Page 21 of Dropping Like Flies

“Are you with me, Ben?”

I jerked my gaze to Griffin’s, finding him regarding me with some measure of concern, the turmoil I was experiencing on the inside presumably showing on the outside. Either that or he could feel it. I took a deep breath in and then nodded. I might have doubts about this, but it was happening, so I needed to get with the program. “I’m with you.” And just like that, I let the shutters come down, the professional veneer that had served me well over the years sliding into place as I set my phone recording.

It was in the nick of time, Rupert’s eyelids fluttering for a few seconds before he opened his eyes to reveal they were a pale blue. He looked from me to Griffin and then back again, confusion clouding his features. Thankfully, Patrick had chosen to stay far enough back to not be in Rupert’s eyeline. Rupert’s mouth worked for a few seconds, like finding words was difficult. “Who are you? What’s happening?” He tried to sit up, Griffin pressing him back down and hastily pulling the towel back into position over his left hand when he almost dislodged it.

“DCI Ben Weaver,” I said, “and this is…”

“Griffin. Griffin Caldwell,” Griffin supplied when I hesitated. “You should stay still.”

Rupert blinked. “Why?”

Why had no one thought to give me a script for this? Reanimating dead victims and what questions to ask had never come up in my police training. Funny that. “There’s been an accident.”

“An accident?” Rupert’s gaze darted around the bedroom. “Did I fall? Did I hurt myself? Has someone called an ambulance?”

“Try not to panic,” I urged, the words sounding completely ridiculous given the circumstances. Rupert had been dead and would be again. How was he supposed to not panic about that? The answer was obvious, though. It was my job to make sure he didn’t find out about it. “I need to ask you some questions,” I said as calmly as I could.

“Questions about what?” He lifted his head and took in Griffin’s hand still pressed against his chest in case he tried to sit up again. “Am I bleeding? Are you a paramedic?”

Griffin and I exchanged a look. In this room, we didn’t have a complex relationship history. We weren’t two people who fate had decreed should be together, only for Griffin to decide that fate was talking out of its arse. We were simply two men trying to get through a difficult situation. And as bizarre as it might be, I was glad it was him here with me. Griffin had always been good in a crisis. Until that crisis had involved him, anyway, and then he’d shown that just like the rest of us, he was only human.

“I’m not a paramedic,” Griffin said carefully. “But you have a wound and I’m keeping pressure on it until they get here. Is that okay?”

Rupert let his head drop back onto the carpet. “I guess so. I mean, thank you. Was I attacked?”

I wouldn’t get a better opening. “You were. And I need you to tell me as much as you can about the man who did it. So that we can find him before he does it to someone else.”

Rupert’s brow furrowed. “Can’t it wait until I’ve been to the hospital? I’d like to get medical treatment first, if that’s alright.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. It can’t wait. We think the man that attacked you is an extremely dangerous individual, and we need to apprehend him as quickly as possible. Where did you go tonight? Were you on your own or with friends? Who did you meet there?” My questioning technique was usually much smoother than this, a gradual build-up rather than firing questions out left, right, and center. I wasn’t usually on a time-crunch, though, Griffin having already informed me that bringing them back sometimes only lasted minutes. And at least a couple had already passed.

“It was my friend Amelia’s birthday,” Rupert said. “She was twenty-six, the first of us to hit that milestone.” A milestone that Rupert would never reach.

“Where did you go?” I repeated, keen to cut through anything that wouldn’t help us catch the bastard who’d done this.

“The Jigsaw Bar. They do two cocktails for the price of one on a Thursday.”

“Great. You’re doing great,” I said, excitement building in my chest. It was a start, at least. Somewhere to canvas the staff and the regulars to see if they’d noticed anything suspicious. Perhaps even to stake out if I could get the go-ahead. “Is that where you met the guy?”

Rupert shook his head and the excitement fizzled out. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. “There was no atmosphere there, so I didn’t stay. Nobody else wanted to leave, so I left in a bit of a huff.”

“Where did you go next?”

“I don’t remember. I remember being there, but I can’t remember where it was.”

“Think,” I urged. “Did you walk? Did you get a cab? Take the bus? How did you get there?”

Rupert thought hard for a moment. “I think I walked. I hate paying for cabs. They’re so bloody expensive.”

So it had to be a bar or a club within walking distance. That had to narrow it down. “Tell me what you do remember?”

“Nothing concrete. It’s all a bit of a blur. Maybe snatches of things.”

“Such as?” Rupert’s pause was long enough for panic to set in. What if all of this—clearing the room, facing Patrick’s understandable ire at defiling his crime scene, lying to a man who’d been murdered and telling him everything was going to be okay, having to work with Griffin of all people, was for nothing?

“He was good-looking,” Rupert finally said. “I felt flattered that he was interested in me.”

That wasn’t exactly a revelation when Satanic Romeo had been so successful in convincing men to take him home. “What else? Anything. No matter how small or inconsequential it might seem. Hair color? Eye color? Build?”

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