Friday, June 24, 2005

Aha I am revenged. My missing green day due to death of me has been transcended by going to Live 8 next weekend.

Who cares if i have to take earplugs and a crossword for when mariah carey is on. REM, razorlight, the killers and Pink floyd. suck my ass green day :D

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Green Day soon. This makes me happy. Two sleepovers and a whole day in th sun listening to some pretty cool music. And if its not good music then its still a day in the sun mitt friends. wootage.

Im really building up to the whole Reading thing. it's going to be uber fun. with uber uber. yes.

Got new foo fighters album. only so far have listened to non acoustic cd. not tooo impressed tbh. Its good but nowhere near as good as colour and shape and there is nothign left to lose. still good though :)

Be good

Sunday, June 12, 2005

This is a story I've had on the go for almost a year. It's my first attempt at a crime so give me some slack :P

I was blocked on it for so long but today for no reason, I thought of an ending. So here it is. It looks long, But it's not. So read it if you have time. A chapter at a time or something.



Chapter One

“Olivia Andrews.”
“Date of Birth?”
“4th April 1986”
“ahh a young’un..”
“How quickly do we need this done?”
The figure being asked the question sighed and glanced at the clock.
“Um..Well everything points to a suicide so not much rush…fax me the details by the end of the week?”
“Yup, I can manage that. What do we know so far?”
“Simple as it looks really.”

A Bright morning. A rich apartment block. A young man enters the building, leaving his sedan parked out front – much to the disgust of the local nosy neighbourhood watch members. As he’s let in by a nice trusting young woman, he watches her. He’s seen her before – long enough for his appearance to be changed by thinning and a long beard. A long time ago indeed, he muses. He walks up the stairs, tripping slightly on his long coat. He looks at his watch. He’s 5 minutes late. Oh well. She wouldn’t mind waiting and nothing was more important to him now. To him she was everything. For the last two years, she was all he’d thought about, and today, if everything went to plan, was the day that she’d finally make him happy. He wipes his sweaty palms on his coat – he feels like a teenager asking a girl to the prom. Except this time he wouldn’t get rejected…would he? He reaches the door he wants and takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine. I’ve practiced this enough. Just knock and do as you’ve planned.”
The young man knocked with a leather clad hand. No answer. He looks around and knocks again. No answer. He loudly shouts the girl’s name, waking some neighbours and turns the door handle to find the door open. He walks in and finds his dream sprawled on her bed. She lies there, a paracetamol bottle in her hand, wine bottle on the floor. Her eyes are rolled back, her mouth open filled with her own vomit. The man stands, and stares, a glazed look on his face. He turns around slowly and walks to the phone, willing his muscles to work again.

“We got called to her apartment at 8am this morning. She was found by a man who apparantely was coming to ask her out. Instead he found her lying on her bed with the remnants of wine and a heck of a lot of paracetamol. We would have left it as that but she’s the daughter of some rich business tycoon and the poor folks don’t think she’d ever do it. Money means the police care.”
The man snorted with the cliché of it all. Parents imagined their kids as no older than the little child they brought up and not a day older. They never think they’d ever do anything sordid like shooting their brains out.
“Such beauty spoiled. Isn’t she beautiful? Dark hair, high cheekbones and you can just tell she had rosy cheeks cant you. What a waste.”
The detective sighed again. Turning away from the pathologist with a nod of goodnight he walked out of the close, dark room and out of the morgue buildings.

He walked down the Oxford streets and noted as he did every night that the air did indeed seem more toxic and polluted than the day before. The detective then got into his car, and started driving home to his family and a pile of paperwork on another suicide case.

Chapter 2

“You found a what?”
“I found…a note from someone…”
“In her stomach?”
Detective Peter Stiles blinked.
“Yes. An A7 sheet of recycled lined note paper. What’s more interesting is what was on it.”
“If it was a shopping list I will not be amused. Its 3 am. I do not need to know this girl’s last wish was to get more cornflakes.”
“No. It seems like it was a note from someone else. From someone appearing to be the girl’s murderer.”
“What? What did it say?”“Well it’s only very partial in what we can see. It was sitting in a decaying, acidic stomach for a few days before I opened her up. But I’ve pieced together a fair bit. It seems the author wrote a tribute to her looks and then …signed it.”Detective Stiles looked at the note.
“As white assnow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony,
and she was therefore called little snow-white.”

