by Krishna Ahir
"That's awfully responsible of you," Cliff said, his tone friendly. "You like helping out your parents?"
Christopher shrugged. A half-hearted admission that he was a good son, just too self-conscious to admit it.
"Hey," he suddenly said, looking up at the strangely comforting face of the hulking Sergeant. "I... I was wondering."
Cliff raised an eyebrow and pushed his glasses up his nose. "What were you wondering?"
"What kind of person would do something like that?"
The question surprised the Officer. The kid was tougher than he looked. If he was at all shaken by what he had seen, he wasn't letting it come across in his voice. If Cliff didn't know any better, he would have thought that the reason for Christopher's silence was that he had been sitting pondering his own question.
"Usually?" Cliff replied. "A very sick person. Which is why I need you to tell me everything. It may not be too late to get whoever did it some kind of help."
"So rehabilitation?"
"That's right."
Christopher seemed to think about this for a second. "I really didn't see anything, you know. The blinds were drawn the whole class. The only reason I saw it is because I always open them for Mr. Murdock."
"That's okay," Cliff said, clasping his large hands together. "I wouldn't expect you to have seen whoever did this. This is a routine procedure, to make sure that we didn't miss anything. All I need is a statement from you."
__________________________________
James Harold was in the process of packing up his desk when the phone rang. A long standing compulsion of his, he let it ring for five seconds before picking up.
"Rosefield Police, DCI Harold speaking."
"This is Chief Superintendent McIrvin, from the Grand Stone Bay Office," the voice on the other end of the line said.
He sounded old and authoritative. Harold guessed McIrvin to be around the same age as him. He pictured him with an appearance older than his years, with thinning grey hair and turkey jowls.
"Good afternoon Superintendent, how can I help you?" He forced a polite tone. Harold didn't want to get caught up in political and bureaucratic bullshit, but a call from a superior wasn't something that was wise to ignore.
"I just received a call from one of your Officers, regarding a case that just arrived at our station."
Initially Harold expressed confusion. Ordinarily his men only collaborated with the station in Grand Stone Bay on matters that required forensic assistance. Being a relatively small force they didn't have access to a laboratory, so it made sense to use the facilities of the much larger station in the city.
Then he remembered: Drake Gregory sat in his office the day before, insistent determination on his face; recognizing the signs, praying to the heavens that it was anything but that, yet at the same time gripped by a nostalgic thrill.
His mouth grew dry.
Please God, don't let it be the cats...
Harold didn't let his concern show in his voice. "Which Officer?" he asked.
"A Constable Drake Gregory."
His heart quavered, kicking at the inside of his chest.
"And he called you?" the Detective confirmed. He took a deep breath, not caring if McIrvin heard. "Let me guess... Mutilations. Almost definitely feline."
"How did you know that?" the superior Officer questioned, a curious tone prevalent in his voice.
"It was brought to my attention very recently that Drake Gregory has been looking into a number of cases of missing pets," Harold explained. "Dozens of cats have gone missing over the last few weeks. I told him to work it in his free time so, if anything came of it, we wouldn't be scrambling for information."
"It sounds like you expected something to come of it," McIrvin said, immediately picking up on the subtle urgency in Harold's voice.
"I didn't want to assume, just cover my bases. Look, it'd be easier for us to have this conversation in person. Maybe tomorrow? I hate talking over the phone."
"Only if you tell me what's going on."
"This is still early days so I didn't want to jump to conclusions. I'm telling you this now, in confidence, but I'm asking you not to panic. I might still be wrong, for all we know." He closed his eyes and began to pace, moving about his desk and stretching the tether of the phone cord. "The way this looks... We're probably dealing with a dangerous sociopath."
Pausing for a second, he could hear McIrvin breathing heavily down the line, as he listened intently.
"They're probably a fledgling; still young and experimenting. It's how it starts. Now... If we can track this, we might be able to get them help. Catch it early and enter them into therapy or a mental health program, before anyone gets hurt."
"And you're sure about this?" McIrvin finally said. His voice wavered ever so slightly, as he attempted to process the situation. It was so subtle, most people would have missed it.
Harold, however, wasn't most people.
"Listen, sir," he started, a reassuring air about his tone. "We are damn lucky to have caught this as early as we have. You can thank Drake for that. At this stage, whoever it is still learning; developing. But if we let this fester and don't do anything about it now, a lot of people could end up getting hurt."
For a brief second, memories of an Clearwoods flat flickered across Harold's vision. The handiwork of The Moor Murderer.
"Please, trust me on this one."
Again, McIrvin took a moment to himself. After a while he spoke; a weight behind his voice. "Can you come here now? I'll call Constable Gregory back as well, and he can join us."
Harold's sleeve bunched under his arm as he checked his watch. The thin gold hand moved around the face, ticking away the seconds. It was coming up to four o'clock. The nurse would be with Joslyn until at least five. If he called home soon, he would be able to ask her to extend her shift until he got back.
"Only if it's right now," he answered. "And I can't stay for more than an hour."
"That's perfect," the Chief Superintendent replied. "I'll see you soon." Then he hung up.
