by Amy Cross
“You're over-thinking this,” he replies.
“I'm not,” I tell him. “You keep saying that I'm over-thinking everything, but I'm really not. I'm just looking at the evidence and holding back from taking the easy route.”
“Is this because of Daniel Gregory?” he asks.
“What's that got to do with anything?”
“We all know what happened with that case,” he continues. “You rushed to charge him, you rushed through the prosecution, all because you were too confident. You thought you'd got it in the bag and instead you messed up. He's out there, probably gloating over the fact that he got away with murder, and now you're scared of doing the same thing again so you're gonna go through every bloody step in minute detail.”
“You're an ass sometimes,” I tell him.
“Only sometimes?” He pauses. “I get that the Gregory case screwed you up, Laura, but don't look a gift-horse in the mouth. This case is coming to us with a nice little bow on top, ready for us to take it to Halveston and show him that we got it solved. Bryony bloody Hawthorne killed those people, and sure, she's convincing in the interview room, but do you know why that is? It's because she's a psychopath.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
He nods.
“That girl in there,” I continue, “weeping and sobbing, is a psychopath?”
“She can turn the tears on and off like a tap,” he explains, snapping his fingers in my face. “I saw a documentary about it once. She's playing us. No, she's playing you, 'cause she knows all your buttons. That's how psychopaths work. They don't have real emotions. They just switch things on when they need to make someone feel sorry for them. On, off, on, off, like a fucking robot. That's what she is.”
“She's a scared kid,” I tell him. “She's being framed.”
“People don't really get framed,” he replies, with obvious scorn in his voice. “Not in real life. Sure, it happens in movies, but in the real world, when was the last time you heard of a case where someone actually got framed for murder?” He pauses. “It's always the simplest answer.”
“I'm not charging her,” I say firmly. “Not yet. I want a little more time to look at other options. If, after the first twenty-four-hour window is over, it still looks like she's the killer, then I'll think again, but right now this is my case and I'm sure as hell not going to rush into anything. I want to take my time.”
“I thought the Daniel Gregory case had messed you up for a while,” he replies. “Now I realize I was wrong. It didn't mess you up for a while. It permanently screwed with your head. Sod this, I'm going to get a coffee.”
I watch as he makes his way along the corridor, heading for the machine. Turning to look at the door to the interview room, I can't help but wonder if maybe Nick's right. Did the Daniel Gregory case really mess me up to the extent that I'm too scared to make another leap? And is Bryony Hawthorne really just a manipulative psychopath who's stringing me along and trying to get me to feel sorry for her?
Suddenly the door opens and Bryony's lawyer steps out, quickly pulling the door shut again.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“I've given her my honest opinion,” he says calmly, “which is that the weight of evidence against her is very strong, and that the odds of overturning the fingerprints in court are low.”
“You think she did it?”
“I've asked her to take a moment to consider the right course of action,” he replies diplomatically, even though the look in his eyes makes it clear that he thinks she's guilty. “I've told her that if she has anything to confess, now would be the time, while it's still possible for her to be cooperative. I'm going to wait for a few minutes and then go back in to see if she's made a decision.” He pauses. “But I mean... The fingerprint evidence alone is damning, isn't it?”
“Yeah,” I reply, feeling as if somehow we're all being led into a trap. “It's almost open-and-shut. Someone's gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure that we think exactly what we're supposed to think.”
Ophelia
“These are amazing,” I mutter, sitting cross-legged on the dusty concrete floor as I flick through yet another of Victoria's hugely-detailed notebooks. “They must have taken you years!”
“Not really,” she replies, sitting nearby. “I always spend a lot of time on them, though. When I get an idea, it's easier to draw it than to write it down or say it out loud. I don't know why, it just is. Sometimes I sit and draw all day and I don't even remember it, so I have to look back through to see what I came up with.”
I turn to another page, which contains a detailed pen and ink drawing of several dark figures arranged in a semi-circle, each posed as if they're in the middle of performing some everyday action. There's something really creepy about the ideas that she's drawn in this notebook, and I can't help wondering what it would be like if she had the time and resources to really act on her plans.
“So the Dead City,” I continue after a moment, “is supposed to be some kind of huge set, decorated with loads of these figure?” I turn to her. “Is that it?”
“Not a set,” she replies with a faint smile. “An actual city.”
“A whole city?”
She nods.
“And where are you going to find a spare city?” I ask. “It's not like there are loads of them just lying around.”
“That's why I have to start small,” she replies. “One building at a time. I know there's no way I'll ever get to actually work with a complete city, but if I can integrate my work into various buildings, the models can become inhabitants just as much as the living people. Like I said before, it's something that's going to take my whole life to finish. Either that or I could maybe go to China one day and try to get my work into one of those huge ghost cities like Kangbashi. Have you seen them? They're, like, whole cities with almost no-one living in them.”
“Maybe you should jump on a plane to China,” I tell her.
“I would if I could. The thought of being in a completely empty city, with no people around to piss me off, is like heaven. I could just get on with my work without anyone disturbing me.”