Tim Merglas

“Snow White? Well as weird as this is, is there any definite proof this girl wasn’t just playing some twisted joke on an old nickname or something?”
“I thought that. But well her stomach proved to be an interesting place. Firstly, strike the paracetamol overdose off your report. No paracetamol or alcohol in her system. It seems that was just a façade. However there was - along with the remnants of a pizza - the remains of an apple. And not just any apple. One laced with cyanide.”
“A poison apple. Why do I start to think this Snow White allegory has been taken a step further than I’m comfortable with. So this girl swallows a note in a final depressed effort to be...I don’t know remembered …and then chews on a cyanide apple…it could happen?”
“Then detective, where did the apple core go and why go to all that trouble in the first place? Either way the note wasn’t exactly swallowed. It was forced down the throat -by a long wooden implement judging from the splinters. From the ripping of the oesophagus and no signs of struggle as this was occurring, id say she was dead before the apple hit her stomach. There’s no physical way she could have done that by herself. I’m afraid, that this is looking more like a murder than a suicide now.”
“Is there no sign of a struggle at all? Don’t tell me this girl just ate her last supper on command!”
“No rope marks on the wrists. No head wounds, suspicious bruises or injection marks... She wasn’t raped or physically abused. Nothing”
The Detective stood and stared at the note.
“They at least must have threatened her with a gun or something.”
“The poison will have taken effect quickly, she took barely two bites. No time to fight back. Maybe had a gun pointed close range and she was fed the apple, I don’t know, that’s not my job.”
“Whichever way, Little Snow White is most definitely in a very long sleep that no Prince Charming is going to be waking her up from. By the way John, for the love of god make sure the tabloids don’t get hold of this, otherwise we’ll have a murderer and a nation of mourning kids on our hands.”

Peter looked in the mirror – a tall, brown haired, tired looking 30 year old with a five o’clock shadow looked back. Once considered quite handsome, his looks were starting to blur partly as a result of too many late nights filling out endless forms. He splashed his face with water, dried it with a towel, straightened his tie and walked out of the bathroom wondering where an earth he was going to start on this case. “The name would be a good start,” the more naïve part of him suggested, but something told him that since this person had only half heartedly tried to hide what he’d done, the name wasn’t going to be that easy. This person was willing to play the game.

As he walked through his lounge he kicked one his son’s Tonka trucks across the floor with a noisy clatter. “Oh for God’s …” he said loudly before realising he was only adding to the noise. As he was about to walk out, he heard a noise in the room next to him. He crept quietly to the door way and opened it slightly. He peered in.
“Tom?” he whispered, entering the room and stepping over several sets of Tonka truck accessories. He saw a small bundle in the bed shift slightly and then a small blonde head popped out.
“Dad?” a sleepy voice questioned. Peter smiled and walked over to his son.
“It’s ok Tom, go back to sleep. I’m going back to work in a few minutes, as soon as Nanny Rosa arrives OK?” The little blonde head closed its eyes and Peter sat on the end of the bed and looked at his child for a bit. Everyday, his son reminded him more of his wife. The same gorgeous blonde hair, the same big brown eyes. For most people reminders of lost ones just served as added grief. But for him, after so long, it just reminded him how lucky he was to have her for even for a short time. He looked over at the bedside table and smiled at the photo of him and his wife holding a new born Tom. She’d died just two weeks later as a result of unseen complications that had occurred during labour. He closed his eyes, remaining sat there until he heard Nanny Rosa’s loud voice outside the front door announcing her arrival.

Half an hour later he was at work in his boss’s office. He shifted about in seat and ran a hand through his hair. He was starting to feel the effects of being up all night talking about poison apples with an ageing pathologist.
“Right Peter, it seems you have a chance to shine. I’m going to agree with you, this case definitely warrants a murder investigation. I’ve set up a task force for you. They’ll be in the Prep room in half an hour ready to take orders. Also, I’ve assigned you with another Detective – Detective Revio. She’s fresh into the post so give her a chance – hopefully she’ll learn something from you.
If this man is going to kill again we need to figure out where, who and stop him before he even has a chance. Good luck Peter and make sure you drop by tomorrow to inform me of anything you’ve found. Time is everything, it could mean someone life in this case.”
Peter walked out of the room and across the hall to his office, straightening his tie as he went.
“Ah, no pressure then” thought Peter. A chance to shine – depressing how a young girl being murdered can actually benefit someone.
“Ok…. What have we got. One dead girl. Cause of death…cyanide poisoning. We have one person quoting Snow White which has obvious connection to both the girls appearance and the method of murder. We even have a possible name,” Peter wrote on a note pad. He closed his eyes and imagined the murder - A gruesome but insightful tool of the detective.
He thought for a long time; She’s at home. The doorbell rings. She opens it and finds a gun pointed to her head and a hand pressed up against her mouth. He/She sits her on the bed, still pointing the gun and reaches for something inside they’re jacket. He brings out an apple and gruffly commands…
“Are you ok?”
Peter opened his eyes.
“ are awake.” A blonde woman stood in the doorway looking at him with an inquiring look.
“Sorry…I’m Detective Revio, I’ve been assigned to work with you on this Snow White case.”
Peter blinked. He got so caught up in imagining these gruesome murders that it always took him a while to get back to his world.
“Uh…right. Right! Of course. Sorry, Detective I was in another world. Right, sit down”
Revio walked in and sat down. She was neatly dressed without a hair out of place. About 25 years old, she couldn’t have been long out of university and training – and her appearance gave her away.
“I presume you’ve been briefed on what little we have so far?”
“Yeah. It’s a weird one, you can say that. I think we should concentrate on witnesses first.”
Really, Sherlock? He thought.
“Yes. Good idea. Wait, what time is it?”
He looked at his watch and realised that he was meant to be leading a task force 5 minutes ago. He rushed to the prep room, and flew in through a rapidly opening door, knocking over several chairs. Revio walked gracefully in behind.
He cleared his throat. “Ahem. For all of those who don’t know me, I’m special detective Peter Stiles. I expect you to remember me after that entrance. We have a busy time ahead of us so I expect you to listen carefully and work fast.”
He headed to the front of the room and gave piles of files to be handed around. “Our victim is an 18 year old female. She was found in her flat – 12a Forest View, Kidlington at 8am on November 6th - last week. She has an estimated time of death of between 8 and 9pm.
You’ll find this all in the files I’m giving out now so I’m just going to give you the bare facts then well have questions and I’ll assign you to different areas. Ok, she died as a result of ingesting an apple laced with cyanide. Inside her stomach the murderer left us a little note - the details of which you shall find in your files. He describes Snow White – most probably in reference to the victims black hair, white skin and red lips and for anyone who didn’t watch Disney films, Snow White was put into a ‘deep sleep’ by a poison apple. We have no known motive or suspect. However we do have some leads.”