As he slotted the phone back into the receiver, Harold flipped his eyes closed and sighed. An uncomfortable tingle spread down his arms.
He caught himself wondering how many years it had been. How long since he had left the Murder Squad. Hopefully it wasn't too long. Hopefully, his senses were still sharp enough.
Walking over to the glass that separated him from his subordinates, Harold observed his translucent reflection. He looked worse than he felt. Everyone had noticed it, but few knew the reason why. He wasn't good at hiding his feelings, and currently wore his emotional frailty like some kind of disfiguring feature. Before he left, he would quickly dip in to the bathroom and splash some cold water on his face.
He moved back to his phone and called home, telling the nurse about the change in circumstances. The matronly voice of the woman told him not to worry, reassuring him that it was okay, before putting Joslyn on the phone. Her voice was weary and tired, but she sounded better than she did the day before, and for that Harold was thankful.
Following a soft exchange of "I love you"s, he set about his routine to head out. He left his office and headed down one of the corridors, leading off of the central space.
After returning from the bathroom, rubbing his eyes, he took a second to himself, to collect his thoughts.
Harold snatched up his coat and keys, and began to make his way out of the station, to the car park. A cloud of smoke caught him in the face as he pushed through the heavy double doors. A pair of uniformed Constables were stood inside the alcove, smoking.
Setting his face into a harsh glare, Harold dispersed the cloud with a wave of his hand, and continued on his way. He hated cigarettes. Cancer sticks, he used to call them. Ever since Joslyn had received her diagnosis, however, he had pointedly avoided using the phrase. It just didn't sound right; like he was trivializing her illness.
The picture of Macie and his grandchildren, hanging from his rear view mirror,
swayed slowly as he closed the door of his private car. Their smiling faces brought him back to reality. They were some of the few people that were able to alleviate the tumultuous feelings that regularly gripped him. Them and Jullian.
He didn't have any pictures of Jullian. Harold's son hated having his picture taken. Every time he had been captured on film, his hand obscured his face. Joslyn had often told him to keep them, however Harold didn't believe in framing a photo of his son's palm. At least, that's what he always said before Joslyn got sick. Two weeks after she had gotten the results, Harold had snapped a picture and put it on the night stand, on her side of the bed. It was still there, now.
Harold's mental image of the framed picture was interrupted by another sharp flash of memories. Polaroid s, taken of young boys. At the time, Jullian was the same age as them. The Detective had locked his son in the house for two weeks.
He jammed his keys into the ignition.
Pulling out of the car park, his mind was filled with theories and prospects for the future. About how this time it would be different. Not like The Moor Murderers Not at all.
Don't worry, Nick, he thought. This one is coming back alive. This is one that we can help.
__________________________________
"I can't believe you got taken 'down town'."
Barbara was laying back on her bed, phone hooked into the crook of her neck. Her brown eyes focused on one of the numerous posters tacked to the ceiling of her bedroom. The image of a band, all dressed in black, reflected in the dark of her pupil.
"Tell me about it," Christopher's voice said, from the other end of the line. "It felt like I was in some kind of bad cop show. It was intense."
"It's good that they were concerned enough to drive you home," Barbara replied, attempting to find the bright side of the situation. "Especially considering how shaken you were. Poor baby."
Like usual, her words were harsh, but not without reason. She had long ago figured out that the best way to get Christopher to open up was through derogatory humor; specifically directed at him. Anything other than that, especially sympathy, would result in him locking up what he was actually feeling and burying his emotions. Barbara wanted to avoid that as much as possible. He needed to talk. If not, she knew he would start to dwell on it.
"I don't think it was concern," he replied. "More like obligation. It's what they were supposed to do, so they did it. Plus it's not like any of this is actually to do with me, I just found the thing."
Barbara noted a shudder in his voice, as Christopher recalled what he had seen.
Again, she opted for humor. "Wouldn't it have been great if it was, though? We have been talking about how you needed to spice up your rep."
"Well it's plenty spiced now. Anymore and it'll be fucking over-seasoned. It's on its way to it already. Do you know how many people I've had messaging me, asking about it all?"
"Tell me numbers all you want, I'm not going to be impressed. It's what you do with them that interests me."
"Such wit. Did you come up with that all on your own?"
"Maybe." She started to play with a lock of her hair, twiddling it between her fingers and holding it close to her face. Squinting her eyes, Barbara noted a number of split ends and forced herself to fight back a groan.
"It's not as if anyone knows anything about it, either," Christopher's static-charged voice continued. "All they saw was me being taken away in a police car, with one of the guys from Tech Support, and a Caretaker."
"Yeah I've been meaning to ask about that."
"Apparently they saw it too," he explained. "On the security cameras."
"Didn't quite get the full experience like you, then?"
"Not at all. I swear I could practically smell the thing..."
Barbara attempted to form a mental image of what Christopher had seen, but consistently managed to draw blanks. He had given her a brief description, however it was severely lacking in detail. No matter how hard she tried, the limited information stopped her imagination short. She considered asking him for more details, but soon dismissed the idea. It was wise not to push him. For all she knew, Barbara could dredge up some kind of horrible repressed memories and rattle him even more.
