Page 6 of Pure Killers

With a heavy sigh, Dirk drops it. Sounding tired, he concedes, “Alright, your call.”

***

Reporters are waiting outside the station when we get back, harassing anybody going in or coming out. Less than a dozen of them, many with faces recognisable to me either from past encounters or from the television. It doesn’t really matter which reporters they are, since they all have seemingly bottomless energy for the macabre news they cover.

"Three guesses what they want to talk about," Dirk mutters as we pull up at the crescent-shaped stone courtyard that fronts the police headquarters of Tregam.

"We probably have to say something."

At the wide steps leading to the headquarters doors, they start on us. I do the talking, just confirming things they already knew,Yes,the Strangler has been found dead,yes, we have reason to believe it was the Needler.

A woman presses her microphone a little further past the invisible wall holding them back from swamping us completely. "You're leading the Needler case, is that correct?"

"Yes, that’s right."

"Do you think the best use of the city's money is spent in trying to catch the man taking murderers and rapists off our streets?"

I fix a professional smile. "We shouldn't lose sight of what Needler really is- a serial killer, and a prolific one."

"Do you think your search for him has something to do with your late husband?" That’s a different one, an older man. For several moments, none of the other reporters say anything, not wanting to side with him but also wanting to see if I'll answer. I should be able to answer those questions by now. But I freeze, words stuck in my throat, none of them the right ones.

"That’s all for today." Dirk presses between me and them, turning us both for the door. "Damned vultures," he’s muttering as we reach the top of the steps.

I clear my throat like something needs to be dislodged. “Yeah,” I agree, without much spirit. Dirk looks to me like he’s about to say something when a shout behind us has us turning to look back. Across the street, not far along enough to be out of sight, is the larger, older building that is the courthouse. A sleek black town car has just pulled up to be almost immediately surrounded by the same reporters we just escaped from.

A man in sunglasses and a nice suit, black hair slicked back, steps out, looking more like a celebrity than a suspect on trial.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Greg Talisof,” Dirk says, “Although they’re calling him Gerry…” When I frown, Dirk wrinkles his nose and adds, “For geriatric killer.”

I look back at the man and his security making their way up the courthouse steps. “That’s the guy who’s been slipping cyanide into tea at nursing homes? Not what I pictured.”

“Those are the dangerous ones.” Dirk pushes open the door, and we turn from the drama unfolding across the road, making for the main hall and so our desks.

I sit down to do my last couple hours of work, and the next time I look up, the sun is well on its way down, and the twenty or so other desks are mostly empty, with the laggers steadily filling out. I let out a breath, stretching my neck. Tugging his badge off, Dirk grabs his coat as he comes to the side of my desk. Standing up, I take my jacket from him. I didn't realise it had gotten so late.

"Oh wait," I remember, mid-putting it on, "We said we'd talk to Howie and Dean about the Cocooner case, remember?"

Running a hand back through his hair, Dirk points out, "El, it’s 6 pm."

"Well, it'll only take…"

"You go ahead if that’s what you want. I'm clocked off." The way he says it indicates I should be too. But he knows better than to try instilling a good work-life balance in me by now. "The Cocooner has been at it for nearly a decade. I'm sure another day without our input ain't gonna affect too much."

I've already shrugged off my jacket. "I can see them, they're still here. I'll only be five minutes."

"Uh-huh." He gives me a wave as he heads for the exit. “I’m gonna catch the tube, see you tomorrow.”

Dean and Howie are poring over Dean's desk as I approach. They both look surprised to see me. We're the only three left in the building by now. They're a good pair, Howie has been doing this for longer than a lot of us combined, and Dean is fresh-faced. They're your typical combination of wisdom and energy, and they even seem to get along most of the time, too.

"How is it?" I ask, leaning on the side of the desk. "I heard he struck this month." My eyes scan the pictures in front of them.The Cocooner isn't picky about his type of victim. He turns them all into his 'art' in the same way.

"I think the whole city heard about that," Howie comments.

"Pull up a chair, we want to show you something," Dean suggests. He looks younger than he is, with coppery hair and a long, open face. Howie is due for retirement soon, though I get the sense he’ll go down fighting that tooth and nail. Without Howie there to stare ominously in that special impatient way of ageing men, I wonder how seriously Dean will be taken by his interviewees. But hopefully, he ages up a bit by then. Howie will probably be there still, shouting pointers at him whether he’s on the case or not.

I hesitate. This doesn't seem like a five-minute conversation. But I roll over a chair anyway, sitting on the other side of Dean. He shows me a set of three pictures. "These are from the three vics last year. There were only two the year before."

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