Peter took a deep breath and glanced round the room. He hadn’t exactly been giving the best to work with but it’d have to do. Mostly males, a few female detectives. Though tired looking, they were all listening intently - some looking in the files, some waiting for him to carry on. He glanced at his notepad. He hated being in front of even a small crowd. It made him forget even the most familiar material.

“Um…” The worst thing a leading detective could do. Make the team realise he wasn’t confident.

“Right. Ok. The note paper has been taken down to the lab where they are testing to find out where the paper was manufactured and similarly for the ink. We also have a handwriting analyst working on the note trying to build us a possible character profile. So far they’re 80% sure that were looking for a male. Until we find him or he kills again we do not know if this fairytale allegory is a one off or a reoccurring theme. Hopefully we won’t find out. Most obvious of all, we seem to have a name.
Peter looked down a list he’d been given of the detectives he had in the room.
“Ok…Detectives Smith and Skinner I need you to get back to the scene of the crime. This was investigated as a suicide. Now we need it investigated as a murder. Take a forensic team with you.
Detective Revio run the name through every known database. Pull up the records and start drafting a list of possibilities.
Kersh, Tooms and Carter I need you questioning the other residents.
Everyone else, we need to find the wooden implement used to lodge the note in the throat and we need any possible reasons someone would want to kill this girl. By the end of tonight I want all of you to feel as if you know her like one of your best friends. We need anyone she offended, rejected, got in trouble with in the last few years.

Do we have any questions?”

The room shifted but only one hand went up. One of the younger female detectives, dark blonde was tentatively raising her hand.
“Elwes. Um…Do the apartment buildings have a security camera at all?”
“Yes they do. However it only automatically switches on in the lobby if an unauthorised entrance is made. No such entry was made which means who ever this guy is...he was let in by someone already inside. Whether this is a possible accomplice or a neighbour that’s what we need to find out. Any more questions? OK. Go”

Peter let out an inward sigh of relief. The mortifying stage fright was over. Now for the easier work. As he left the room, another detective crashed into him. He recognised him as Andrew Brinkley – one of Peter’s friends in the department.
As Andrew rebounded from Peter, there was a look of hurriedness on his face. “Pete…we think we got another one”

Chapter 3

Another young woman. 19 years old. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A beautiful young girl sprawled on the floor of a church bathing in red.
“She was a volunteer at the church. The vicar says she was a god fearing young girl who was trustworthy and friendly. She was left on her own late last night to finish preparing for today’s service and then lock the place up.”
Eyes glassy in a side turned head staring at the hymn books scattered around her. One bullet wound in her skull.
“She died from that shot. Judging from how she didn’t even have time to move from where she placed the last hymn book I’d say she was attacked pretty quickly from behind and pinned to the floor. It seems that after pinning her down, the killer did…that. And then just to be a bit more humane, finished her off with a bullet.”
A tortured body - the wrists cut short.
“They used a hacksaw. Sharp blade.”
Peter tried to subdue the feeling of nausea and horror as he had been methodically taught in training. Never let it get to you. Then you’re no help to anyone.
“They then bound the severed hands to the back using a length of white nylon rope. We can see the body was lifted up in order to wind the rope round and we have a footprint in the blood - Mans size 10. Also we have our friends’ signature note lodged between two fingers. No quote this time. Just ‘Tim Merglas’”
“Jesus Christ.”
The vicar sitting a few stalls away looked up sharply. Peter made a look of apology.
“My…goodness. I have to confess John, I’m finding it hard to stomach this. This isn’t just a random murder. This guy definitely isn’t killing for revenge upon the victim. A simple shot in the head would do that.”

