Page 2 of Pure Killers

We should all know better.

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We don't beat the media off the scene. They're here already, lights flashing at our faces, harsh in the lingering pre-dawn darkness as we step out of the building. I squint away from them—I'd like to ignore their questions, but by now they recognise me as the lead investigator on the Needler case. Which tells them enough about this crime scene to run with. By lunchtime, there will be a thousand theories about who Needler took out last night if I don’t say something.

They want to know if it’s his work; who the victim was, so they can make some glorifying headline and compound our problems. I face the cameras, the run-down office building of the crime scene behind me, and say briefly, "All we can confirm at this time is that it appears to be another case targeting a known serial killer."

"So… the Needler?" one asks immediately.

"Yes," I say, only slightly strained. I'm fighting a losing battle on this not using his glorified name front, always have been.

"Who has he taken?" another asks, thrusting a microphone at me. I squint to see his face past the glaring light attached to his hat.

"It's too early to confirm at this stage. We need to confirm the identity before saying anything else," is all I say, then Dirk and I scurry to my car, closing the doors against them, and soon they move on. Our Superintendent, Deana Tawill, is arriving as we’re leaving, so that draws their attention moving them off like a swarm.

I pull out of the parking lot, leaving them to it, my tyres crunching over the shattered glass as I pull onto the narrow road tracking between more abandoned buildings, a whole suburb and more which makes up Crennick Row. I feel like I spend more time in this ghost zone than at my own home, or the station, back in the city proper. This time of day, before the city is awake—before the daylight shines on Crennick’s ugly face… it can almost seem peaceful, though misleadingly so.

Dirk watches the crumbling fronts pass by out of his window. There's no traffic out here. I can tell his thoughts are going in the same direction as mine before he even asks, "You reckon it’s true? What they're saying now about the explosion impacting our rate of crazies here?"

A huge, grand warehouse passes by, the road-facing side a giant arc of windows, now alternately brown with filth orshattered. In other places, it would have been converted into bougie apartments, restored and filled with pot plants. But no one has wanted to be in Crennick Row, much less live here, in decades.

Ammonia nitrate, that’s what did it. An explosion in the fertiliser factory. The initial explosion killed hundreds, pulverising the immediate vicinity, and setting off smaller explosions in surrounding buildings, adding a new cocktail of chemicals to the mix that then rained down on the entire industrial zone. It wasn't just Crennick Row that was affected either; the toxicity seeped into surrounding suburbs, homes and businesses. But it’s all collectively Crennick Row now. It’s all the same. The chemicals have seeped deep into the ground so that nothing grows, and reports say it’s still toxic to breathe the air here for too long. On a day with a strong southerly wind, you can still smell something akin to bleach in the air even Downtown.

There's been theories and conspiracies aplenty over the past thirty years. People from my generation never knew Tregam before it, in its golden age if you believe what people say. I don't know whether it’s the chemical exposure, the black mark in our history, or losing livelihood that has seeped down into every aspect of Tregam life, that has elevated the rate of psychopaths here. And despite what various experts claim, I think no one does. Probably it’s a combination of everything. I only shrug. "We do have the youngest life expectancy in the country, but…"

"Not just the youngest life expectancy," Dirk corrects. "The highest murder and violent crime rate, by far. And double the number of serial killers compared to similar places."

"So people aren't coming here for the white picket fence." I raise an eyebrow, and ask, "What? You believe it, then?"

Dirk only shrugs, changing the subject. "Did you see the news about trying to empty the wastewater plant again? They can't filter the chemicals out of the standing water well enough.They've had to wall it off. Now they're pushing to clear the whole place again, bulldoze the lot of Crennick."

"And you agree with that too?"

"The majority of the city's crimedoeshappen out in these abandoned buildings," he points out.

I scoff. "They'll just find some other place to commit their crimes. That won't fix anything."

"Yeah, I guess if we're going to do that we may as well level all of Tregam."

I glance sidelong at him. He looks drawn, and in need of a haircut, black hair curling around his ears. "You're in a sour mood today."

"I like to think of it as pensive." Finally, he smiles, white, almost straight teeth bringing a touch of childishness to his face. We've been partners for over a year now. He transferred in from the private sector, where he was no doubt making more money for less work. But I guess this is where he wanted to be, investigating homicides. I can hardly judge. I'm right here beside him.

Aside from the occasional philosophically dour mood, Dirk is a good partner. He shows up on time, he's sharp and has never, unlike some of the older, more-gung-ho men in our office, treated me any differently for being a woman.

I shake my head. "I'm gonna get you a coffee before you get any more 'pensive' on me."

I pull in at the first gas station on the edge of Crennick. At least Dirk isn't picky about his coffee. While he goes in, I fuel up and then follow him. The coffee machine is still rattling away after I've paid, and I drift over to that corner of the small mart and find him, looking up at the small screen that plays 24-7 news.

The face taking up the tiny screen is one we know well. Our boss, Superintendent Deana Tawill. The yellow subtitles,not always correct but accurate enough, pop up under her, accompanying the faint audio.

"…Of course, resources should be spent to catch the killer commonly known as Needler," she's telling the cameras in her stern voice. "We have to consider the consequences of celebrating vigilante justice. They are not beholden by law, they can always change their motivations, and indeed, someone capable of doing the things he has done, cannot be predictable or sane.”

“Consider also that he can make mistakes. It's all too likely that his form of justice will be exacted on an innocent if he continues unchallenged. Any information on his identity must be brought to our attention, for the good of Tregam.”

There's no pause at all before a voice from an unseen reporter comes through. "Can you comment further on the things Needler has been capable of?"

I turn away, heading out of the store. Always those questions. Looking for juice to drip to the public. No matter what Tawill tells them, it won’t sink in. Dirk follows me, coffee in hand. "She's not gonna be in a great mood after that."

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