Burnside's Killer: Extended Version (The Hunter Legacy Book 6)

by Timothy Ellis

  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.

  "I, uh, suppose it's possible that she's independently wealthy," said the doc. "It's also possible that she stole from her victims, and it hasn't been discovered yet. There are other explanations as well."

  "Yeah, there are," I said. "And one of them is that I'm not chasing a serial killer."

  Flint glowered at me.

  "Why are you so goddamn stubborn, Burnside? Dr. Pritchett has given you more to go on than you've managed to gather in months. Just listen to her!"

  I looked from him to her, and back to him again. He was right, I should have just accepted the help, and thanked her. But something just wasn't sitting right with what she was saying, even though it made more sense than anything I'd come up with on my own.

  "You're right," I said finally. "It's as good a theory as any, and I appreciate your help with this, Doctor. I'll study the information you sent me, and see what I can use from it."

  Dr. Pritchett stood, and shook my hand before gathering her things.

  "Stay in touch," she said. "I'd be happy to offer my assistance any time you need it. You only need to call, and I'll be there."

  The hint of a smile on her full lips made me wonder if maybe she was trying to send me a signal that her interest was more than just professional, but I dismissed that right away. A young gal like her wouldn't be interested in a broken down old cop like me.

  After she left, Flint turned on me, grumpy as usual.

  "Look, Burnside," he said. "I need to let the brass know that you're on top of this case, and this serial killer theory is the only thing we've got. So if that's what it takes to keep them off my ass, that's what I'm going to tell them. And it gives you something to go on, at least. So kindly stop being such a prick, and just get on with your job!"

  I managed to leave without telling him to go pound moon dust up his ass, but just barely.

  Eleven

  It was almost a month before the next one happened, and I was still no closer to predicting the victim.

  This time it was on Frankfurt, and the latest dickless wonder was one Erasmus Livingstone. Frankfurt was a long way from Earth, part of the German sub-sector on the up-spine part of the Earth sector. After the war a hundred years ago, no-one trusted the Germans enough to let them fully govern themselves again. Frankfurt was well off the spine, half way around a circle of systems.

  It was beginning to bother me I seemed to be falling behind. With no way of predicting where the next kill would be made, I couldn’t keep up.

  As the Calypso hurtled through space between the Earth Torus and Frankfurt, all I could do was review Dr. Pritchett's notes on the possible motives that drove the killer. Repressed sexuality was a common thread, though she couldn't nail it down to anything specific. One possibility she touched on was the killer was actually a male-to-female transsexual who was very good at disguising himself, but I got the sense she only came up with that one to explain how Arnem Heissman ended up on the table.

  Another of her theories built on that line of thought, that the dismembered members represented some sort of transformation in her mind, and that the killer ultimately wanted to become a man through her murders. I threw that one out without much thought, since it would have been infinitely easier just to go to a damn doctor and have the procedure done, psychological problems or not. I'm a big believer in not overthinking things if you don't have to.

  After I finally finished her report, I turned my attention to Livingstone, the new vic. Unlike the other five, this one was a straight-up criminal. Nothing that had been able to stick, mind you, but more than enough associations, implications and connections to know the only reason he wasn't in a cell was because he had enough money to hire the best lawyers.

  Like the others except Heissman, the MO in Livingstone's case was by the book. No blood, in bed, no struggle. He was a big dude, taller than me, probably another ten kilos of solid muscle. I got the sense this was a guy who liked to do his own dirty work when given the opportunity.

  Reviewing the hollos of the scene did me no more good than any of the others had. His apartment was flashy and expensive, but nothing out of the ordinary. He'd been seen in a nightclub prior to the murder, but the VIP section didn't allow any vid recording, so there was nothing to narrow down who he might have been with. My hope was once I got to Frankfurt, I could start interviewing people who'd seen him before he'd gone home for the night.

  As the Calypso landed, my mind was on finding something, anything, that might move my investigation forward.

  I had no idea I'd be fighting for my life before the night was over.

  The Jump Point was a thumping disco which catered to Frankfurt's modern crowd, with exotic drinks, exotic music, and exotic men and women dancing like their lives depended on it.

  I stuck out like a sore thumb in my trench coat and hat, but it did the trick. This time, I wanted to look conspicuous, because the people I was going to be talking to were on the periphery of the criminal element, which meant they'd sing fast and loud to get me away from them. None of them wanted to be seen talking to a detective for too long.

  My first contact was with a stubby little fellow named Bleecker, who the local cops told me was Erasmus Livingstone's fixer. When Livingstone wanted something done, whether it was paying off a woman he'd assaulted, getting an associate out of jail, or setting up a deal to buy or sell illegal goods, Bleecker was the go-to guy. He was sitting in the VIP section with a handful of goons, and three beautiful women in what I suppose pass for dresses these days, when I walked in.

  "Calvin Bleecker?" I asked, flashing my badge. "Detective Richard Burnside, ESPD."

  His beady eyes widened as he caught sight of me.

  "This about Livingstone?"