Peter started to walk away form the body with John following. The image of it was still in his mind but at least the ominous presence of it wasn’t as close. Once outside he took a deep breath of fresh air and turned to talk to John again. “This place is a murderer’s worst nightmare. The architecture of it means that any gun shot would have echoed a fair bit. Either someone must have heard something or were looking for a silenced gun. But still… what’s her time of death?”
“Well I’m going to have to take her down to the lab for that. I’m going to perform a full autopsy. I’ll let you know by the morning but I’m pretty sure it’ll be between 8 and 9pm again since the vicar says that’s when she normally finishes in the church.”
“Ok. Good job John. Anything you find...ring me straight away ok? I want to catch this guy before he does it again.”
John walked away and Peter looked back into the church. The vicar was knelt before the crucifix in a silent prayer. Peter thought back to what Detective Brinkley had said on the way to the church. Clearly very disturbed by the death of one of his closest volunteers, the vicar didn’t seem to be a main suspect in this one. Yet again this girl had no obvious grudges or enemies. She was a devoted Christian and no reason to suspect anything like this. Deep in thought, Peter jumped as the shrill tone of his cell phone went off.
Exhaling quickly from the shock, he answered.
“Detective Stiles speaking.”
“This is Detective Skinner. We’ve pretty mush exhausted the crime scene. No fingerprints, no evidence and no forced entry into the apartment. Neighbours heard nothing. We haven’t been able to contact one woman though…a Joan Lowerstoft.”
Peter blinked.
“Joan Lowerstoft?”
“Yup. According to her neighbours she didn’t come home this morning. Works at the local church”
“Don’t wait up for her Detective Skinner. I have her here. Our Tim Merglas has struck again.”
“Oh man. She dead?”
“Very much so. Except not be a poison apple. Her hands were cut off and tied to her back and then she was shot in the head.”
“I know. Listen, since you’re there. Have a look round Miss. Lowerstoft’s apartment. She normally gets home at about 8 or 9 according to the vicar here which is the time of death of our first victim. There’s a high possibility when she came home she let this guy in for some reason or another. Love thy neighbour turned sour... whatever. Just go have a look around and see if the victims are connected in anything apart from residence.”

Peter hung up and walked to the car. This was one pretty arrogant man to murder someone in a church. Arrogant or just plain sick. He shook his head as he opened his car door. What was this guy doing? Working his way round all the young women in one apartment block? He’d have to be pretty stupid to try it again after this. It was much more likely that when Joan let him in he eyed her up for his next victim. He had a week to work it out. This guy isn’t a spur of the moment guy, Peter thought. He plans it. For all he knew, the guy might already have found his next victim. It was time to check up on the list of Tim Merglas’.

Chapter 4

They stared at the screen blankly. Not a single Tim Merglas in the criminal, social security, DVLA or even Blockbuster videos database.
“So we’ve got someone who’s using an alias?” asked Peter still looking at the screen.
“Uh yeah it looks like it. Why that name, I have no ideas. It doesn’t seem to symbolise or remind of anything.”
Detective Revio sat back and started sipping her coffee.
Peter glanced at her and noticed the tired look on her face. “I take it this is one of your first cases?”
She laughed. “It’s that obvious? It’s my first…real…case if you know what I mean, I’ve been stuck in an office doing background checks for the last 3 months.”
“Ah. So I’m guessing me making you do background checks on our man wasn’t exactly what you had in mind. Sorry.”
“No, not exactly. But never mind. We’ve done that now. I can start doing some real work now.”
“Your enthusiasm scares me. None of all this is as glamorous as they make out on TV. There’s a lot more frustration and paperwork, and a lot less catching the bad guys with 10 seconds to spare.”
“Well this one is still pretty interesting. We have one Snow White and one handless girl. The first one could be put down to obsession with fairy tales, obsession with princesses, and obsession with famous beauties. But the second one destroys that completely. It makes no sense. Has the criminal profiler come up with anything more?”
“Yeah I posted a memo on the case board. She reckons that he’s between 30 and 40, male, and a big perfectionist. He would’ve gone through school and possibly college thinking he was too clever for what he was being taught and often done things his own way, completely ignoring others. And, unlike every profile made on TV, we do not in fact know if he was a bed wetter.”
“And there I was searching laundry baskets for wet sheets.”
Peter half smiled.
“Profiles only become very useful when there been a larger spree. With each murder we can predict the next one better. For example we expect the next one to be another female but that’s of course just conjecture.”
“Hmm…something tells me he’s not going to be easy to guess. He likes playing with us it seems, making us work. I don’t think its going to be as easy as that.” Peter looked at his watch. 11 pm.
“Bloody Hell. Tom! Hey Detective Revio I have to get home and make sure my son’s not still up watching TV.”
“You have a son? I didn’t see that.”
“Yeah. He’s seven next week.” Peter smiled at the thought of his son. He really was the best thing in his life. The only thing not to do with crime and death…wait no. yes he was. Peter laughed at the mockery of it all. Revio looked at him strangely but decided to ignore it.
“It looks like you really care for him. Well you better get home, you’re wife will probably be angry you weren’t at the dinner table!”
“Urm…” Peter scratched his head and made a grimace. He always felt sorrier for the people making the jokes when they didn’t know why they were tasteless. “ doubt it. She died 2 weeks after Tom was born.”
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t…” Detective Revio stammered, going redder by the second.
“It’s fine. I don’t have a sticker on my head saying ‘Dead Wife’. Seriously. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest ok?” Peter smiled at her and left the room.
Excellent first impression Elleanor, really great, thought Detective Revio as he left the room. She sighed and turned around in her seat. She was too tired to sleep now. However, if she didn’t leave soon, then she’d be locked in the building. She grabbed her laptop and walked down the stairs and out the front door. She pulled her jacket on as she realised how cold it was. She hurried to her car and in 5 minutes was at home. A small apartment on the not so good side of oxford with rowing neighbours and barking dogs. As she ran upstairs and set up her laptop she thought.
“OK. Snow White. Girl with no hands. Snow White. Girl with no Hands. Hmmm…When in doubt…Google”
As the search engine came up on the screen, she typed in exactly what she’d just been saying to herself.
“You’re kidding me.” As google informed her, in just 0.22 seconds, Eleanor had just found the connection between the two murders.
“The Girl Without Hands – Grimm Brothers. Snow White –Grimm Brothers. Holy…”
Elleanor Revio read the tale of a girl who had been unknowingly promised to the devil by her own father.
The miller's daughter was a beautiful, pious girl, and lived in the fear of God and without sin. When therefore the time was over, and the day came when the Evil-one was to fetch her, she washed herself clean, and made a circle round herself with chalk. The devil appeared quite early, but he could not come near to her. Angrily, he said to the miller, "Take all water away from her, that she may no longer be able to wash herself, for otherwise I have no power over her." The miller was afraid, and did so. The next morning the devil came again, but she had wept on her hands, and they were quite clean. Again he could not get near her, and furiously said to the miller, "Cut her hands off, or else I cannot get the better of her."

