Page 1 of Pure Killers

Chapter one

It’s been a long time since the lights were on in this part of town.

The building is lit up only in the flashing red and blue from the police cars, just enough to illuminate the graffiti on the crumbling walls.

I can only imagine the inside isn't in any greater shape. Though given what else awaits inside, crumbling walls are hardly a factor.

They're starting to set up the spotlights. I almost tell them not to bother, the sun will be up soon. Instead, I duck under the tape and into a narrow corridor. Off to either side, the offices still hold old computers that sit dead on waterlogged desks. Office chairs with chunks of their foam cushioning missing have sat empty for over three decades.

Everything in this part of Tregam is empty, except for when it’s not. Usually, that’s in the dead of night, made busy by the sort you don’t want to encounter alone in the dark. Conversation murmurs from the open doorway ahead, and dimlight, frequently broken by long shadows, glows into the water-stained hall.

Maybe I was wrong about the sun being up soon. I try not to make a habit of being awake before dawn. This was an early call, thanks to some kids in here just after midnight hours, doing hell knows what when they found the body.

When I step in, the scene is basically as I'd expected, and yet it still hits me with a wave of unease. When I can look at these things and not feel that, it's probably time for a career change. For now, I take in the body duct-taped to one of those tilted office chairs, the pool of dark red under the wheels. Other, finer things stand out to my eye too—the length of rope lying discarded on the desk and the dark spatter across the computer screen behind, narrow and precise. No signs of a struggle, though that will have to be confirmed later, by the small army of lab technicians in here taking photos of just about every inch of the place.

The floor is half-rotted and bowing down into the foundations ahead, and I step around that part to reach my partner, where he's crouching by the side of the chair. He made it here before me, he often does. I don't sleep much, but sometimes I wonder if he sleeps at all.

Dirk turns his face up at the sound of my footsteps. He looks pale in the harsh white light, normally hazel eyes turned black by the shadow over his brow. "El," he greets me, passing me some rubber gloves. I pull them on, eyeing the frayed rope on the desk, and the telling bruising around the victim’s throat, with his head tilted back against the backrest. I’m not awake enough to look at the face yet. That’s the type of thing you need to be primed for.

"I suppose this is Strangler?" I ask. It doesn't take a detective to work that out. Because there's something else littered around the room. I always try not to look at those faces either initially, to let myself see just the body and the crime.

But they're here, looking on now just as they would have been looking on when this man took his last breath not a handful of hours earlier. Pictures are framed and neatly placed on the desk, or stuck to the wall, even to the ceiling, sometimes. Here, in this case, the faces are all women, and for each happy smiling expression, there's the counter to it—grey and cold, a dark bruise around their throats, heads tilted back.

The victims of the victim.

Those pictures, the grey and dead ones, are not released to the public, but of course, the media gets their hands on them anyway. There’s always a way, someone willing to pocket the cash and look away for the time it takes to snap a photo.

"Appears to be Strangler, yeah," Dirk agrees, a sigh in his voice. "Making this the work of our very own Needler."

Knowing the dead man was no saint makes it easier to look at his face, at least. I aim my torch, the light finding its way into a mouth open like a black chasm, and then bloodshot, filmy eyes. What I’m looking for, I don’t know. We never find anything when it’s Needler, but it pays to stay in the habit. The face looks to be about 30, plain edging on attractive. That was our profile for the Strangler. A similar age to his victims, attractive enough to lure them away from safety but average enough not to be recalled by their friends later. We were close to finding him ourselves, so we thought.

But we didn't find him. The Needler beat us to it. Absently, I say, "Don't call him Needler. These people get off on fame."

“Trust me, that ship has well and truly sailed."

I ignore that. "Did you drive in?"

"Caught a lift with Seb."

I'm taking my gloves off, even though I only just put them on. This is high profile. The media will be here soon. And eyeing the lab techs, who we’re merely in the way of, I suggest, "I'll give you a lift back into the office? Unless you want to stick around?"

"Can we stop and get coffee?"

I roll my eyes. "Fine."

"You must be the only detective on Earth who doesn't drink coffee."

"Uh-huh."

We're headed for the door. At the dip in the floor, Dirk looks back. "Needler is consistent, I'll give him that." He's peeling off his gloves too. "He knows how not to get caught."

And how to make people notwantto catch him, I don't say. "We'll catch him," I say instead.

"Yeah, I guess," Dirk murmurs as he follows me. I shrug off the lacklustre tone of his voice, and pretend not to hear it. He's not the only one, not even the only cop, to doubt whether we should even find the Needler.

The city of Tregam has its very own ‘killer murderer’. This is the third in six months, the victims all confirmed serial killers as well. They all fit a specific mould. But people like to forget the first one; Needler's premiere victim. He didn't fit the mould.

Needler is some kind of hero of Tregam now, and it only gets worse with each new killer we find, pictures of their more innocent victims accusing their dead bodies. But I know better.

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