stood up quickly, his chair falling back as it slammed against a wall.

  “I’ve not confessed to anything. I don’t recognise your right to do that. You do not have my consent!” Anders stood up with a nonchalance that infuriated Mitch.

  “That consent is given by the people of the nation, not by the individual. Get your bullcrap right before giving me the Wikipedia highlights.”

  She locked the door behind her and switched on her earpiece to find Jesse guffawing with laughter.

  “Agent Anders!” he cried. “I fall in love with you more every day!”