“The girl was in fear of God. That’s why she was murdered in a church.” The answer was stunningly obvious. No hidden hatred against the church. Just a man carrying out the fate told in the Grimm Brother’s fairy tale.

Detective Revio rubbed her eyes from fatigue. She yawned loudly and looked at her watch. 1 am. She wasn’t going to give up that easily. She had something here. There were hundreds of Grimm Brothers Fairy Tales. Why these two. And more importantly, if she could find out that then she might figure out what was next. She made herself a cup of coffee and set about reading the entire list of Grimm Brother’s works, printing every one which could be turned into a murder.

Chapter 5

A dark house looms over a dark garden where a dark shadow waits. In the late hours of the evening a car pulls into the house’s drive, disturbing the quiet of the empty area. A middle age man steps out of the car and heads to the door weighed down by a briefcases heavy contents. He struggles to get out his keys and he does his briefcase opens and spills a montage of papers on the floor.
“Fantastic. Really what I needed.”
He bends down, facing the door, unawares of the shadow creeping up behind him. Suddenly he hears a noise behind him.
He swivels quickly and is stopped in his tracks by a blow to the head. Then, for a blessed while, he joins the darkness of the street.
The shadow steps up onto the porch. His heavy boots make the wood beneath creak in annoyance at his presence. He opens the door with the dropped keys and with unerring ease, drags the fallen man into the house. The shadow reappears and walks back to his place of hiding. He picks up an object and swiftly returns to the house, this time shutting the front door. And then, with screams as a background noise, a small engine roars to life, cutting the night into pieces.

