The Cat Hunter

by Krishna Ahir

  As they pulled up, Drake spotted a veranda swing along the North-facing side of the house. He imagined the elderly woman would sit there to read and admire the scenery.

  Traversing the paved slabs leading up to the front door, Drake took a deep breath and hoped that his companion would at least be somewhat pleasant.

  Bracing himself, he knocked on the door. Flecks of red paint cracked and stuck to his knuckles.

  After several minutes of no answer, Drake knocked again. "Mrs. Tate?"

  Still no reply from inside the house.

  "That's weird..." he muttered, turning to the side and indicating the driveway. "Her car's still here. She should be home." Grasping the door handle, he rattled the knob only to find it locked.

  "Maybe someone took her out?" Osborne offered, unhelpfully.

  "Or maybe she had a fall?" Drake suggested, pointedly. "We should at least check to see if she's alright. How about we each take a side and meet at the back? Look through the windows and see if we can see anything. Then we try the back door. If after that we get nothing, we come back later. How does that sound?"

  Osborne huffed dismissively at the suggestion before begrudgingly setting off around the southern perimeter of the house. As he walked, he pulled out a pack of Marlboro Red and sparked up a cigarette. The cloud of smoke followed him around the corner.

  Christ, you would have thought I'd spat in his fucking coffee...

  Turning to his right, Drake came up to the sole window that occupied the front of the house. Peering through the white netting on the other side of the glass, he observed a modest kitchen. From the little he could see, everything appeared in order.

  Moving around the corner, he passed the swing and looked through the North-facing window. Inside he could see a sitting room, or at least a room that had once been such. It was cluttered with furniture: a dining table, several accompanying chairs, three armchairs and a large old box television set. Mounted on the wall to his right, Drake could see a fireplace; the mantle above it set with photos of children.

  As everything seemed rightfully in its place, Drake was about to move on.

  But then he noticed the smell.

  Sickly pungent, it was a foul mix of feces and decay. The instant it invaded his sinuses, he had to suppress a gag. Cutting into his senses, within moments it was all that he could focus on.

  The seal around one of the double glazing windows must have been improperly fitted. Otherwise, the scent wouldn't have leaked out at all. Drake thanked the heavens for poor craftsmanship.

  Hurrying around the back of the house, he found Osborne absent-mindedly picking a scab concealed by his beard. The cigarette in his free hand flicked ash down onto the ground.

  He began a half interested question. "Find anyth-?"

  Drake cut him off urgently as he made for the back door. "Did you notice the smell?"

  "The what?"

  "The smell — The fucking smell!" Drake gripped the handle and turned, relieved to find it unlocked. "Mrs. Tate this is the Police! We're coming in!"

  "Hey! We can't just burst in without probable- Holy mother of fuck!"

  The moment the back door opened, the Detective was nearly floored by the smell. Stagnant and rotting, the odor was so thick it was like the air was filled with tar.

  Bursting through the door, Drake hurriedly looked around the spare bedroom only to find his worst fear realized.

  Laying on her side in the middle of the room, was Odette Tate. Her body was decomposed, her skin had turned red and her fingernails had begun to peel off. Around the body, the air was rife with the smell of death.

  "For fuck sake..." Drake choked out, tears welling in his eyes. Taking a step back, he gritted his teeth and shook his head. "You fucking son of a bitch..."

  Still half retching, Osborne clamped one hand over his nose and mouth and stepped up behind his partner. "Jesus Christ... How long has she been here?"

  "Probably since she reported her cats missing." Turning, Drake left the room. "Fucking- I... I didn't think they'd go this far!"

  Osborne followed him back out. "Who?"

  "The fucking Cat Hunter!"

  Moving his attention between the open door and Drake, Osborne pulled a confused expression from behind his hand. "What are you-?" He stopped short as he noticed something through the doorway. He was so focused on the body of the old woman, that he had completely missed it.

  Dumped in a pile, on the far side of the room, were Odette's four remaining cats.

  They had been torn limb from limb.

  Chapter 12

  The Coroner moved his hands slowly over the body, probing for signs of resistance. Beneath the skin, the contents moved slowly, like a plastic bag full of pulp.