“But then who would see it when you were finished?” I ask.
“Someone would stumble in there eventually,” she replies. “I'd hide and watch their reaction, and then I'd wait for them to leave.”
I nod as I flick through to the next page of her notebook. The image here is different, showing what appears to be a figure attached to a ceiling and arranged in a star-like position. Next to the drawing, there are various notes and equations, as if she's been trying to work something out. It's pretty clear that, along with her artistic ideas, Victoria has extensive knowledge of mechanics and engineering.
“That's just stupid stuff,” she says suddenly, snatching the book away from me and flicking through to a different page. “A lot of the stuff in here is dumb, but I feel like I need to do the dumb stuff so I can get to the stuff that's worth bothering with, like the way a prospector has to dig through dirt if he wants to get to the gold. Do you know that feeling?”
I nod again.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I mean... Half the battle is just about getting the preparation done.”
“You're the first person who seems to get it,” she replies.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it, it's just...” She pauses for a moment. “I tried explaining it to my lecturer once, and he just laughed. He said I was getting ahead of myself and thinking too big, but he just didn't understand. We had to present our projects in class and all the other students just thought I was doing something stupid. I haven't been back since. I just work on my stuff alone in here. It doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks, anyway. The art world's just one big scam. You need to network and kiss asses, and that's how you succeed. Real artists get ignored.” She pauses again. “Then again, my stuff's stupid, so it's probably better that I don't get to exhibit.”
“I don't
think it's stupid,” I tell her. “Hell, if I was a student at a place like this, it's the kind of thing I'd do.”
She frowns.
“I mean, I am a student,” I add quickly. “Sometimes I forget that. I only signed up yesterday.”
“So why don't you live with your family?” she asks suddenly.
“Me?” I take a deep breath. “No reason, I just... I like being by myself.”
“Are your parents assholes?”
“I...” Looking back down at the notebook for a moment, I consider telling her everything. About my parents, about the farmhouse, about what happened with Renton that day. I've never told anyone what happened, and I swore I never would, but for the first time I'm starting to wonder if whether it would help to confide in a kindred spirit.
“My parents are monsters,” she continues. “My father used to... I mean, he did things he wasn't supposed to. With me. And my Mum just ignored it, even when I asked her to get him to stop. She'd just leave the house when she knew he was going to start, and she'd stay out for a couple of hours so he wouldn't be disturbed. So I hate them both, but for different reasons. Eventually I had to run, but I can't ever go back. If I saw either of them again, I think I'd...”
I wait for her to continue, but finally I realize that her little confession is over. There's a part of me that wants to ask more, but I figure it must have been hard for her to tell me what happened, and I can read between the lines enough to understand what her father did to her.
“I'm sorry,” I say after a moment. “I can't even imagine what that's like.”
“It's okay,” she replies, picking at her fingernails as if she's nervous. “I just... Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I don't know why I did, I never talk about myself to anyone but you seem different, like...”
Again, her voice trails off.
“So you ran away from home,” I reply, “and now you live here like this?”
“It's not so bad.” She pauses. “At least I can do what I want, when I want. There's no-one to boss me about, no-one to nit-pick and tell me I'm doing anything wrong. Every day I wake up and decide what I want to do, and then I start work. What about you? How did you end up like this?”
I shake my head.
“I won't tell anyone,” she adds. “I can keep a secret, and anyway, I never talk to anyone.”
“It's not that,” I reply, “it's just that I... It wasn't anything like what happened to you. My parents didn't hurt me. I guess the worst thing you could say about them is that they were kinda careless, but they didn't deserve... They were good people, I think.”
“Were? Are they dead?”
I take a deep breath. Whenever I come close to talking about my past, I always feel as if my chest is getting tighter and tighter, and sometimes I wonder if telling the full truth would cause me to have some kind of a heart attack. I know it's a pretty dumb idea, but at the same time, talking about the old days brings on this visceral, physical reaction. I always swore I'd never tell another soul about what happened, but right now, for the first time, I actually feel tempted to open up a little.
“It's complicated,” I say eventually.
“Don't worry,” she replies, “you don't have to tell me. Sorry if I was pushing, it's just that I felt like maybe I might be able to understand.”
“They're not dead,” I tell her, surprising myself with my honesty. “They're... out there somewhere.”
“But you don't have any contact with them?”
I shake my head.
“Don't you ever want to talk to them?” she asks.
Again, I shake my head.
“Do you think you'll ever see them again?”
“No way,” I tell her. “That part of my life is over. No-one would benefit if I suddenly...”
My voice trails off.
We sit in silence for a moment, as if we're both a little freaked out by this moment of honesty. I feel strangely raw, as if there's something about Victoria that makes it unnaturally easy for me to open up to her, and I get the impression that maybe she feels the same. The truth is, after keeping all my secrets wrapped up for so long, it's strange to even contemplate the idea that I could tell someone about myself. Finally, realizing that maybe I should take advantage of this rare opportunity, I try to work out where to start.
