by Amy Cross
I need to be sure. If she's all talk and no trousers, she's useless to me.
Joanna Mason
"So what's the deal?" I ask as I walk through to Dawson's office. "You solved this thing yet?"
Looking up from his desk, he greets me with a weary smile. "You're looking better."
"I think I kicked it," I reply, wandering over to his desk and picking up the nearest file. The truth is, now that I've passed out the other side of the chemotherapy haze, I'm feeling as sharp and alert as ever. That's the crazy thing, in a way: I can always feel my mind becoming sluggish as the drugs go into my system, and then a few hours later I hit a brick wall. Eventually, however, everything settles and I know that I won't have any more problems until my next chemotherapy session. In a weird way, I'm learning to live with the situation. It's like some kind of weird disability that messes me up a couple of times a week.
"I've been going over all the old paperwork concerning Sam Gazade," he says, sounding as if he's not sure whether or not he should broach the subject with me.
"Huh," I say, flicking through the file. "I remember writing most of this. I was just a fresh-faced, optimistic twenty-three-year-old on one of her first assignments. Twelve years later..." I pause as I notice that my handwriting has barely changed over the years. It's strange to think of myself writing all this up, unaware that a few months later I'd be diagnosed with cancer for the first time. Feeling a shiver pass through my body, I close the file and place it back on Dawson's desk. "It's gone 5pm," I point out. "You never do overtime. What's wrong? Did you and Elaine have another fight?"
"I just don't know what kind of case this is," he says with a sigh, carefully avoiding a direct answer. "All the signs point to a copycat, but it's more than that, isn't it? You were right when you said it was a tribute. It's someone reenacting Gazade's murders to the very last detail, which means that in three days' time we're going to have another body to deal with." He pauses. "I could do with a flash of magic right about now, Mason. You got anything?"
I look over at the television in the corner of the room; the sound has been turned off, but the screen shows crowds gathering outside the prison, waiting for Gazade's execution. Picking up a set of photos that show Edward Hunter's wounds, I wait for inspiration to strike.
"Come on," Dawson continues. "Where's that old black magic you used to flaunt so often? It was almost supernatural, the way you could work out what was happening. A photo, a piece of evidence... You used to be able to make all those logical leaps that the rest of us couldn't see. Can't you try to help me out here?"
I take a deep breath. He's right: when I was younger, more clear-headed, I could somehow get those flashes of realization that might just turn a case on its head. The phenomenon used to scare me a little, because I worried that it meant I was somehow in tune with the psychopaths and murderers I was investigating. Still, it was useful, and it helped me crack a whole string of cases right up until this latest cancer diagnosis, which is when the new chemotherapy drugs started to affect my mind. I'm still pretty lucid most of the time, but it's been a while since I had a proper moment of inspiration. There's no way to deny that since I became sick again, I've been worse at my job.
"If you -" Dawson starts to say.
"Quiet!" I hiss. "I'm thinking."
We stand in silence for a moment, but I already know deep down that lightning isn't going to strike today. That subtle little edge of inspiration has been shaved away. I used to hate it when people said I had a 'gift' for seeing into the minds of murderers, but now I miss my 'gift'.
"Nothing," I say eventually. "The only point I'd make is that there's one very important detail that's different with this copycat killing."
"The gender of the victim?"
I nod.
"Maybe it was just more convenient to catch a guy?" he points out.
"This killer went to a lot of trouble. Why skimp on something as important as the gender?" I pause for a moment. "Unless that's the whole point."
"The point of what?" Dawson asks.
"When the Gazade case came out in the media," I remind him, "a lot of people saw it as an example of a deranged man acting out his misogynistic urges. I mean, he cut off their breasts and mutilated their genitals, so I guess there's definitely some mileage in that idea. I know for a fact that there are a whole load of academic books on the subject of gender and violence, and many of them bring Gazade into the discussion. He's widely seen as a key example of gender violence." I pause again. "Switching the gender of this victim is a statement," I say eventually. "It's deliberate, and it's designed to send a message. Whatever the reasoning, this isn't accidental."
"So, what," Dawson replies, "you think this is some kind of feminist revenge killing?"
"Not revenge," I tell him. "Revenge would imply passion or anger. This is more clinical, like a recreation or a study, or..." Pausing for a moment, I realize that maybe I've managed to get a moment of inspiration after all. "It is a study," I continue. "That's exactly what this person is doing. He, or she, is recreating Sam Gazade's murders, probably all of them, but reversing the gender. Gazade killed four women in horrible, violently misogynistic ways. He brutalized their bodies. He mutilated and tortured them, and now this killer is doing the exact same thing, but to men. It's like some kind of experiment."
"So you think the killer this time is a woman?" Dawson asks.
"Maybe," I reply, "or maybe not. I guess it's the most likely option, but don't rule a man out just yet."
"There's something else," Dawson continues, grabbing a set of papers. "When Mezki continued his analysis of Edward Hunter's corpse, he found that the star-pattern had been cut deep, gouging into the end of the urethra. If you remember, the same thing was done to Rachel Blackman, except that particular detail was never released to the press. I've been checking all the reports and all the books on Gazade's crimes, and it was never, ever mentioned that he dug down so deep."
