Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix

by phill syron-jones

  McCall’s glare stiffened. Why was he here, she wondered? Was he following her? It was strange that he always showed up just in time; she shook off the temptation to work out theories. The mystery guy would have to wait—the case came first.

  “Are there any similarities with the two other killings?” McCall was desperate for a clue. This guy was good, but in her experience the more comfortable they got as they killed more and more, the more likely it was they would eventually mess up.

  Tina stopped what she was doing and took off her slightly scratched eye protectors. “Well, what we have is a man who, for some reason, drains all of his victims’ blood, and removes not just body parts but whole chunks of body parts.” She walked between the tables on which lay the remains of the first two victims. “What I don’t get is the kind of parts that have been removed. Most of the ‘trophies crew’ takes a finger or an ear. This is way too extreme.”

  “Maybe he is fussy about what he eats.” McCall smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but she couldn’t budge the look of worry on the pretty ME’s face.

  “This guy knows how to use a scalpel,” Tina pointed out. “So we’re probably looking for some kind of surgeon.”

  McCall looked puzzled. “How do you know?” She moved closer to the most recent corpse, unable to resist her curiosity.

  “If you look here, you can see the cuts that were made are straight and even, not jagged and ripped. No, the guy took his time and by the look of the others I would say that this surgery was done with respect more than out of brutality.” Tina shrugged. “You see McCall, the person who did this, did it for a reason. It wasn’t so much about the kill itself like we see so many times, no, the parts he took meant something to him because of the way they were removed. And our last vic, the blood wasn’t even hers—it was animal blood, added maybe because he wanted the body to be found more easily. I still don’t understand why he is draining them.” Tina shook her head in apparent disbelief.

  McCall sat at her desk when Tooms and Tony returned from interviewing the boss at the law firm where one of the victims had worked. They strolled in, and Tooms sat in the spare chair at McCall’s desk and flipped open his notepad as Tony crashed into his chair and picked up his phone and started to dial.

  “So what did you get?” she asked her sweating colleagues, who had been busy.

  “Well, we scored,” Tooms told her. “We got the place of work and a name, Miss Karen Lane, aged forty. She had an apartment on the East Side, we are just about to go there once we get a warrant.”

  McCall nodded, grateful that, at last, they had a lead of some sort. “Do we know who may have seen her last?” She was hoping to establish a time frame.

  “Yeh, we got a Karl Buntee, he is the janitor there, and he reckons he saw her in the parking garage at around three on Saturday morning.”

  “Why was she working on a Friday night?” McCall asked suspiciously.

  “Well, it turns out they had a big meeting on the Monday, all to do with some high profile case. Seems she had to get the briefs typed up in time for that.”

  “OK, so we have a time frame for vic number one,” McCall said, getting up and writing the numbers on another board, this one for time frames; she drew a line from 03:00 hours until the end of the mark that covered Monday, when her body was found.

  “So what have we got?” McCall said, perched on her desk. “Vic One, Karen Lane, went missing on Friday and was found Monday night, so on that basis I guess we can presume he only keeps them for a few days.”

  The other two joined her at the time-frame board and stared at the puzzle, hoping something would reveal itself.

  “Vic Two was found in the park on Thursday, so if he is holding to his time line she must have been taken on the Tuesday. That’s in theory, but until we find out who she is, it’s only speculation. Same with Vic number three.” McCall looked puzzled. “What I can’t get is, the others were posed but Vic Three was hung off a pier. It doesn’t make sense.”

  McCall stood and picked up her coffee mug. She needed caffeine, and was hoping that some strong coffee would blow away some cobwebs. She went into the rest room, followed by Tooms and Tony.

  The smell of strong coffee hit them with an awakening jolt; picking up the glass beaker she poured herself a cup then offered it to the others, who responded by putting their cups on the surface next to hers. She filled the cups and put back the half full coffee jug into the coffee machine.