  "She's been dead for at least a week," he muttered, peering through his glasses and rotating his jaw slowly. Removing one latex glove, he scratched the short hairs that clung to his cheek and readjusted the cotton buds stuck into his nose. "Judging by the stage of decomposition, probably longer. The skin has already turned red, meaning the blood is decomposing. And just going off of the smell, I think it's safe to assume that the organs are already liquefying."

  "Liquefying?" Osborne asked, almost making a point of not looking at the corpse.

  "You ever seen The Wizard of Oz?" the Coroner asked. "You know that one scene with the Witch? 'I'm melting! I'm melting!' Decomp is pretty much just like that. But slower."

  The scruffy Detective retched and turned away from the scene.

  "Thanks for that," Drake fought out, suppressing a gag as he clamped one hand over his mouth. "That used to be my favorite movie."

  "Sorry," the Coroner half smiled.

  "So you're saying she's been dead for more than a week?"

  "Near enough. If you want a definite answer, though, I'd need more time to examine the body back at the morgue."

  Rising from his crouched position, the Coroner rubbed the side of his bent neck.

  Broad set and just over six foot two, the Grand Stone Bay Coroner was an imposing figure that a number of Officers were slightly afraid of. A dull yet piercing blue, his eyes stared out from beneath a pair of thick dark brows and moved steadily. Matching the still movement of his eyes, his actions were deliberate and slow; weighted heavily. As if bowing under the weight of his stature, or perhaps a result of years looking down at bodies, his spine bore a noticeable curvature to it.

  Looking up at the Coroner, Drake squinted his eyes out of sympathy for the poor woman laying beneath them. "Any idea on cause of death?"

  "From what I can see, COD was blunt force trauma to the side of the head. The corpse has a contusion along the left side of the scalp, just above the ear. It looks like she fell and hit her head on the corner of the dresser here. Now whether the fall was natural or whether she was pushed, I won't be able to tell unless I examine the body more closely."

  A white flash briefly illuminated the body, as one of the SOC Officers snapped a photo to be used as evidence. After images of color remained in Drake's vision as he averted his eyes from the exposure.

  All around the room other Forensic Investigators, all wearing disposable hazmat suits, busied themselves cataloging evidence and dusting for fingerprints.

  One such Officer, in the process of extracting a print from the doorframe, was brushed aside as DCI Harold entered the house. Over his shoes he wore plastic bags matching those of the feet of Drake, Osborne and the Coroner.

  The machine that was the Detective Chief Inspector seemed to be failing ever so slightly.

  And then there was the expression that he wore. It was an emotion that Drake never thought that his boss would have been programmed to have. Grief.

  Approaching the lower-ranked Officers, Harold slowly shook his head. "I thought we had more time than this..."

  "Clearly we didn't," Osborne replied tactlessly.

  Drake made a point of positioning himself between his boss and his partner. "We had no way of knowing. And who knows? It might be that Mrs. Tate'
death was an accident. She came home and found her cats like this, and was so shocked she had a fall. Stranger things have happened."

  Harold attempted a half smile, as thanks for the effort to console him. "That's nice of you to say." Dark eyes clicked around the room. "But you're wrong. There's signs of a struggle. Here, here and here..."

  Following the motions of Harold's eyes, Drake noted various evidence of a disturbance.

  "And if decomp wasn't so advanced, you'd probably find evidence of bruising on her wrists."

  "I'll bet I could still find something now," the Coroner interjected, stepping forwards and nodding slightly.

  "Well this is a pleasant surprise at least," Harold replied, letting out a relieved breath as he finally noticed the Coroner.

  "Don't sound too happy to see me. It might ruin this "hard as nails" image that you have going for you now." The corners of his eyes creased sympathetically. "How's Joslyn?"

  "More of the same. I'm trying not to get my hopes up."

  Noting the exchange, Drake retreated a step in an attempt to blend into the background. He didn't know who Joslyn was, but judging by how Harold had answered the Coroner's question, Drake could tell that the subject was sensitive.

  "So..." the Coroner continued, snagging onto the tether of the previous conversation. "Why do you think Mrs. Tate had to die?" He crouched down next to the corpse and balance on the balls of his feet.

  Drake watched Harold's eyelids flick closed, like the shutter of a Polaroid camera. When they snapped back open, they reflected Odette's entire form in a crystal reflection.

