The Cat Hunter

by Krishna Ahir

  "Of course he did." Wilson raised a finger to excuse himself as he went to the counter and ordered his own breakfast. When he returned, he continued the conversation. "Look, I'm not saying it's not a good theory. But we don't have any evidence that that's the case. And even if we did, what would we do with it?"

  "There was a girl at Rosefield station," Drake retorted. "The attendant said he heard a car horn, and after that she was gone."

  "Again, what are we supposed to do with that?" Wilson repeated. "Without a missing persons report, there's no way to even know if they're missing. Whoever it is could have just been picked up by a friend. Osborne very well may have been right, but where does that get us?" Stirring sugar into his tea, he leaned back and stared at Gregory pensively. "You expect us to go door to door and ask: 'Excuse me, but is there any chance someone you know was abducted by a psychopath?' Come on."

  Drake merely sighed and took a sip of his coffee.

  "I know it doesn't sit right with you," Wilson continued, sympathy finally passing onto his face. "But there is nothing we can do about the girl at this point. If something comes of it — Oh, thanks love — If something comes of it, then you can bet we'll be the first people on it. So at least find some comfort in that. I mean, what little you can." Glancing down at his breakfast, he turned the plate 90 degrees and picked up a bottle of ketchup. "What we need to be focusing on is the cats. Follow the path of destruction back, and we'll find the source."

  "I'll be canvassing later today with Osborne," Drake said. "Talking to the owners of the cats that were killed or hurt. Hopefully we'll find something that we can use; see if they remember anything."

  "Good call," Wilson said, taking a bite out of his bacon sandwich.

  "Osborne also had an idea to check the traffic cameras in the area, see if they spotted something. I figured you'd be up for giving that a shot?"

  Wiping tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth, Wilson nodded his approval.

  "Sydney, something tells me you're good at direction. How'd you feel being the one to oversee the crime scene?"

  "Only as long as Murray from Scene of Crime is there," she smirked. "I could watch those buns of his all day."

  "Well I didn't catch any of their names," Drake admitted, returning the smile. "But there was a certain attractive young man in overalls. Red hair?"

  "Oh yes," Sydney grinned.

  Chapter 11

  The scratch of graphite against paper ground out sharply as Christopher took notes. Flicking his eyes between the board at the front of the room, and his notebook, he chewed at the inside of his cheek.

  His diligent note-taking, however, was little more than a front. Inside his head, Christopher s brain was awash with a cordial of different thoughts and feelings. An imperfect emulsion of intense distractions.

  The pencil beginning to wander, Christopher caught himself doodling in the margin of his book. An imperfect circle stared up at him, sending his mind momentarily back in time. For a split second, he was looking down at the mutilated eye of a cat.

  Blinking hard, he forced the thought out of his head, before another intense feeling welled up in his chest.

  Christopher shifted in place and laid one hand down on his thigh. The lump of the phone in his pocket reminded him of Maddie.

  His back still stung from where her fingernails had cut deep trenches into his skin. The pain was a sweet sensation, though. It reminded him of the amazing night that he had spent with her. Made him think about just how much he wanted to see her again.

  Unable to contain himself, he had text her during his first free period on the Friday morning, only to get no response for several hours.

  When she did reply, it wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting, though not altogether unpleasant.

  Maddie, Christopher had discovered, texted in full sentences. There was no abbreviation of words, nor omission of punctuation. Initially, it had come across as overly blunt. Christopher wasn’t used to seeing full-stops and was at first concerned that he had said something wrong. Before long, however, he discovered that this was just another of the girl s individual idiosyncrasies.

  They had talked all weekend, without any sign of letting up.

  Even as Monday rolled around, he still found himself periodically checking his phone just in case he missed the telltale vibration that indicated an incoming message.

  Barbara was already teasing him for it.

  “Christopher and Maddie, sitting in a tree. F-U-C-K-I-N-G!”