  “I don’t get it; there is nothing that connects these women,” she began. “We need to find out who the other two vics are, or this isn’t going anywhere.”

  The others agreed and they all moved out of the room and made their way back to their desks. As they turned the corner, there by the board stood the mysterious stranger whom McCall had last seen at the crime scene, his hands behind his back. As he studied the board, he couldn’t help but feel he was being watched.

  “Nice board,” he said without moving, in an unmistakable British accent.

  “Can I help you?” Sam McCall’s voice almost growled with disapproval at just the mere sight of him, let alone the idea of him staring at her information boards.

  “Simple but effective,” he continued, but this time he turned slightly just to acknowledge she was there.

  “BUT?” she prodded him to continue, almost as if she was waiting for some ‘British’ sarcastic remark, which never came.

  “No really, I like your boards, that’s all. I’m sorry if I have offended you in any way.” With that, he moved away from the boards as if he was trying to be conciliatory.

  “Thanks,” she spoke, but the words were somewhat hollow and she was unsure how she should react to him.

  She grabbed her cup and headed for the restroom to get a coffee, forgetting she already had one. She felt that she just had to get away. However, he followed, just like a lost child on his first day at school.

  “Are you following me?” she growled, eyes blazing.

  “Coffee,” he replied, holding up the coffee-filled jug.

  “What?” Her expression went from anger to bewilderment in a second.

  “I said, do you want a coffee?”

  McCall stood like a deer in headlights, then remembered the full cup at her desk and left him in the restroom to make himself a drink. The other two detectives, somewhat bemused by this whole display, just sat back and observed this strange behaviour with pleasure.

  She was busy typing something on the computer and had failed to notice the British guy standing beside the empty chair next to her desk; he coughed politely just to arouse her attention; she looked out of the corner of her eye and saw him waiting.

  “What now?” Her tone was one of weariness and irritation.

  “May I?” He indicated the battered looking chair. Its brown coloured fabric lay loose on the cushioning, yet it did look comfortable, somehow homely. She raised a hand as if to say ‘whatever’, but continued to look at the screen in front of her.

  Taking a swig of the brown liquid, his face winced almost immediately as his taste buds were assaulted by the worst coffee he’d tasted in years.

  “What’s the matter, coffee too much for you?” she said with a grin, taking a swig from her own cup, trying to ignore the foul taste in her own mouth. “I thought a big strong man like you could handle it,” she smiled again.

  Even though she was laughing at him he couldn’t resist enjoying this tiny chink in her armour. “You know, you have a nice smile, you should use it more often, it suits you.”

  She stopped and looked away, embarrassed she had let her guard down.

  He stared at the board over and over, but could not make any sense or connection; hell they did not even know who the other victims were, so a connection at this point was almost impossible.

  The British man looked at the photos and the timeline associated with the first vic, but nothing was coming to him. He gave up and he raised his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. They had been there hours and it had all blurr
ed into one big mess,

  “Would you like a coffee, detective?” he asked, rising from his chair.

  “No but thanks,” McCall replied. “Hey, one thing, when you use a cup you need to check the ones with marks on, they belong to people.” She had pointed it out because he had used a cup belonging to one of the detectives on another shift.

  “Got it, look out for marks,” he said, going into the coffee room. Seconds later he rushed back and started looking at the photos. “It can’t be—can it?” He spoke softly as if nobody else was present, then shot off towards the elevator.

  “What’s the matter, coffee get to you?” she called after him, making detectives Tooms and Tony laugh.

  “No, the marks did,” he said, bolting for the elevator.McCall just stared at the other two, who were just as confused as she was. Tony made a crazy person gesture with his index finger, and seconds later, they all got up and followed him, just in case they’d missed something that he had picked up on.