"So how did this killer know?" I ask.
"That's why I asked you earlier if you thought it was worth considering Gazade's involvement," he replies. "Unless the killer got the information from a police source, the only other option is that Gazade himself has somehow managed to get the details out there. Obviously the prison staff would never let him include that kind of thing in his letters, but maybe if he was using some kind of code -"
"Too complicated," I reply. "That's the kind of thing people do in books and films, not real life. You're in danger of getting everything in a knot, and once you start down that road, you're never going to be able to work out what's happening." I pause, hoping against hope that I might come up with a better idea. "Still," I add eventually, "Gazade might have some ideas. One monster might very well be able to provide some insight into another, and it's worth checking, just to be certain."
"I need to ask you something," Dawson says after a moment. "I'm reluctant to do this, because I know what you went through with Gazade last time and I really don't want to open up any old wounds. The problem is, I'm drowning here, and I have no idea what to do. I'm good at my job, Mason, but I don't have your knack for dealing with the really perverse psychos out there. So what I was hoping was that maybe you'd consider coming on-board with this one. I'll keep you way back from the front-line, but I really need you to be part of this investigation."
"I already thought I was," I tell him with a faint smile.
"Thank God," he replies with a sigh. "Okay, so now what? If this killer sticks to the pattern we're expecting, there's going to be a new corpse in three days."
"We'll get to that," I reply, glancing over at the television screen and seeing a huge crowd of angry citizens gathering in the darkness, waiting for midnight. "First," I continue, "we need to have a word with Sam Gazade before midnight."
Dr. Alice Huston
"Three hours to go," says the news anchor, with a nervous grin on his face. "I don't know about you guys at home, but here outside the prison gates we're feeling a palpable sense of... I'm
not sure of the right word. Justice? I think that's it. There's justice in the air tonight, folks. And although there are a few protesters down here, I think I'm right in saying that the overwhelming opinion of the crowd gathered outside these gates is relief. Relief and support for the fact that a serial killer is soon going to receive the final part of his sentence."
I'm standing in my kitchen, chopping vegetables in preparation for dinner. It's 9pm and I don't really know where the day went; I guess I just kept busy and ended up losing track of time, although it's hard to believe that I could have spent the best part of five hours in the library and then... I pause for a moment as I realize that I'm not quite sure what I did after I packed up my books and left the campus. I went to the grocery store, and then... Damn it, I need to get a grip here. Sometimes I get so engrossed in my work, I end up losing track of real life. I guess things would be easier if I had someone to share things with, but here I am, making dinner alone once again. Maybe I should have taken Harry up on his offer of a night out.
"Should we, as a society, feel bad for committing murder?" asks the anchor. "Do we have the right to take a life, even when the man in question is clearly a monster? Shouldn't his punishment be left to God?"
"First of all," replies the latest guest, wheeled on to fill time as the countdown continues, "let's not call it murder. Murder is what Sam Gazade did. This is justice."
I can't help but smile at the simplicity of it all. There's a part of me that wants to go back down to the prison gates and watch the scrum. Purely for academic purposes, of course. Glancing over at the Sam Gazade coffee mug I bought earlier, I remember how easy it is to get caught up in the insanity, and I realize that I'm probably much better off here at home. What interests me the most is the reaction of the crowd after Gazade has been executed. Will they just wander home? Will they have a party? Will they continue to argue, or will all the anger of the past few hours just evaporate? After all, Gazade's death will surely render the debate pointless, even if it isn't pointless already, but there's bound to be a lot of excess energy built up in the crowd, and I can't help but wonder whether they'll all just spontaneously combust once the object of their attention has been killed.
I'm so busy thinking about Gazade, I almost catch my hand with the knife. That'd be typical. I've already cut my thumb this week. Do I really want any more injuries?
"There was some concern about the drugs being used to execute Gazade," says the anchor. "Sources indicate that the prison only has one dose left, and that a number of other executions have been postponed in order to ensure that the dose is available for Gazade. The governor has denied that budget cuts are to blame, but it'll be a few more weeks before new stocks arrive. Critics have accused the state of running a bare bones prison system."
Hearing the doorbell ring, I pause for a moment. It's late, and I'm definitely not expecting anyone. After wiping my hands, I head through to the hallway, and when I open the door I'm shocked to find Paula Clarke standing outside, seemingly out of breath. The most surprising thing, though, is that she's staring straight at me, as if suddenly she has no trouble making eye contact.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"You really don't get it, do you?" she replies, with more fire and vehemence in her voice than I ever expected. This isn't the muttering, stumbling girl I saw earlier; this is someone confident and angry. "You just don't understand. You try. I know you try, but it's as if it's all just beyond your ability to comprehend." She stares at me for a moment, shaking with anger. "You're just like everyone else."