  Although she would never admit to it, Christopher knew that his best friend was over the moon. He had found someone that he could connect with in more than just arbitrary conversation; someone that made him happy.

  She was the one saying that he needed something good to come along. And Christopher agreed.

  After the incident with the cats, the stressful situation with Georgina, and not to mention being left home alone, he needed something good.

  Maddie was that something.

  Christopher was beyond relieved that Georgina hadn’t shown up at the party. If she had, he never would have had the opportunity or the nerve to talk to Eric s sister.

  Smiling to himself, as he erased the circle jotted onto the paper in front of him, Christopher glanced over the room at Eric DeWhitt. His curly hair had been bunched together and pushed out of his face by a dark blue bandana.

  He really couldn’t see much of Maddie in him at all.

  Although I guess that is a good thing, he thought, with a smirk.

  As the bell rang to signal the end of the period, he began to gather up his belongings. Stuffing them into his bag, Christopher straightened up and was just about to leave as Eric and a blonde boy passed him by.

  He caught them in the hallway. Half jogging up behind Eric, Christopher raised his voice slight to be heard over the murmur of the crowd.

  “Hey Eric,” he said, falling into step beside the curly haired boy.

  “Hey man,” Eric replied, breaking into his typical goofy smile. “Sorry I didn’t catch you Friday, decided to give college a miss. Hangover was a motherfucker.”

  Christopher laughed briefly. “It’s okay. I was, uh, actually meaning to have a word with you. I tried to catch you before class today but- “

  “I turned up late,” Eric chuckled. “Story of my life. So, wat cha wanna talk to me about?”

  “Well, I uh — I guess I didn’t plan this too well — I wanted to talk to you about your sister.”

  “Oh, so you re the stud that dragged her off to bed at the party.”

  The statement was so sudden and unexpected, Christopher felt his ears turn red. The blood spread across his forehead, scattering warmth across his face in the wake of the blush.

  “Look,” Eric laughed, clapping one hand against his friend s shoulder. “I’m not mad or anything. It doesn’t really mean much to me at all. Shit, I don t even see her ninety percent of the time anyway. And that s when she s at home. So, don t expect the whole protective brother crap from me.” His smile widened. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Okay?”

  “That if you ever come over, you stay out of my room.” Eric chuckled and jabbed his elbow into Christopher s ribs.

  “Well that depends if you still keep crates of cider under your bed. I mean, I’ve gotta drink something.”

  The curly boy laughed louder than before. “You cheeky fucker!”

  Despite Joslyn's assurance that he was great with kids, Harold was thankful that he hadn’t listened to his career s advisor at college and become a teacher. While the role of a Detective was far from the least stressful position in the world, babysitting children who weren’t his own was a process that ground heavily against Harold s ‘already worn sense of patience.

  The reports from Gregory and Osborne currently sitting on his desk were the epitome of what tested him the most.

  Obvious mistakes irked him, and he wasn’t about to go out of his way to hold anyone's hand.

  While Gregory's w
ork was impressive, Harold had noted several problems with the write-up of his investigation, until his official assignment onto the case. However, even in spite of the annoyance, this was something that he could ultimately forgive. Gregory wasn't a Detective, no matter how much he enjoyed playing as one, so the DCI could afford him some of the shortfalls that came with his formatting.

  The real problem was the Detective Sergeant.

  Having read through the documents, Harold decided that Osborne was functionally illiterate. He had a broad enough vocabulary to know and understand the meanings of complicated words, yet he spelt them phonetically.

  It didn't instill Harold with much confidence that this was the man leading the investigation.

  However, results were results. And if Osborne's track record was to be believed, Harold would have to concede. Spelling and grammar mistakes aside.

  Taking off his glasses, the ageing Detective pinched the bridge of his nose. Tracing the outline of his nose as he exhaled, his dark brown eyes stared out of the glass wall that construed the front of his office.