  TEN

  Down at the morgue Tina was in the back room checking some files. It had been a long day and she longed for the weekend to begin, because she and some of her girlfriends were planning to go to a new club and it sounded good. She started to dance to a little tune that had come up on her MP3 player and the mood just took her over, so she continued to boogie straight into the operating room where she saw a tall man dressed in black leaning over one of the bodies. She immediately stopped dancing and resumed her professional demeanour.

  “Hey, excuse me, can I help you?” Tina’s voice was calm and steady despite the sudden shock of seeing this unexpected stranger.

  “I’m sorry, doctor, I’m working with Detective McCall upstairs and I noticed something. It may be nothing, you see—” he was cut off in mid-sentence.

  “It’s OK, Tina, he is sort of with me,” McCall explained as she entered the room with Tooms and Tony.

  Dr Tina nodded towards the stranger and grinned to her friend McCall. Sam let her eyes roll back in their sockets in disapproval, but Tina made a ‘No problem’ signal with her fingers.

  “OK, English guy, what’s up?” McCall felt she had to sound as if she wasn’t impressed, but deep down she hoped he’d found something, anything.

  “You said about the marks, what marks?” McCall asked him, was stumped by what he may have seen, something they might have missed. Even Tina looked confused.

  “There were no marks on the body, only those he made himself,” the ME growled, furious at the accusation she had missed something.

  “What I mean is, all the areas of body remaining had some sort of mark or fault,” the Englishman said. “Vic One had a tattoo on her back—that’s why he only took the front part of her body. Vic Two had scars on her one leg and one arm, also she had piercings and, well, Vic Three was pretty clean so—”

  “That’s why the most was taken from her,” Tina finished the sentence, catching on to his theory.

  “What, you mean our guy is seeking out women for body parts? For what?” McCall’s patience was thin and this guy was stretching it to the limit.

  “Look, you said you could help,” McCall continued. “But frankly if all your ideas are as half-assed as this we are better off without you. I’m sorry.” And with that she stormed out, not because the idea was wrong, no. It was more maddening than that.

  What really annoyed her was the possibility that he could be right and she had failed to see what he had.

  The newcomer walked up to Tina and took her right hand. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion, Madam,” and, so saying, he gently raised her knuckles to his lips and planted a small kiss there, then left. Tina grabbed for the side of the table as her knees gave way. All she could say to herself was “WOW!”

  As he got out of the elevator he saw the chaos of the office. Phones were ringing, computers flashed with information, and detectives were running here and there with documents in their hands. He stepped off and looked round to find McCall attacking a vending machine. Tooms and Tony were going through paperwork and arguing about what should go in a filing system, while the Captain was on McCall’s phone yelling at some poor SOB about press at the crime scene. A smile crept over his face, as he nodded to himself reassuringly, deciding that it was time to tell them who he was.

  The stranger walked up to the Captain and whispered into his ear, and the other man stood bolt upright as though a sudden shock of electricity had been passed through him. He said something in return and beckoned the others to follow him into a small briefing room. The tall mysterious man was already inside, and as they came in, he asked them to sit down. Shutting the door, he moved to the centre of a wall on which there was a large map of the city.

  He took stock of the situation and held his two pressed-together index fingers against his lips, as if planning what he was about to say. Describing him as nervous and uncomfortable would have been an understatement.

  “My name is John Steel,” he began. “At this present moment I am assigned to your department to assist with these homicides. Unfortunately I cannot disclose any more information than that at this time. I understand that my presence will cause some issues with our working relationship, however details about what I am working on is classified information. Thank you for your time.”

  He waited for some comeback, a snide comment or remark, but there was nothing. Everyone just left the room as though nothing had happened, simply nodding in acknowledgement, leaving a somewhat puzzled Englishman.

  Steel walked over to McCall’s desk with a sheepish look on his face, that turned into a smile.

  “Look I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot, but—”

  She cut him off in mid-sentence by raising a hand. She shuffled through some paperwork, searching for something, then standing up they both moved across to the information boards.

