Page 13 of Pure Killers

I blow air out through my lips. “Okay.”

“H-he actually t-turned himself in?”

“Yeah. Scared of our killer, it seems.”

Another shy smile. “No one ever said m-murderers were brave.”

“True enough," I shrug. "But then, that should also be true of our Needler.”

“Maybe he’s just g-got different fears.”

“Well, it’s my job to find them!” I say with more gusto than I feel. At the door, I turn back. “Thanks, Seb.”

***

Our Needler wears a mask. Of course he does.

One of those steel ones, moulded to the shape of the face, with wide slits for eyes. As I stare at the sketch, my eyes follow the bottom line of the steel, where it follows the curve of his cheek, then up and over the tip of the nose. It leaves his mouth bare, and while that should lend something- anything- to identify him by, it doesn't. Black smears across his lips and jaw, distorting anything identifiable, just like it hides what skin would be visible around his eyes through the slits. All that can be defined of his mouth is a straight line. The jawline is attractive, strong, and shaven.

That’s all we’ve got to go on. Not even a hair colour, since the mask sweeps back, a bit like a helmet, disappearing into theshadow of a deep hood. And as for stature, as Grant said, tall, broad-shouldered, good posture. Not exactly enough to issue a description to the public.

I rub my eyes. How long have I been staring at this picture? It’s somehow gotten late.

The sound of footsteps lifts my head. "There you are," Dirk steps up to my desk, his eyes dropping to the desk, the sketch. I spin it towards him.

Picking it up, Dirk tells me, “I went out with Dean to the cellar the Tartan killer described.”

"Anything?"

"Not really. It was set up for the kill, that’s for sure, all the way down to the pictures, and a saw. But nothing that looks like it might identify the Needler yet." With a sigh, he tosses the sketch back onto the desk. It doesn't help us either.

"Come on, neither of us were supposed to even work today…"

"I'm not tired," I lie.

“El, you’ve been at it for over twenty-four hours. Staring at a metal mask isn’t helping anybody. Let me drive you home.”

The drive is quiet except for the pattering rain, which is quickly building back up into another downpour. Dirk can tell my mood is low. “It’s a sketch," he points out to me. "It’s better than nothing. Which is what we had before.”

“You’re right.” I run my hands down my face. “He made a mistake. That’s something. Do you think he was ever in the glass factory? Where did the sand come from?”

“I don’t know. Look, it’s cordoned off now. Just stop thinking about this long enough to get some sleep, huh?”

***

When I get home, my housemate Olivia is in the kitchen, in a man’s shirt that only just reaches the bottom of her butt. She looks around the pantry door at the sound of my footsteps. "Jesus, when was the last time you slept?" Olivia’s large green eyes, almost too big for her slightly gaunt face, grow wide when they alight on me. She’s pretty in an acquired sort of way, with a small pert nose that looks from some angles suspiciously like it might not be the one she was born with.

"I could ask you the same thing," I say, eying her shirt. "Has Ryan been here all day?"

Letting the pantry door tap closed, a horde of snacks to take back to her bedroom bundled in her arms, she grins. "It's Andy, actually. And yes. We're marathoning."

I don't askwhatthey're marathoning.

"But hey, there's some spaghetti left in the fridge if you haven't had dinner. You feeling alright? You look wiped."

"Long day, that’s all." I force a smile. I've been Olivia's housemate for going on two years, ever since I replied to her ad in the paper. It seems she'd had trouble finding someone to take up the lease with her. I'm not sure why, as although we don't cross paths much, what with my work schedule and her retail job combined with what is apparently a bottomless pool of energy for going out, she's palatable enough to live with, clean, quiet…. most of the time.

"Okay, gotta get back," Olivia says, hugging her supplies to her chest as she scurries out of the kitchen. Her straight brown hair is mussed and messy from the back as I watch her go, and an inch of bright blond regrowth adds to the effect. At least her bedroom is on the opposite side of the apartment to mine, next to the kitchen while mine faces it across an open-plan living room. It’s a small place, with windows only at one end, facing a brick wall bare metres away from the fire escape, but it’s enough considering the amount that I’m home.

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