  "You're as bright as I've heard." I took a seat across the table from him. "Are you the one who took over his operation now that he's dead?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he said mildly. "Mr. Livingstone was a retired businessman. I simply did some legal work for him."

  "Uh-huh. Look, I don't give a shit about any of that. I just want to know who was with him the night he was murdered."

  "So it was murder?" he asked, peering at me. "Local cops never gave the cause of death."

  They'd been told to keep quiet about it, and I wasn't about to be the one who let the cat out of the bag, so I played along.

  "Let's just say his lifestyle finally caught up to him," I said. "Assuming you weren't the one who did it, how about you tell me who else was around him that night?"

  He frowned a bit at the implication he was behind the death of his boss, but he kept his composure.

  "Erasmus Livingstone was a prince," he said. "I want whoever offed him to pay as much as you do. More even."

  "Then give me a lead."

  He waved away his entourage, who all got up and headed toward the dance floor, leaving the two of us alone at the table. I glanced around and confirmed there were no visible vid cams anywhere.

  "I don't think you're going to get anything of value here, Detective," Bleecker said in a low voice. "Ras was with a few lady friends and myself that night, and I've got an alibi."

  "How do you know it wasn't one of the women?"

  The look on his face told me he hadn't considered it.

  "It was just a typical crowd," he said. "You know, they come in looking for free drinks, maybe a night with Ras, then they're gone in the morning. He was like that. Certain women were attracted to his lifestyle. The danger, the money."

  "Looks like one of them was the dangerous one that night," I said. "Can you describe them to me?"

  "They were like all his women, young, hot, not too bright."

  "Ever see any of them after that night?"

  "Do I loo
k like someone who pays attention to that shit? I just paid the bill at the end of the night, that's all. Whatever Ras did with them after he left was his business, not mine."

  "Did he take a liking to any one in particular that night?"

  He screwed up his face. Apparently thinking was a physical effort for the man. After several long moments, he nodded.

  "There was one," he said. "Jet black hair, long, like down to her ass. She was giggling at all his jokes and stroking his arms."

  "Can you remember more than hair color? That's not a hell of a lot of help."

  "Caucasian, average height. Trim build, decent rack."

  I made a mental note, and planned to check vid feeds around the club the night of the murder. The local PD hadn't found any feed tracking Livingstone after he left, but his apartment was just around the corner from the Jump Point, so that wasn't surprising.

  "Anything else that comes to mind?" I asked, getting ready to wrap things up.

  He shook his head.

  "It really was just an ordinary night. You really think it was that woman that killed him?"

  "Maybe." I pulsed my contact info to his PC. "If you see her again, let me know."

  I knew even as I left, that Bleecker would never see that woman again, and even if he did, he wouldn't contact me. But sometimes you have to go through the motions.

  He nodded as I left the table, and headed for the VIP bathrooms in the back. I had to piss like a race horse, and I was curious to see what the men's room would look like in such a swanky place. The door was an opaque force field, and when I walked in, I was hit with a scent of lavender and sandalwood. The urinals were the frictionless kind that simply evaporated all moisture as it left your body. No mess.

  That's what was going through my head, on the way to wash my hands, when the lights went out. An instant later, something hard connected with the back of my head, and knocked it towards the tile wall, where it bounced with a sickening thud.

  My balance tilted as I struggled to spin around and face my attacker in the dark. I knew the next blow was coming, so I got my arms up to fend it off, but my opponent had anticipated that. The next punch was aimed at my ribs, and knocked the wind out of me. I had just enough presence of mind to remember that I'd left my gun in the Calypso.

  Think, Burnside! I yelled at myself. Use your head, or you're going to die!

  I immediately dropped my ass by about a foot just as a haymaker went whistling through the air where my head had been a second earlier. I swung an uppercut in the general direction of where I thought my attacker was, and landed a glancing blow which made him whoof out some air.

  Staggering backwards, I ended up with my back propped against the wall, as I heard movement coming towards me. My right foot went up just as the body crushed into me, catching him in the chest, and sending him sprawling, at least I assumed it did, since the room was pitch dark. But it wasn't long before I felt a hard, round skull connect with my solar plexus, and knock me back and onto the floor. I remember thinking at the time, it had almost felt like being hit by steel.

  I struggled to my feet, and we exchanged a few more blows before he finally realized there was no way I was giving up. I saw a silhouette flash in front of the force field door that was illuminated by the light in the hallway beyond, before it disappeared.

  By the time I managed to follow, the hallway was empty. I ran into the VIP area, but the crowd milling about was more than thick enough to hide anyone. As I caught my breath, I looked over to Bleecker's table. He was still sitting there, oblivious, so I knew it hadn't been him. At least not directly, anyway. It was possible he'd sicced my attacker on me, but my gut was telling me whoever I'd just chased off, had been watching me since I came in, and had waited for the perfect time to strike.

  I gave the place one more scan before finally hobbling out, grabbing a bottle from the bartender on my way, and charging it to Bleecker's tab.

  Back on board the Calypso, I drank my booze, and nursed my ego.

