The Fairytale Killer : E&M Investigations Prequel

by Lena Bourne

  It’s almost six PM and I can’t wait to go meet Eva, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat anything with her. And it won’t be a long break either. I’ll have to come right back here with the hope that Schmitt or one of the other detectives conducting the interviews managed to soften up one of the junkies to tell us something useful. One of the twenty we’re holding has to have seen something. At least the damn fight with the Russian thugs.

  My phone buzzes and I hope it’s Eva, calling to see if we can meet earlier. Yes, we can.

  But it’s not Eva, it’s Sargent Ross.

  “I think I might have found something, Sir,” he says in that breathless, excited way of speaking he has. It grates on my already frayed nerves more than it should.

  “What is it?”

  “The fingerprint on the photo sent to the German police came back a hit in our own database,” he says.

  “Who?” I ask, my headache disappearing like it never was as adrenaline surges through my veins.

  “I can’t access that information, it’s marked confidential, it needs Level Five clearance,” he says. “You need to come in, Sir.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say and hang up. My heart’s thumping with that special sort of excitement of finally catching the man I’m looking for, even though it’s way too early to think it. But everything about this case has been weird and twisted, so I don’t even question it.

  I text Eva that something’s come up and I won’t be able to make dinner. I hate to do it, and it’s only the thought of all the dinners we’ll be able to share in peace after this fairytale monster is caught that makes me feel better.

  As I exit the building, the dwarf is once again at reception, arguing with an officer behind the desk, yelling that he demands to see a detective right away. He’s not going to have much luck getting one. Most of the available force has been routed to help conduct the interviews that will hopefully lead us to Greaves.

  I keep the windows open as I drive to the base too fast. The surge of adrenaline at hearing Ross’ news faded and left behind a full-on migraine, but I’m hoping the crisp cold air will take care of it. The evening gridlock is everywhere though, and the bright lights of the cars aren’t doing my headache any good.

  I broke several traffic laws, even going down a few one-way streets the wrong way, but it still took me almost an hour to reach the parking lot in front of HQ. There are only five cars still parked there and the streets and lanes around it, leading to other parts of the base, are completely empty, as though it’s the middle of the night instead of seven PM. More than half the identical windows in the HQ building are still lit though, and that’s the only sign that anyone’s even here. That and a soldier is standing in the gloom by the main entrance, wearing a black cap and a wrapped in a fat black parka.

  “Major Novak, sir,” he says as I reach him, and it’s only then I realize it’s Ross.

  “What are you doing out here, Sargent?” I ask. His cheeks and lips are pale white, only the tip of his nose red. He must’ve been standing out here for a while.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “I wanted to catch you before you came down to the lab.”

  I give him a questioning look.

  “I’ll explain in your office,” he says and starts for the door.

  I follow, hoping these theatrics aren’t just for show, and, at the same time, that they are.

  My office is on the second floor and smells of wood polish, leather, and dust that no one’s wiped well for years. It also has that unused musky smell, with a hint of something sour underneath, a remnant of all the cigarettes that were smoked in here back when this office was used regularly. The entire building still reeks of cigarette smoke despite it being forbidden to smoke in here for over forty years.

  I flip on the light and head straight for the window and open it.

  When I turn back around Ross is standing with his back to the closed door.

  “What’s going on Sargent?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s like this,” he says, moving farther into the room then coming to a stop again after taking two steps. “We weren’t having any luck with matching the print in any of our databases, and I mentioned it to Major-General Thompson when he came down to see how the investigation was progressing.”

  “He came to the lab? That’s not like him,” I interject. But it makes some sense that he would. I haven’t exactly been reporting to him regularly, hoping Blackman would do that since he was here all the time.

  “I know,” Ross says. “But he was there, Blackman at his side, and when it came to my turn to report I told him about the print. He suggested I check everything, even the sealed files.”

  “And what did you find?” I ask to speed him along.

  “The print belongs to a two-star General, Sir,” Ross mutters. “A Wallace Parcivall.”

  So Mirela had heard the name almost right.

  “But all I got was the name and general information,” Ross continues. “His record is sealed.”

  “Even Marisa didn’t have the clearance?” I ask. “And you didn’t think to go to Major-General Thompson with it?”

  Something about Ross has bothered me since I met him. I can’t tell if a very shrewd and calculated careerist is hiding behind his eager, diligent, and always helpful facade, or not. Sometimes I’m sure there is, other times I’m sure I’m wrong.

  “Him and CoBlackman left after he visited the lab and haven’t been back since,” he says. “And I thought you should know first. You see, General Parcivall died in 1999. He had a heart attack during a NATO training mission in the UK.”

  “That part of his file isn’t sealed?” I ask, confused.

  He shakes his head. “His whole file is sealed. Marked Top Secret even. An internet search told me about how he died.”

  A man whose military record is marked Top Secret yet has internet search hits, leaving fingerprints on photos taken more than a decade after his death makes absolutely no sense.