"So any concerned messages from a certain someone?" she asked, changing the topic yet again. "You know, if you play your cards right, you could really milk that sympathy angle."
"I've said it before, I'll say it again: You so should have been born with a dick."
"Nah," Barbara grunted, hefting herself up. Now on her feet, she walked over to the full-length mirror, hanging between the two windows. Through the glass, she could see a blue Corsa drive past her house. "Dan's too delicate. If I had a dick, I'd end up breaking him." Pushing the flat of her hand over her forehead and sweeping back her fringe, she inspected her skin for blemishes. "Plus, it totally wouldn't suit me. What with the tits and all."
"What tits?" Christopher asked, pointedly.
"Rude."
"True," his voice shot back.
As they talked, Barbara caught herself breaking into a smile. No matter how many times they repeated the same rhythm of conversation, it always felt so effortlessly natural. Like it was predetermined, stitched into the very fabric of the universe, for them to be in each other's lives. Christopher was the only person who she could be completely honest with. She had told him things that she wouldn't dream of telling anybody else. It was a given. They had been, and always would be, together. An inseparable double act.
"I'm glad you've still got your wit," Barbara said, past the grin. "I was scared that it'd be shocked out of you."
"What can I say, I don't scare easily."
"So I'll be coming round to pick you up for the party tomorrow?" she probed, half laughing as she spoke.
"You know I honestly thought that you would drop that. Considering my traumatic experience and all."
"I'm not nearly that kind."
They both broke into similarly jovial snickers. Voices overlapped across the phone line, their tones so similar anyone listening in would find it difficult to distinguish between the two.
"Look, I'm going to grab myself something to eat," Christopher said, phasing out the laugh as he spoke. "I'll talk to you later."
"Okay, Mr. Douglas," she flapped, mockingly. "Talk to you later."
__________________________________
His thumb blipping against the red phone icon, Christopher hung up and let out a deep breath. Barbara always displayed a miraculous knack when it came to lifting his spirits. She had always been that way.
He could vividly remember looking up at her face, watching Barbara's eyes crease as she burst into a boisterous belly laugh. In the corner of his peripheral vision, he could just about make out the twisted joints of his dislocated fingers. Christopher recalled not even registering the pain. Her laugh had been infectious, filling his head and intercepting the sensation.
Back when Barbara's grandparents were still alive, they had lived next door to Christopher's family. It was how he had first met his future best friend. At three years old, she popped her head over the top of the fence and demanded an introduction. They were practically inseparable ever since.
Scaling said fence was how Christopher had the accident. When he was seven, he attempted to climb the structure, in response to a dare. After reaching the top, the fingers of his left hand slipped between the wooden joining and, as he came down the other side, were pulled from their sockets.
He still had a scar across his ring finger. While the others were merely dislocated, that one was almost torn off. Christopher was lucky that the doctors were able to save it.
It was the only thing about him that Barbara didn't mock. He figured it was because she still felt responsible for it. Despite her forefront and sometimes crass attitude, Barbara was surprisingly sensitive when it came to the people she felt close to.
It was because of this that he hadn't told her about the note.
Even though she would have
claimed the contrary, Christopher knew that Barbara would be worried.
He held the folded paper between the tips of his finger and thumb. A prickly heat crawled across his skin, sweat beading on the back of his hand.
The stationary was plain and mass-produced. Off-white copier paper, similar to the kind Christopher used to print at junior college. It had been folded once and slipped into a too big envelope. The pen used was likely a fountain pen, leaving behind tiny droplets of black ink. Etched onto the sheet, the script was impressively neat. Christopher found himself reminded of a calligraphy booth, set up in the junior college's entrance hall, during the last open day.
The message was short and simple:
Did you like my present?
Christopher initially assumed that whoever posted it had gotten the wrong address. Then he realized that there was no postmark. No stamp. There wasn't even an address on the envelope. Just his name. "Christopher Douglas". In the same looping writing as the message.
It didn't sit right with him.
Something about the way it had been delivered. The note had clearly been passed through the door by someone who knew where he lived; someone who knew him. Then there was the timing of it. Right after he had gotten back from the police station. After he had seen that thing. If it was a joke, sent by his friends, then it wasn't a particularly funny one.
He considered, in a fleeting worry, calling the police. The thought was soon dismissed, however. Christopher decided that he was working himself up about nothing. He thought of Lester, of his strange and sometimes sick sense of humor. Considering that, it was almost definitely something of his doing.
After he had eaten, he would text Lester. Clear it all up.
Beginning to make his way to the kitchen, Christopher kept his eyes trained on the floor. Crystal had a habit of weaving his way between Christopher's legs while he walked. More than once, Christopher had ignored his feet and taken a tumble down the stairs.
As he cooked, he made a point of feeding the cat as well. It made sense to do it while he was in the kitchen. He also liked that he had company for a meal. Even though his companion wasn't human, it was still comforting knowing that he wasn't alone as he ate. This was the third day he had spent alone in the house and the loneliness was starting to set in.