Page 19 of Pure Killers

"Come on. I'll help."

"I really doubt it."

But she's already waving over a couple more guys, and one of them has his attention set on me. I smile politely, but sex with a strange man is the last thing I want right now. I wait for a lull in the conversation being shouted around the booth and excuse myself for the bathroom. As I squeeze past Olivia, I whisper to her, "See you at home."

She pouts after me but otherwise doesn't argue. The fact she even got me into this place is impressive enough, without keeping me here, or God forbid, convincing me to take some guy home. "Don't wait up." She gives me a wink. And indeed, I won't see her again until Monday morning.

Out into the fresh air of the night, I take a long breath, savouring the quiet, the chill in the air just cold enough to bring out gooseflesh on my arms. The streets are wet, but I can see the moon peeking between the tall buildings, so I figure I'm safe from getting caught in a downpour for the time being. I shrug on my jacket and decide to walk home.

The streets of Downtown here are lively on Saturday nights, but as I leave them, coming into the darker residential streets of my district, I can't help but look over my shoulder. Some level of paranoia goes with the job, I suppose. I've been to too many scenes where a woman just 'decided to enjoy the fresh air' and walk home.

Four blocks from my building, however, I need to admit that I'm not just being paranoid. Someone is following me and has been through several turns. I clutch my jacket tighter around me, taking faster steps. I catch sight of him around another corner. The street is narrow, crowded in by tall dark buildings on either side. He's short, but wide, and I can hear the thin chainson his pants jingle louder the more he closes the space between us. A guy from the club, then. He must have followed me out.

The end of this street seems far away. Everyone at the station needs to pass self-defence training twice a year, but it’s little more than box-ticking, Tregam’s answer to the handful of female detectives targeted by Cocooner about four years ago. Breaking out of pre-set holds while supervised on a soft mat is a lot different than facing someone in the dark alleys of the city. I’ve never tested those skills, nor do I want to. I quicken my step to the point where it must be obvious that I know he's there. Which is a mistake. You never want them to know they've got you running.

Then, abruptly, just when I'm wondering how effective that self-defence training could be, and whether the guy might have a knife, the jingling stops. The absence is so sudden that I halt and look back. And there's no one there. I hesitate. I should just get home as fast as possible. But I know exactly where he was, about thirty feet back, in line with a large dumpster. I eye the shadow of it now.

With one last longing look at the other end of the street, I cautiously walk back. Just to the dumpster, I tell myself. Just to make sure he's not following me anymore. Rounding the front of the dumpster, I stand back on the far side of the alley, peering into the shadows.

There's nothing there, just a blank space. I blink. Maybe I was imagining him? There's got to be some psychological effects from being confronted with the killer of one’s husband, not to mention many others, after all.

Unless… The lid of the dumpster is closed. I shift from foot to foot, and the voice of reason in my mind tells me to just walk away. But I step up to the dumpster, flipping back the lid and jumping back quickly.

And there he is, unconscious among the rubbish, lounging back in his foul bedding. My hand comes to my mouth. His mouth is fallen open, one gold tooth glinting. At first, I think he's dead, but then I catch the subtle rise and fall of his chest. And… I inch closer. Sticking out of his chest through his shirt is a syringe. Immediately in my mind’s eye, I'm back in the wastewater plant, looking down at my own arm at the syringe sticking out… right before I fell.

My back comes up against the far side of the alley. It can't be. Him.

My stomach turns. I snap my head both ways down the alley. There's not another living thing in sight. My nerves spike, and I turn and run the rest of the way home, not stopping to think or rest until I'm inside my bedroom, three locked doors between me and the outside world, and anywhere Needler might be lurking.

***

As I step into the station Monday morning, the place is in turmoil. And not this time, because of Needler.

"Cocooner struck," the first intern I manage to distract from his duties informs me. At the words, I feel cold. His second strike, then. I don't need to find Dean to hear about it, to know the body was found suspended, shiny like wax inside a split-open cocoon.

Within an hour of my arrival, the floor is quiet, and most of the force has gone out to the new Cocooner site. There's desperation in the hunt for Cocooner this past year, with more victims pretty much guaranteed, and a resume already years long.

I don't tag along, I've got enough to do on the Needler case, and despite what should be my more intimate knowledge thanks to my husband's long-held case on Cocooner, I've never been anyhelp at the scenes. Too many ghosts getting in the way of the evidence.

Instead, I sit at my desk and look at the report made on the Needler and Masker scene. I'll need to check in with Seb, but so far, it’s looking like a positive match. It always is a positive match, with Needler’s victims. The small screen attached high on the far wall catches my eye as I try to concentrate on pictures from the crime scene- pictures I had first-hand experience of. It seems that Dirk hasn't said a word about my being there, thank goodness.

The latest victim of Cocooner was identified this morning, a young man this time, though they don’t show his picture yet. The TV is too far away to hear from where I sit at my desk, but I read the yellow subtitles and watch the statement made by the family. Like many, they ask for justice. But then, when asked a prompting question, the father of the deceased looks right into the camera and specifies, “We want Needler to give us justice.”

"Good, you're here."

"Jesus," I gasp, twisting back to look at Dirk as he comes to lean on the corner of my desk.

“You alright?" His brow furrows as he glances towards the TV, which has now moved on to the weather. "You seem jumpy.”

Saturday night, the creep in the dumpster, the syringe that would keep him there stewing in filth for hours, seems long enough ago now that I can almost imagine it was a nightmare. Almost. Instead of answering him, I ask, "Can you believe this? People are celebrating him more and more, askinghimfor justice."

Dirk doesn't need me to specify who I'm talking about, rather tellingly. He shrugs and rolls over a chair from another empty desk. The owner probably won't be back before the end of the day, what with the Cocooner scene still hot. "They see results. Trust in the law is not exactly at a high right now."

I put my pen down. The anger is gone from Dirk now, and the relief hits me deep. We're back to normal. It crosses my mind that I should mention Saturday night. But the events feel too crazy, too beyond reality to spell out now. Maybe I was mistaken. It was dark, and I was scared and confused, and let’s face it, I’m in dire need of therapy. Telling Dirk that I think Needler jabbed a guy who was getting ready to jump me in an alley on the way back from a club will probably only see me suspended, officially this time.

"So," Dirk stretches his legs out, forearm resting on the corner of my desk. "Why did he hit twice this month?"

"Well," I start. "He didn't. The first got away. He likes the pattern; he didn't want to miss one."

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