  The whirring of my computer as I turn it on and it powers up is keeping rhythm to the sinking feeling in my chest as I wonder if even I’ll be able to access those files. Probably not without Thompson’s approval. And files from the last century might not even be digitized yet. Which means they’ll have to be sent from whatever archive they’re kept in. Which means even more red tape to bypass since Top Secret files can’t exactly be mailed overnight. The first solid lead we’ve had and I can’t even follow it easily. Damn this twisted case!

  The slow, incessant whirring of my computer had me seriously wanting to punch a hole through the screen by the time it finally came on fully. I pulled up my chair—a fake leather work chair that is a lot less comfortable than it looks—and motioned Ross to take a seat across from me. Accessing the database, or intranet, took another agonizingly long fifteen minutes and by the time my clearance wasn’t enough to access the file my temper was flaring. And I’m usually very slow to anger.

  I take a couple of deep breaths before rolling my chair away from the computer and facing Ross again.

  “The Major-General will have to request the file,” I tell him, my voice betraying every bit of how mad that makes me.

  “Can you call him now?” Ross asks eagerly, while I’m still considering it.

  Thompson is probably at home having dinner right now and most likely won’t be able to get the ball rolling on this until tomorrow morning. But this isn’t just any case, and this development isn’t just any clue. It could hold the why of these gruesome killings, possibly even the who.

  “Go back to the lab,” I tell Ross. “I’ll meet you there in a little while.”

  Only his face betrays that he’s not happy about the order because he shoots up like an arrow and leaves promptly.

  I lean back in my seat, pull out my phone, and dial Thompson’s number. He picks up after the third ring, and the din in the background sounds like he’s in a busy restaurant, meaning he’s not alone. I explain the
situation and what I need as succinctly as I can, aware that people could be hearing what I’m asking for.

  “Put the request in writing and I’ll approve it tomorrow morning,” he says curtly and dismisses me.

  The fact that he’s outside and can’t speak freely could be blamed for his haste to get off the phone, but it still leaves a sour feeling in my stomach. That last two aspirin I took and the fresh air seems to have finally taken care of my headache, but the nausea in my stomach is still annoyingly present.

  Eva hasn’t returned my text and worrying about her reasons why would only bring back my headache. So I call her instead. After fifteen rings and no reply, I finally admit defeat.

  It’s not like her to ignore my calls, even when she’s angry at me. She’s much more likely to tell me at length what I did to piss her off. But maybe this is different. I’ve never yet canceled a date at the last minute with no explanation after she’d offered to give me the keys to her apartment. If I start worrying about that, I’ll lose the last little bit of drive to keep going I have left for today. She’s probably just busy. Or maybe she’s in an area with bad reception.

  I fire up the browser and start searching the internet for Wallace Parcivall. There isn’t much to be found. His obituary is the most comprehensive piece of information I can find, and the most important bits of it Ross already told me. Except he didn’t mention that Wallace, known to friends and family as Wally, was widowed and is survived by two children, a son, and a daughter. Their names aren’t listed.

  The write up also includes a long-winded history of his military exploits. Apparently, he earned his stars by being the man for the job in several international crises. For a time in the 1990s, he even acted as an advisor to the US President. But I’ll have to wait for his file to get the full details on all of that since it’s clearly not public knowledge.

  I close the browser and start typing up the request, keeping it brief and to the point. I plan on handing it to Thompson personally in the morning, while explaining the rest, which I’d rather not put into writing.

  My phone buzzes as I’m waiting for the letter to print, and I’m so sure it’s Eva—so happy it’s her, more like—that my stomach clenches in disappointment when I see it’s Ross again.

  “The DNA lab discovered something, Sir,” he tells me. “It’s significant.”

  I tell him I’ll be right there and hang up quickly before I say something meaner.

  I can’t help myself. This case is just one frustration after another and every time I start to hope the investigation has finally gotten wings, it grinds to a halt again, the sensation not unlike running headfirst into a brick wall. It was like that after the first two murders too, and I’m heartily sick of it.

  Down at the lab, Ross and Wanda are waiting for me in the main room. Marisa’s computer room is uncharacteristically dark, as is the office Blackman appropriated for his use. Maybe he’s finally gone out to do some investigating in the field, and I’m kind of annoyed he didn’t discuss that with me at all.

  “What is it?” I ask since neither of them is volunteering the information.

  Wanda blinks at me, her mouth open, but no sound coming out. Ross nudges her in a way he probably thinks I don’t see.

  “Right, Sir,” she says. “We have a DNA match, well not really a match, a strange connection, a half match.”

  Her shyness makes her ramble, and I know that. I feel bad for getting annoyed and it takes a genuine effort not to snap at her to hurry up and get to the information.

  She clears her throat, fixes her glasses, and looks at me again. “The hair that was found with the photographs is a familial match to the DNA found on the bodies.”

  Whoa. That information was almost worth waiting for. “Which DNA, the one from the rapes or the one found under one of the victim’s fingernails?”

  “From the rapes,” she stammers.

  “Familial as in what? Father and daughter?” I ask.