Chapter 6

Peter stepped over the mess of papers on the white, wooden porch and entered the house. Around him, a dozen police officers were filling the air with dust, desperately looking for anything other than a dead man’s fingerprints. He coughed as he made his way through into the kitchen. The décor had swiftly changed. The old fashioned, dark colours of the hallway made a stark change into bright red splashes on the wall, floor and even ceiling.
He viewed the area, taking note of the huge amount of blood loss. Total blood loss. It was a large kitchen and yet there was blood everywhere. He walked over to John who was kneeling over something – from what Peter could see the end of a body. He braced himself and started to walk over.
“We meet again. We are going to have to find a nicer way to meet Jo….Holy….”
It wasn’t the end of a body. It was just the start. A head. Only a head lying on the side with the eyes closed. Most out of place, a single pink carnation held between the teeth, as if the deceased were in the middle of a Tango.
“Hey Pete. Thought I’d come down early and get ahead of the situation”
Peter raised his eyebrow at the pun and John flashed a smile of apology.
“Come on. This is a dark business I work in. Any excuse to lighten it up.”
“Some things shouldn’t be lit up.”
“Okayokay. Right. Here we have the head of one Jonathon Muttan. 56 year old divorcee, no children. Lives on his own in this big old house in the middle of nowhere – inherited from his grandmother.”
John turned away from the head and walked a few steps to the fridge.
“Here we have the torso complete with two attached arms looking ever so attractive in an unremoved suit jacket, shirt and tie.”
Peter groaned at the site of small amounts of entrails which had fallen from the torso onto the meat shelf of the fridge. He followed John to their next location – the sink.
“On your left you will see the pelvis and one attached leg. Again, beautifully dressed in suit trousers, this time with our man’s signature note in the pocket. And finally, if you will please follow me to the washing machine, you will find the other leg.”
“Geezus…” Peter looked away and found that he couldn’t do such a thing since there was nowhere he could look without seeing a body part or bits lost along the way.
“How the hell did someone…”
“Bloody Hell.”
“Quite literally. So far we’ve got a time of death of yet again between 8 and 9 last night – he was found at 8am this morning by the postman. Our victim has a blow to the head which would have put him in a state of unconsciousness, presumably while the killer dragged him inside and got ready. Unfortunately for our victim, he was rudely awakened when the cutting began. He wasn’t alive for long obviously, but from the rough struggle cuts around the neck, he was definitely alive and kicking – at least with one leg - when his head was cut off. The killer was quick and he wasn’t bothered about looks. He kept the clothes on and just cut straight through. The chainsaw would’ve made one hell of a noise but with no one around to hear it, I doubt he would’ve cared.”
Peter stared, listening intently. 8-9pm. This time either had significance to the killer or it was the only time he could do it. Work commitments maybe?
“Man, I hate seeing one of our own types like this. It’s too close to home.”
Peter looked up.
“One of our own? I wasn’t told that…”
“He is kind of. Judge from inner city. Did mostly family cases. Divorce, custody that type of thing. That’s why we’ve got so many men down here looking for evidence. Last thing we need is a judge or cop killer running around.”
“Well, no one kills a judge for the hell of it. They know they’ll be in more hot water than they want. I better get people on his latest cases; see if he has made any particularly disgruntled enemies recently. But in relation to the actual murder, Why the hell did he leave us a flower?”
“The Pink by the Grimm Brothers.”
Peter glanced around to find Detective Revio standing in the doorway, purposefully averting her eyes from the human debris in front of her.
“What?” he said as he walked over the floor, leaving John to start bagging the head.
“I was up all night last night reading the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales. You’ve heard of them no?”
“A little. Two German brothers who collected and wrote down hundreds of fairytales including the more violent versions of Cinderella…and…” All of a sudden realisation dawned on his face. “and Snow White.”
“Correct. And also one of the other tales is entitled ‘The Girl with No Hands’ or the Handless Girl depending on which source you go to. At least we know what he’s doing. Now for the who and why.” Detective Revio brushed back the blonde hair behind her ears and stifled a yawn.
“Good work Detective. Now give me those files and go home and rest.”
“No really I’m fi…”
Detective Revio gave in.
“OK. This file is the printed works of the Grimm Brothers with violent occurrences which our man could use highlighted in yellow. The three stories he’s done already are on top. In a few hours I’m going to search library and bookshop databases for purchases of the tales and check them out... if that’s ok with you sir”
“Sounds like a good plan. I’ll read through and try and find connections between what he’s picked so far…and look if anyone had a falling out with our Judge here. Now get out of here…and good work Revio”.

Peter smiled as she walked off. A good detective for her age. Certainly has the commitment, he thought. He looked at his watch to confirm the date. It seemed like the murderer was picking up pace. Three murder in two weeks. And two of them were a day apart. He was picking up pace, gaining confidence…which is when they start making mistakes.
He walked out the house looking down to stop treading on the scattered law papers form the briefcase. He knelt down to pick up one.
“Oxford Family Court …residing Judge Jonathon Muttan.”
What followed were the details of a verdict on a messy divorce. He dropped the paper sighing, leafing few a few others and blowing the useless fingerprint dust off. Suddenly another piece of paper caught his eyes, just under where he picked the other from.

“Oxford Family Court…residing Judge Jonathon Mutton.

Case: Review of abuse of one Reece Crowley, and eligibility of father for release.
Prosecution: Social services believe that boy’s father should not be let out of prison on bail.
Key Witnesses in original case: Olivia Andrews, Joan Lowerstoft”

A father abusing his own son. As he looked at the outcome of the review, he felt himself refill with life. He was released two days before the first murder.
Peter ran from the house. They had the name of the killer. And it wasn’t Tim Merglas.