  Byron was still hunched over his desk, flitting through paperwork at a rapid pace. Just watching him made Harold sweat. He vaguely remembered a time, years past, when he was as driven as the young Officer. Since then, he had learned to take his time; work at a pace that suited him.

  That would be something that Byron would need to learn too.

  Placing his glasses back onto his face, Harold returned his attention to the pages set down in front of him.

  "So, you've decided to interview the owners of the cats...”” he muttered under his breath as he read. "A good starting point..."

  ” but if they were to get anywhere significant, they would need more people on side. Harold wanted to catch the unsub before they escalated, and there was only so fast that they could move with a team of four. Interviewing was arduous enough.

  Rising, he moved over to his office door and called across the communal office. "Chambers, Byron! Can I have a word with you both?"

  ” He sat as the two Uniforms entered his office and motioned them both to sit. Watching them, he slowly moved his fingers in a steady and mechanical fashion, the tips drumming into the wood of his desk.

  The older woman and young man sank into the chairs across the wooden moat. Byron's youthful features bore a look of intrigue, while beneath Caroline's Botoxed forehead, her eyes were sharp.

  "How busy are you both at the moment?" His eyes moved quickly, surveying their expressions. They both held an air of restrained curiosity. "Byron, I know you're pulling a lot of overtime at the moment to take in lieu. And I know you're looking for some time off for the summer, Chambers. So what would you both say to helping out Gregory on his case?"

  ” The one with the cats?" Caroline asked.

  "Yes. It doesn't sit right with me having so few people working on it. Worse still is that the DCS(Detective constable sergeant) is basing the investigation out of Grand Stone Bay. Don't get me wrong, their facilities are much better than ours and as a central location it works well for response times. But at the end of the day Gregory was the one who caught this, and I don't want the Grand Stone Bay Station taking credit for my Officers' Hard work."

  ” He noticed a twitch of a smirk play across Byron's lips. The young constable clearly agreed with him.

  "So, if you're up for it, I want you two to head over and provide support. Correct me if I'm wrong, but as far as I can see, all you've got on your plates is paperwork. You're capable Officers, and you've got time to spare. All I'm asking is you help Gregory out in any way you can, until his case closes. After that, consider this my approval to take as much time off as you want. Sound fair?"

  ” You’re being strangely civil today, sir," Byron replied with a grin.

  "Watch it, or I'll forget that I'm in a good mood," Harold shot back.

  "What exactly would we be doing, then?" Caroline made an effort to try and lower her paralyzed brows as she spoke.

  "You'd be extra feet on the ground," Harold replied, turning towards the woman. "At the moment they're interviewing all of the cat owners in Grand Stone Bay that have reported a missing or injured animal. I want you to give them a hand with that; help them cover more distance quickly. Past that, you'll be doing anything that's needed. If a lead needs chasing urgently and Gregory's team can't cover the manpower, I want you to pick up the slack. Sound fair?"

  Caroline seemed to ponder the offer for several seconds. Beside her, Byron remained uncharacteristically restrained, as if he were waiting for the more experienced woman to make her decision before he weighed in.

  Clasping his hands together on the desk, Harold waited patiently.

  ""Okay," Caroline finally replied, nodding once. "It's a deal."

  Byron too voiced his agreement, and Harold dismissed the pair.

  He was left sitting in his office, pensively listening to the rotary click of his ceiling fan.

  McIrvin be damned, he wanted people that he knew and trusted on this case. People that he saw potential in.

  It took a particular kind of person to stare evil in the face; to be swallowed by black and come back out whole.

  Harold believed in evil. He believed in darkness; in phantoms, demons and monsters. He had seen them. The only problem was that they weren't Supernatural in nature. They lived beneath the skin, hiding in plain sight. Wearing the meat of decent, loving people.

  The problem was that, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, evil wasn't born. Evil was forged and tempered through years of systematic abuse. You needed to approach it with sympathy and compassion.