  “They have half the alleles in common, which signifies a close familial match, meaning they are close relatives, but I can’t tell you for certain whether that match is father-daughter, sister-brother or mother-son,” she rattles off. The only time she’s not timid and stuttering is when she’s explaining science.

  I wish she had more to give me, but this is already plenty.

  I dismiss Ross and Wanda and retreat to the room Blackman’s been using as his office. After a while of looking at the way he laid out the photos and the reports, I’m seeing no new connections and nothing to suggest that he found a solid one either.

  Yet the curtains seem to be parting on the why of these murders, but what’s behind them is still hazy and nondescript. Whatever the motive behind these killings is, it seems to have some kind of family component. Revenge for a wrongful death at the hands of a military man? Parcivall? Did he fake his own death and has now emerged as this Fairytale Killer? Or is he the original victim? Maybe his children blame the military for his death somehow and are using scenes from fairytales to let us know. But I don’t see a woman’s hand in these murders. They’re too cold, too methodical, almost to the point of diabolical. And revenge is a hot emotion. Even when it’s being served cold, it’s never as icily detached as these murders appear.

  All that is human was stripped from the victims in order to turn them into fictional characters. Even their blood. With all the serial killers I’ve studied, there was always a human element to it, something that connected the victim and the killer. But that’s not the case with this killer. He doesn’t even lay hands on them until after they’re dead. Even his method of killing his victims is detached. He poisons them. And while poison is a woman’s weapon, it is considered such because most women lack the physical strength to kill and dispose of a body. And everything about this case screams of physical strength. The bleeding, the posing, the carrying of a dead body up the stairs of the church tower, for pity’s sake.

  Unless it’s two people working in tandem, dividing the roles according to their skills.

  All of that is possible, but none of it is more possible than the next thing. Frustration-inducing at every turn. That’s the only certainty in this case.

  Eva still hasn’t contacted me.

  And I’m just about frustrated enough to go bang on her door and demand why. But that will lead to a massive argument that we might never recover from. I’m good at ending relationships, and completely inept at keeping them going, so I know that’d be a great way of ending this one. No. She just needs to cool off, and so do I.

  I can’t tell Schmitt what I’ve found, not yet, not if it leads to a two-star General, but I can go help interview some more of the junkies. Pretty soon they’ll start needing their next fix badly enough to tell us everything we want to know, I’m sure of it.

  23

  Eva

  I try to remember how I got here. But the icy cold spread from my neck all over my body in seconds. His vice-like grip on my forearm and his heavy arm around my neck was the only thing holding me up, as even my legs stopped working. He dragged me to a car parked on the sidewalk. A small van. White, I think. Parked between two large piles of snow already mostly black from the grime of the city.

  The last thing I promised myself before even the fuzzy, round lights of the world faded to black, was that I’d remember the way, that I’d fight unconsciousness and know where he took me.

  Instead, I woke up lying on a thin, bumpy mattress, its twisted and bent coils poking me in the back and legs. My head is resting on a hard, thin pillow, which is already making the back of my head and neck ache. I’ve been here a while. The drug he injected me with is wearing off.

  But my mind is far from clear, and I can’t see.

  My heart tries to race as I realize that, but it can’t so it just sends sharp, painful cramps through my chest and into my left arm.

  It’s just a blindfold. My eyelashes scrape against the soft cloth of it as I open them, and I can see something, just not much, not anything I ca
n recognize. The blindfold is thick, wide, and soft, its edges tickling the bridge of my nose.

  I can’t move either. My wrists and ankles are tied to the edges of the bed so firmly I can only move my legs and arms a few centimeters in either direction. The bindings are soft against my flesh, padded, the kind they use to restrain patients in hospitals.

  In that tiny part of my mind the drug he gave me didn’t muddle, I’m screaming, fighting against being restrained like this, like a piece of meat. My worst fear has always been being unable to move, being paralyzed. I can’t even stand inside the four walls of my apartment, and it’s a fairly large apartment, without needing to go out for at least an hour. How can I lay in bed and not move?

  But the panic doesn’t reach the muscles in my arms and legs. Doesn’t even cut through the dense fog clouding the rest of my mind very deeply.

  I have to concentrate. I have to clear the fog from my brain.

  Smell and hearing are the only two senses left to me.

  They’re not telling me much.

  A faint scent of snow, pristine and deep, hangs over the room. I can smell the mildew and damp of the mattress and old sweat on the pillow, sour and nasty. The room itself smells of wood and bleach. There’s a muskiness underneath, something unclean, like this is a room in an old house that’s impossible to clean thoroughly anymore. Another kind of scent grows thicker every so often, before fading away. It reminds me of raw meat.

  I can hear wood creaking as though the house is settling around me for the evening. Or maybe it’s footsteps. The silence in my prison is so thick it’s like a blanket over my head. I can hear the wind rattling against the window, making it chime, the way the messed up window in my apartment chimes. When that happens, the smell of snow intensifies and a freezing cold draft wafts over my bare legs and arms.

  If I could get free of my restraints, I could escape out that broken window.

  If I focused enough on clearing my head. If he came back in and undid my restraints.