"How did you..." I pause as I realize that I need to handle this matter with caution. "Paula, it's not appropriate for you to come to my home -"
"I don't care what's appropriate!" she says, raising her voice. "It's not appropriate for you to dismiss everything I write and send me condescending emails about my work, but apparently you do it anyway! Do you have any idea how fucking patronizing you sound sometimes?"
"I asked you to come and see me on Monday morning," I tell her, making sure to stay calm, "and I think that's the best way for us to deal with this situation. Okay? Come to my office and we'll discuss my comments, and your essay, in a professional and constructive manner. Maybe we need to find some middle ground -"
"Middle ground?" she asks, almost spitting the words back in my face. "So you want to be appeased? Is that it?"
"I want to have a conversation in the appropriate setting," I reply. "This, standing on my doorstep, is not the appropriate setting. You cannot come to my home, Paula. You're stepping over a line, and some people might consider your behavior to be a little intimidating." I pause for a moment as I try to work out how I can make her see that she's in the wrong here. "I understand that you're very passionate about your work," I continue eventually, "and that's a good thing. It's admirable. But maybe we need to establish a professional relationship that allows us to better wrangle all that passion and energy and turn it into something that's more suitable in an academic setting. Do you understand what I'm staying to you?"
She nods.
"Okay, good -"
"You're saying I should shut the fuck up," she replies, her voice filled with scorn, "and just fit in to the dominant patriarchal system. This is about my ideas! You hate my ideas!"
"I don't hate your ideas," I say, which is a half-truth. "I find them to be a little strong, and I don't necessarily agree with all of them, but I don't hate them."
"I'm not going to compromise," she says firmly. "Compromise is one of the main ways in which people like you try to get people like me to be more docile. You want to drug me up on compromise and make me go to sleep, but I'm not stepping back from this. Men have been doing this to women for -"
"Hold on," I say, interrupting her. "I think you're getting ahead of yourself. This isn't about gender."
"Everything's about fucking gender," she spits back at me.
"Maybe you should try to calm down," I tell her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She immediately recoils, as if the touch of my hand caused her physical pain. "I'm sorry," I add, "I was just trying to reassure you. I think there's a danger that our interaction is becoming too hostile and confrontational, Paula, and I want to make some changes before we get to a point of no return. Can you understand why I might be worried about something like that?"
"I understand," she says, fixing me with a determined stare. "You're worried that I can see through you. You're worried that I can see every method of control that you try to use, and you're worried I can resist. You're worried you can't make me fit neatly into a box." She's almost breathless as the words tumble from her lips. "I get it, Dr. Huston. Every year, you get a new bunch of dumb little fucks, sitting in your lectures and lapping up every word."
"I wouldn't say it's quite like that," I reply, unable to stifle a faint smile.
"You're used to students bowing down before you, aren't you?" she continues. "You think we're all a bunch of stupid bitches!"
"Where's this coming from?" I ask. "You have a lot of anger, Paula, and I don't think it's all because of me."
"You're as bad as the rest of them," she says. "Men are all the same. You've been conditioned by society to expect a certain level of privilege, and you think the rest of us should all be fawning in your presence. You're probably scared right now. I'm upsetting your expectations and making you question whether or not you can actually control me. That's what society's all about, isn't it? Control? Well, I'm cutting all those invisible threads you were going to use to pull me in different directions. How does it feel, Dr. Huston? Women are waking up to all the horrors inflicted by men!"
"I agree," I reply. "Paula, I'm a woman too. I know how you feel -"
"You support the status quo," she replies breathlessly. "You uphold the hegemonic structures that keep women down."
Sighing, I realize that there's no way I can get through to her right now. She's just a bundle of half-baked theories and regurgitated polemic. "This is really a conversation for Monday morni
ng," I continue, struggling to maintain my composure. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I hope you'll understand that if you don't leave my home right now, I'll be forced to call someone to make you leave."
"Are you threatening me?" she asks.
"I'm telling you that I need you to leave," I say firmly. "I think I've already indulged you more than I should, and it's time to make you understand that this is not acceptable." I wait for her to say something. "Leave," I add eventually. "Now."
She stares at me, and swear there's a hint of violence behind her eyes. The transformation of this mild-mannered girl into some kind of angry ball of hate is, to be honest, one of the most remarkable things I've ever seen in my professional career, and for a moment I start to worry that she might actually become physically violent. "Fine," she mutters eventually. "Monday morning. I'll rewrite that fucking essay again, and I'll do it exactly the way you want it, and then once you've seen that I can do it your way, maybe you'll find it easier to understand why I want to do it my own way." With that, she turns and walks away, strutting down the steps as if she thinks she just scored a point against me.
I stand and watch as she hurries along the street. Although there's a part of me that's worried she might come back and cause more trouble, I'm fairly confident that she'll leave me alone, at least until Monday morning. I never, ever thought that shy little Paula Clarke would confront me in such a direct, almost violent manner, and I'm still reeling from the forcefulness of her gaze. I guess I was right to be worried about her, and as I step back inside and push the door shut, I take extra care to ensure that the bolt is firmly pushed across. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I can't help thinking that it's better to be safe. Paula seems a little unstable, and I wouldn't like to be too complacent.