“One night,” I say cautiously, “years ago, while they were out of the house, I...” I pause for a moment. My chest feels tight, but I figure I've started so I might as well finish. “They'd gone out,” I continue, “and I was home alone. It was getting late and -”
Suddenly there's a beeping sound nearby.
“Sorry,” Victoria mutters, grabbing her phone and checking the screen. “Shit. I had no idea it was that time already.”
“What's wrong?” I ask, feeling slightly relieved that I was interrupted.
“It's my work,” she replies, getting to her feet. “I need to get on with another part of my project. The final show's coming up soon and despite everything that's been happening lately I figure people are still going to show up. I mean, this is the culmination of three years' work, so there's kind of a lot of pressure.”
“I'll let you get on with it,” I tell her as I stand up. “Sorry, I didn't mean to take up so much of your time.”
“But you were about to tell me about yourself,” she continues. “You can stay if you want. I'll be working, but we can still talk. I want to know your story.”
“I...” Pausing, I feel a shiver pass through my body as I realize how close I just came to opening up and actually telling another human being the truth about my life. “No, I should really get home. I'm staying at someone's house for a few nights, and I think I really need to sleep.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I've got a kettle. I can make tea and -”
“No,” I say again, “really. I'll come back tomorrow, though.”
“Sure.”
There's an awkward silence for a moment, as if we're each starting to retreat back into our respective shells.
“Well,” she continues, “you know where to find me. Just make sure you don't let anyone see you coming up here. The last thing I need is for someone to stumble onto my stuff before the show starts. I've got a big surprise planned for Friday. It's going to be the biggest thing ever!”
***
“Holy crap!” I mutter as I hurry out of the building and stop for a moment to catch my breath. It's late, almost 3am, but I feel wide awake and when I look down at my hands I realize that they're trembling.
Leaning back against the wall, I try to stem the rising panic in my chest.
I almost told her the truth. After five years of hiding everything away and putting on a show for the world, I came so close to revealing the whole damn story. Hell, if her stupid phone alarm hadn't gone off, I'd probably have explained everything that happened to me, down to the finest detail. I always swore that I'd never tell anyone the truth, but there was just something about Victoria that made me feel as if she'd actually understand. I might even have told her my real name.
That would have been the worst mistake in the world.
“Stupid,” I whisper. “Stupid, stupid -”
Hearing a noise nearby, I turn just in time to see a figure wandering around from behind the main college building. Realizing that the security guard has returned, I duck down and hurry around the edge of the car park. When I get to the line of trees, I glance back and see that the guard is making his way past the next building. It's strange to think that Victoria is in there, working away without anyone noticing her. I guess the guard's not very good at his job.
Checking my phone, I see that it's way too late for me to be out any longer. Laura's going to kill me.
Laura
“Art?”
Doctor Maitland stares down at Mike Wallace's body for a moment, as if the question has shocked him a little. We're in the exam room, and the naked corpse is flat on its back on a metal table, with the chest having already been cut open for t
he autopsy. It's a surreal sight, even though it's something that I've seen a hundred times before.
“No,” he continues eventually, “I wouldn't say that it's art. More... a feat of engineering.”
“Engineering?” I ask.
“Look here,” he says, using a scalpel to point at a deep cut running through the corpse's armpit. “Why do you think the killer cut this part of the body open and inserted a metal rod?”
“What kind of rod?”
He grabs an inch-long metal rod from the counter and holds it up for me to see.
“This,” he continues, with a somewhat triumphant tone, “is a weight-bearing rod designed to support the bones of the upper arm and prevent splintering. In short, the killer was worried that since our Mr. Wallace was a rather rotund fellow, his weight might cause the arm to break, thereby altering the center of gravity and potentially even bringing the entire corpse crashing down from its mounting on the ceiling. And do you know what this tells us?”
“That the killer thought ahead?” I ask, walking around the table so that I can get a better look at the bloodied armpit.
“That the killer has advanced engineering skills and is able to apply theory in a lateral manner,” Maitland continues. “Anatomical skills, too. We're dealing with a smart cookie here, someone who's capable of adapting expertise in other fields and using information to support the construction of a piece of art. So I suppose that maybe the answer to your question would be that, yes, this is a work of art after all, albeit one that could only have been created using sophisticated techniques.”
“The school teaches its students various engineering principles,” I tell him. “Mike Wallace himself told me that art students are taught a variety of techniques. It's not just about splashing paint onto a canvas. Some of them are more like engineers than traditional artists.”
“And the internet would be able to fill in any knowledge gaps,” he replies. “Well, the cause of death was asphyxiation. You'll note the discoloration around the neck, and the pattern indicates that the pressure was applied from behind. It's my guess that Mr. Wallace got into his car and was then strangled by someone who was waiting on the back seat. It would have to be someone fairly strong, or at least someone who could summon up the strength to finish him off. After all, Mr. Wallace was a big guy. Have you found a vehicle yet?”