  None of the physical injuries were permanent, but the thought I'd been caught flatfooted like that, bothered me. So did the fact whoever my attacker had been, it was almost certainly a male. He'd been almost my height, and the sound he made when I knocked the air out of him was definitely from a baritone voice.

  The idea of the accomplice, obviously, was top of my mind again. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made, just like when I'd applied it to the Heissman scene. Serial killers don't work with partners. I didn't need Dr. Pritchett to tell me that, and even if they did, I was all but certain the killer was long gone from Frankfurt by now, already stalking her next victim.

  So who had it been? Was it a random attack? Maybe it was just somebody who had a problem with cops. There was no reason for me to believe it had anything to do with my killer.

  And yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get myself to stop thinking that it did.

  Twelve

  The next ten months were a blur.

  Not because they went by quickly, on the contrary, they seemed to crawl like a snail through molasses, but because every day seemed almost exactly like the last, full of frustration, and headaches. And, of course, bodies suffering from a low penis count.

  Perhaps the only thing keeping me sane, was clearing up other people's messes for them. The further away from Earth I went, instead of becoming less well known, I seemed to be even better known, although in retrospect, my reputation was proving to be a pain in the arse. On every planet I stopped at, working my case, getting supplies, sightseeing, or whatever, the local PD asked me to consult on their weird cases no-one could solve. They all expected miracles, and all it needed was good police work. Most of them didn’t even raise my interest, but a side effect was keeping Captain Flint off my back, as consultancy fees flowed back to ESPD.

  The Calypso had become my home in that time, as we made our way up the spine, following body after body. Weeks in the vast emptiness of space with nothing but myself and my case files. I think I may actually have started going a little bit insane during that time, because I'd picked up the habit of talking to myself. Problem was, I was a shit conversationalist because I never had anything worth saying, just a long string of unanswered questions.

  Six weeks after I was attacked on Frankfurt, the next body was discovered on Poland, on the spine, the other side of the Balkan systems, and just before the Greek sub-sector.

  I'd already been on my way, on the basis there was a clear pattern of the killer moving up the spine, and sitting around waiting just made me get further away. As it was, once again the crime scene was very cold when I arrived.

  This vic, a middle-aged fellow named Conrad Patel, had been a recluse with no ties to the system I could turn up, outside of his fairly successful import-export business. The only thing which stood out about that case, was the wild-eyed woman who told me Patel had stolen her baby from her. Local PD said she'd been singing that tune to them for years, but they'd never turned up any evidence.

  From there, it was on to Cuba, another eight systems up the spine, where the Greek and Caribbean sub-sectors met. I'd been half way there, so in my mind, I was catching up again.

  The victim had been one of those 'life coaches' who tells you that you too, could be ultra-successful, if you just listened to him. Ignacio Cruz was certainly doing well himself. He owned a string of fitness centres, health food restaurants, and 'meditation retreats', which from what I could tell, were basically just resorts where people charged you to do yoga. All I could dig up on him was a string of ex-lovers he'd betrayed, usually with the next woman on my list. I'd talk to one, who'd tell me Cruz had slept with so-and-so, I'd talk to so-and-so, who'd tell me he cheated on her with what's-her-face, yadda, yadda, yadda.

  Of course, it got me thinking about the killer's motivation again. It was closer to the profile Dr. Pritchett had created, but I eventually decided it was just a coincidence. It didn't make sense she would travel all across the spine practicing killing men s
he didn't know, before returning home to slice up Ignacio Cruz. Or did it? At that point, I was willing to entertain just about any crazy idea, if it somehow managed to solve the goddamn case.

  As it turned out, none of the ideas I had going through my head were nearly as crazy as the real thing, but obviously I didn't know it at the time.

  From Cuba, it was on to Vegas. Now I’d left my jurisdiction again, and was heading into the American sector. Some rapid emails were exchanged between Flint and someone high up in APD, and as it happened, the next murder convinced everyone to cooperate.

  The victim was an accountant with a name as boring as his job, on the surface anyway. David Jones ran a small firm which dealt with a handful of equally boring clients. He had a wife, two children, a modest home, and was a member of his local service club. The only thing which set him apart from a million other guys, was the missing penis.

  Until I started digging that is. I recruited a white collar crime tech from the local PD, to look into Price's business, and discovered he might actually have been one of the biggest money launderers in the system. Thanks to the infinitely complex web of accounts Jones had set up, we weren't able to nail anything down, but there were more than enough red flags to prompt a local investigation on their own.

  I didn't care about that, of course. I was far more interested in tracking down a lead one of his service club buddies had passed along. David Jones was apparently a fan of prostitutes, and it smelled like the first real lead I'd had in a long time. I allowed myself to get my hopes up.

  Which made it all the worse when I couldn't track down a single record of Jones ever paying for sex, and no one I talked to in the trade seemed to know anything about him. I hit up a number of places where they were known to ply their trade, and not a single one had ever seen him. The last known vid of David Jones before he died was from the space port, sending his family off on a vacation, while he stayed home and took care of business.

  He took care of business, all right.