Chapter 7

Elleanor Revio yawned as she drove home. It had been a very tiring few. The morning sun was only just taking control of the sky and the roads were slowly filling with cars desperate to get somewhere else. She yawned again, trying the age old fight to keep her eyes on the road as she did so. The car swerved, narrowly missing a similar car, leaving Elleanor to jolt to alertness again and swear under her breath. “I need coffee.” She thought and pulled into the next Cafe she found.
As she walked along the street back to the car with coffee in hand, she looked around, letting her eyes pass over everything. She stopped suddenly and took a few paces back.
“Ohhhh no.”
The tabloids had got hold of the murders. Panic about a serial killer was the last thing they needed on their hands.
“Huh. Looks like news is getting around fast. Always wanted to be famous.”
Elleanor looked round to see where the voice had come from. Before she had time to register the face, she felt the unmistakable stench of chloroform and within seconds had failed to register anything at all.

Chapter 8

Peter was in his office on the phone, impatiently tapping a pen on the table.
“I need to know where Matthew Crowley is. Now. I need everyone on it that we have free. He’s our guy. And if he’s not then he’s sure as damn being framed for it.” Peter slammed down the phone and hurriedly looked through the police directory for the social services.
“Hello, Peter Stiles here, I need everything on a Reece Crowley Case, number CA:6578.”
“Of course Sir, I’ll just check.”
Peter kept impatiently tapping his pen. He should be at home by now. Tom would be wondering if he even had a father anymore.
“Found it. Nasty one this, Peter. Little boy was found in a flat down in Kidlington about….2 years ago – Forest View Flats. Two neighbours were concerned about how thin the boy was looking and bruises all over his face. His father was accused of neglect, abuse and attempt to pervert the court of justice. Found guilty of all charges and imprisoned for…”
“Two years until I don’t know….about a week ago?”
“That’s why they call you Detective Peter. It was a pretty nasty case. Turns out the guy had an obsession with Grimm fairy tales and even forced his son to enact some of them – being locked up and not fed as Cinderella etc… The poor kid died about 3 days after he was taken in to care due to a combination of malnutrition, unhealed internal injury….his body just gave up.”
Peter sighed. This guy was one sick man.
“Right, OK. Are there any names mentioned on the case files as witnesses apart from Olivia Andrews and Joan Lowerstoft?”
“Nope. That’s all of it. I’ll send you a copy over right away.”
“Ok. Thank you very much.”
No more victims jumped out. It seemed like a simple revenge case. The guy was revenging for the death of son – didn’t see it as his fault. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was finished. Peter tried not to think it, but he knew it’d be easier if it wasn’t the end. People who keep killing are easier to track than those who don’t.

“So tell me Sleeping Beauty…are you going to wake up yourself or do I need to wake you up…”
Elleanor’s eyes tried to open, fighting against the heavy feeling pulling her entire body down. As realisation broke in, her eyes sprang open as she looked around to see where she was. Furnished apartment. Nice view. And yet it has a serial killer with a gagged and bound detective in.
“Ah you are awake. Good.”
She whipped her head up to see the face above her. Between 30 and 40, bearded, blue eyes surrounded by lines. Nicely dressed. A figure which radiated calm.
“Now tell me….Elleanor Revio isn’t it? Do you know who I am?”
She tried not to panic. But gave in.
“Look please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong, We’ll get you help…we will!”
“HELP?! Like you helped my son? Tell me, do you have children? do any of you cop kiddy killers have children?’
“We know what you’re going through. If you’d just talk to the Chief Detective on the case…… look if we can ju…”
“He has no idea what I’m going through. But he will.”
Elleanor tried to calm down and as she did she started to hear the muffled cries from the next room. The cries of a young boy. She closed her eyes in realisation.
“Oh god. Please don’t. Don’t hurt him. You can’t”
“Oh I think I can and we’ll see”.

With that, he calmly left the room, smoothing his tie as he headed out the door. It was amazing what a neat suit and a hair cut could do. He’d gone from hobo to quite convincing Police sergeant who simply ‘COULD’NT WAIT ONE MORE DAMN SECOND FOR PETER STILES’ FILE OTHERWISE YOU’LL SEE YOUR JOB GET FLUSHED DOWN THE TOILET’
As he leafed through it yet again, passing the pages on family, address, he dialled Peter’s office number.

Chapter 9

Peter grabbed his coat and started to hurriedly walk out the room as the phone rang.
He spent a second deciding whether to answer it and finally gave in - ringing phones drove him nuts.
“Hello Peter.”
“Guess Who.”
Peter sat down, getting a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“I’m not a fan of guessing games. Why don’t you tell me who you are.”
“Funny, I noticed the whole ‘guess who’ game on your sons bedroom floor as I was trying to find where he was hiding. That Italian lady is quite stupid you know. Any man in a suit can charm her into letting them in.”
Peter grabbed on to the desk, trying not to fall down.
“Look. I can guess who you are. But I can’t guess what you want. I want my son back. Now.”
“Me too. But well. C’est la vie hey? Tell you what come to this address and we’ll see what we can do.”
Peter copied the address and slammed the phone down. No one. Took. His. Son. He was full of anger - as full as he could be aside from the bone numbing fear. He couldn’t lose him. He wouldn’t. He ran into his boss’s office and gave him a copy of the address and told him to send back up in 30 minutes. He needed time first. But only a bit. He knew serial killers. If he didn’t have his son in 10 minutes of talking then he was going to need back-up.