  “He isn’t done yet, is he?” She looked at him with saddened eyes; John Steel shook his head, the bright fluorescent lights in the room glinting on his sunglasses.

  “No, he’s not finished. But we will catch this guy,” he said, turning back to the board. “We have to.”

  This left her with an even more puzzled look on her face. This time it was over the mystery man Steel. Who was he and what was his connection with the killer?

  Dr. Colby Davidson sat in his black leather office chair jotting down notes as his patient rambled on about how life was meaningless without her little ‘Candy’. The elderly woman was clutching a photo of her dearly departed Chihuahua in one hand and a pink diamond studded collar in the other. The doctor, who was in his early forties, listened patiently to what she was saying, appearing to be interested, touching her shoulder to comfort her, while he heard about the dog’s grand funeral that cost more than he had paid for his Mercedes. He was a tall thin man with black greased-back hair and small black-rimmed glasses that covered his large dark eyes. He did not require spectacles, no, the ones he wore were more for show, to give him an intellectual air. His face was long, and a large Roman nose supported the unnecessary spectacles.

  “Please go on, Mrs. Burnett.” His voice was soft and sickly, like honey. He crossed one leg over the other, resting a three-thousand dollar shoe on the knee of an eight-thousand dollar suit trouser leg.

  He smelt of money and so he should, for he was in fact one of the top psychiatrists in New York, if not the country. His clothes and the furnishings in his office spoke volumes about the man. How had it come to this, he thought? How had years of training and hard work led him to a life of put him with listening to the ramblings of tired old women? He looked towards his wall of fame, where trophies and diplomas filled shelves, photos of him shaking hands with famous people, even the President himself, and a cabinet full of trophies.

  An antique gold-and-black clock chimed in the background, signalling the end of the lady’s session. She slowly got off the leather chaise longue and dried her eyes with the corner of a white embroidered handkerchief.

  “Now, Mrs. Burnett we are making pr
ogress.” He held her gloved hands.

  “Don’t worry, these things take time, dear lady, now if you speak to Beatrice she will make you another appointment.” Mrs. Burnett thanked him and left. As he shut the door, his back rested against the cool oak timber, and he raised his head and closed his weary eyes, and thanked God that the session was over.

  Moving to the drinks trolley next to a large dark wood cabinet, he could not help but think: was this it? Is it over, is there nothing more to challenge this brilliant mind? Stopping, he poured himself a drink of whisky and downed it in one.

  He sat down on his heavy-looking office chair, and turned to look out of the huge windows that revealed a magnificent view of the park. He took a sip from a freshly poured drink, and he sighed as he watched the people walking carelessly in the midday sun then he smiled just for a moment until the intercom broke his concentration.

  “Sorry to disturb you, doctor. But you have the police on line one.”

  “Thank you, put them through, Beatrice.” He was confused. Police? What on earth could they want? He had done nothing wrong!

  He picked up the receiver gingerly and placed it slowly to his ear.

  “Hello, this is Dr Davidson, how may I be of assistance?” His voice slow and tentative, but still ringing with his usual treacle tones.

  “Yes, hello, doctor. This is Captain Alan Brant of the New York Police Department. I wondered if you would be so kind as to come down to the station. Sir, we could really use someone of your expertise to help with a case we’re working on.”

  Davidson’s face cracked an eerie smile. “I would be delighted to help you with your little case, Officer.” He preened himself, arrogantly wallowing in this sudden recognition.

  “Um yes thank you, and that’s Captain, not Officer.”

  Davidson was suddenly taken aback by the policeman’s correction; he must think a lot about himself, thought the doctor, admiring himself in the reflection from the window.

  “Yes, yes whatever you say,” They agreed on a time.

  “Till tomorrow then,” and he put down the receiver before the Captain could reply. He sprung up out of his chair and raced to the door. Swinging open the heavy panel he stuck his head round the corner to see his secretary, a pretty young thing dressed all in black, apart from a white frilly blouse which left not much to the imagination.