  Nicholas (Nick) had told him that; back when he was a part of the MET's Murder Squad.

  He hoped to god that whoever the Cat Hunter was, they weren't a part of the other one percent.

  The portion of murderers born with a piece missing. The killers without the capacity for empathy and remorse.

  Harold had once interviewed a six year old boy who had smothered his baby brother in his sleep. When asked why he did it, the child simply replied that the crying of the baby annoyed him.

  The Detective could still remember the cold void in the boy's eyes. There was no remorse there. In fact, there wasn't much of anything. In the child's eyes he could see an absence. A kind of black hole that swallowed anything that dared encroach upon it.

  Even years later, thinking about a person like that sent a shiver down Harold's spine.

  Somebody devoid of guilt was capable of anything.

  "Thank you, Veronica. If you think of anything else please make sure to give us a call. Tell your parents the same too, when they get back from shopping, okay?"

  Drake waved briefly as the young girl closed the door behind him.

  Walking down the narrow path away from the entrance to the property, the Constable groaned to himself and scratched at the side of his head.

  Almost four whole days of interviewing, and they had turned up nothing. The visit to this countryside cottage was just another in a long list of dead ends surrounding the mystery of the Cat Hunter.

  Osborne was already sitting in the car, parked just past the heath to the left of the property. When it became apparent that the teenage girl that called the cottage her home had almost nothing to offer them, the burly Detective had dismissed himself and returned to the vehicle.

  Glancing around briefly, as he made his way back to the car, Drake afforded himself a view of the scenery. Perched on the top of a pasteurized hillock, three miles from the nearest estate, the residence provided the Officer a clear line of sight towards the far west corners of Grand Stone Bay and Rosefield. Various designs of houses, from the staggered builds, were clearly visible in colored bands in the midst of the closest housing estate. If he squinted his eyes, Drake could just about make out the distant roof of St. Matthew's Junior college.

  He thought back to the first dump. The incident that had caused the initial domino effect, leading to his official assignment to the case.

  Twist
ing his lips, Drake knocked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he slid into the passenger side of Osborne' car.

  "You finally done?" Osborne asked, not even waiting for his partner to lock in his seatbelt before twisting the key in the ignition.

  "It's called being polite," Drake snipped back, quickly fastening himself in as the car peeled away into the country road.

  The Detective half grunted and turned down the country road. A subtle tapping sound filled the inside of the vehicle as the side clipped the branches of the shrubs that bordered the property.

  "So where to now?" The burly Officer's mismatched eyes flicked briefly over Drake.

  Crossing the Hunt family off of his printed list, Drake moved his attention down to the next name on the list. "Next is Odette Tate. She lives about one mile from here... The records we got from the Vets show that she has six cats. Two of them were reported missing a little over two weeks ago. I called ahead this morning to let her know we were coming, all I got was her son on the phone. She hasn't got a mobile. Her son came with her to report it, so his was the contact number. He said not to expect to get much from her, though... She's nearly ninety."

  "If she's that old, why the fuck is she living all on her own out in the middle of nowhere?"

  "Her son didn't say. Maybe she thinks she's capable? Doesn't want to ask for help?"

  "Perfect."

  "Hey you better be nice to this one," Drake replied, bluntly. "Honestly, I don't know how you get anything done with the way you ask questions."

  "I don't like it when people don't spell things out," Osborne retorted. "Why should I have to work out what people mean?"

  "That's your job isn't it? To detect?"

  After that remark, Osborne ignored any further attempts from Drake to converse with him. Internally cursing his tongue, the uniformed Officer occupied himself by staring out of the window at their destination.

  Aside from the remote location, Odette Tate's bungalow was perfectly suited to accommodating a senior citizen. Having only one floor, it saved the woman the troubles typically associated with stairs. From the looks of things, the floor plan seemed small, minimizing the distances she needed to walk. The garden was just the right size for her to potter around in, without it being too much of a chore.