5 minutes later he tore into the address he’d been given, slamming down the front door and looking desperately around for his son.
“Hello Peter.”
The voice came from another room, and as he turned into it, he took a double take. He saw his son, tied up but alive. And Revio, bound next to his son.
“Tom…. Tom its daddy…you’re going to be alright Tom.”
His son stared at him with swollen eyes as if even he didn’t believe him.
Fear gave way to anger, as Peter’s eyes fell upon Matthew Crowley. “YOU SON OF A …..”
“Now, now Peter. We’ve all got to be nice and calm. Children are present after all.” Before Peter had even reached him, Crowley had pulled out a gun and aimed at Tom, stopping Peter dead.
Revio held her breath, silently crying to herself and desperately hoping they could both be saved. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want anyone to die. She though about all the people she’d never see again, her sister, her dad, all of her friends. The fear took her and she vomited on the floor, unable to stop herself.
“Now that’s just not nice really is it,” chided Crowley, never losing an ounce of the calm. He’d come a long way from walking up those stairs, palms sweaty, knocking on Olivia’s door, knowing what he’d find but still so nervous he’d be caught. His first victim. But he couldn’t be caught there - not before he’d got the others.
“See, Mr Stiles, people get me wrong all the time. They think I’m obsessive, sadistic even – towards my son! Building him for a world where those stories are placed was what I was doing. No one can survive this world without help.”
“Help? Is that what you call it? You fanaticised about made up stories and killed your son as a result. You think that makes you misunderstood? Gives you the right to kill three other people?”
Crowley laughed, never moving the gun of Tom’s head. The boy was trembling, but deadly quiet. He’d cried enough - It was taking all his strength not to repeat Elleanor’s vomiting. He just wanted to go home.
“Made-up stories? You think that’s what they all are? No. Not at all. They’re real. Anyone could do what’s in those stories - Just like me. I was right in doing that to my son! Helping him! I’ll show you. Now see, I’ve got a nice C4 pack attached to your dear son’s back. Give him a whirl Tom.”
Tom slowly turned around, stumbling and trembling, to reveal the small but quite powerful enough bomb, attached to his back. As he finished, his legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor with fatigue and terror.
Peter felt his heart stop for just a millisecond, as he realised how if any back up came in, then his son was going to get blown to pieces.
“I’m going to show you that ANYONE can kill…given the right motivation. Those stories are real Peter. They’re all real.”
“Let my son go. Please. I don’t know what you want and I don’t care. Just let my son go and then we’ll talk.”
Crowley reached into his pocket, withdrawing a remote detonator and then to Peter’s surprise, tossed Peter the gun.
“Don’t even think of turning that on me because the second you do, you’ll feel your son’s brains on your face.”
Tom and Elleanor moved closer together in primal fear. They were both weeping now, unbelieving of how their day had turned out…and how it was about to end.
“Shoot her.”
“Shoot her, and I let the boy go. I want you to understand. I want you to feel that you understand why I killed those last three people and feel like you could have done the same.”
“No. No I’m not a killer.” Peter was disgusted with the idea but as he saw Crowley’s finger raise to the detonator he let out a soft, “wait.”
What was he meant to do? His son. The only thing he had left lying in front of him. 2 minutes and the back up would be here, Tom would be blown to hell. No he wouldn’t let it happen.
He raised the gun.
Revio’s eyes widened as she looked in Peter’s eyes.
“No…Peter…please don’t.” She wanted to be a hero she really did. She wanted to say ‘Do it for your son’. But when it came down to it, Death wasn’t like in the movies. You didn’t get remembered by thousands of people for one heroic act. You died for real. Nothing. She’d never see or do anything again. She didn’t want to die. And that was that. People could call her selfish, but she was human.
“Please…please don’t.”
“I’m sorry Revio….I’m so, so sorry.”
The gun shook in his hand and her face went from one of horror to sudden shock as the wall behind her became red.
Tom screamed, scrambling away from the falling body as it started to leak onto him.
Peter dropped the gun as Crowley smiled.
“Well done. You’re just like me. I am a man of my word by the way.” And with that he placed the detonator on the table.
Peter looked at Tom as he heard back up running up the stairs. His son looked at him with such a mix of disgust, confusion, and then the more human thankfulness at him having survived – even if someone else died.
Crowley sat down calmly, quite aware of the police storming up the stairs. Who cared? He’d proven to one other person that his world was real. Anyone could do it and he was just…normal.
The scene was of every crime scene Peter had ever been to. Except this time, it was his crime scene. Peter wasn’t investigating it this time. He’d done it. He’d caused the small, blonde woman with her eyes still staring in shock to be crumpled on the floor. And after so much training, so much work, with one look from his son….He became everyone he ever put in prison. With one look he had killed everyone he’d ever tried to put to rest.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

THAT's how you know a good party...