  "More than likely our Cat Killer was here for the occupant's pets," Harold said, barely moving as he spoke. "She probably walked in on our unsub and disturbed them. Unsub didn't expect her to come home when she did, and panicked. This kill wasn't planned."

  "So you're thinking Unsub ran after it happened?" Drake asked, staring sidelong at his superior. "If he didn't mean to kill her, and was spooked, that's a good sign, right?"

  Inexperienced in Major Crimes as he was, Drake was attempting to grasp at anything even remotely tangible. He hoped that if their killer had panicked then they would have left behind evidence or made mistakes. He hoped that if they had panicked then that meant the killer was still somewhat human; still capable of remorse and regret.

  "Unsub didn't run."

  "What?"

  The DCI's hard voice snapped him out of his train of thought with a sudden jolt.

  "I said that our unsub didn't run..." Harold pointed at the pile of cat carcasses in the corner. "There's something off about that."

  Osborne, who until then had been hanging back, with his hand clasped over his mouth, injected himself back into the conversation. "What do you mean something is off?"

  "How many cats did Mrs. Tate have?"

  Drake stumbled his words slightly as he spoke. "Um, s-six. But two were reported missing."

  "Didn't you notice?"

  Harold didn't get a response. The room's other occupants stood in silence and waited.

  "Unsub stayed and watched her die... And then later Unsub came back and continued what she had interrupted. There's eight cats over there."

  I've never exactly been the same as the other kids. I could never understand why they were nice to me; why they would care if someone else was crying. It's not that I was incapable of crying or laughing. Not at all. I just needed a reason to do so.

  Hurt me and I cry. That much was true.

  Laughing was a different matter. I didn't laugh very much. Unless I was told why I should do it, I wouldn't. Because there wasn't a reason.

  It's not that I was emotionless. I just didn't see the point. After all, why would you cry if nothing makes you sad? Why would you laugh if you didn't find anything funny?

  I realized that I wasn't "normal". Pieces were missing.

  That's why I started to act.

  It wasn't because I felt left out, or because not being normal made me sad. No. It was just easier this way.

  When you are a hollow person, you build up layers so that nobody suspects that you're empty inside.

  But when I met him, I found something to fill me. To put in place of the missing parts. He made me feel real; more than just a flesh and blood marionette, responding to the social strings. The first time he talked to me, I felt like I was going to laugh, cry and scream, all at once.

  Once a year our junior college sets aside a day for creative outlets, called Arts Day. It's almost always in June, but that year it was particularly hot.

  All of the other students had taken off their blazers, but I had left mine on. It was around the time Mum had started using the fork, so I couldn't let anyone see my arms. I didn't want them to feel sorry for me.

  "Aren't you hot in that?"

  That was the first thing he said to me.

  Looking back at it, I know that it wasn't much. But it meant the world to me.

  He was concerned about my wellbeing. Worrying about me. The way that he looked at me with those eyes made my heart seize up.

  I could practically feel my pulse come to a stop as my blood throbbed through by body.

  Up until that point, the only other person who asked me things like that had been Daddy. But this boy felt different.

  I don't know how to describe it; just that it was alien to me.

  When I tried to reply, I don't think I even managed a complete word.

  But he just laughed off my ham-fisted response with ease.

  The way that he spoke was confident and self assured, slipping easily through my stammers and fumbles. He was a knife slicing through the conversational sea. And it was wonderful.

  I had been stood by the calligraphy booth. Mum insisted on teaching me how to write in correct script, so it was the only place I could have gone to, despite not being part of the club.

  He asked me about it all, but before I could reply the bell interrupted me, and he went on his way.

  But I never forgot it.

  The sound of his voice, the look in his eyes.

  He cared about me. More than anyone I had ever met in my life.

  That's why it hurt so much. Seeing that jezebel kissing him. Pawing at him with her hands.

  She didn't deserve to touch him. To be so close to him.

  I felt like I had been pulled apart at the seams; spilling my organs across the floor, dousing the ground with acid and bile.

  After I collected myself, I knew what I needed to do.

  Drugging her was easy. It was just a case of spiking the drink I offered her with sleeping pills.

  The hard part was carrying her without anyone seeing.

  When she woke up she pleaded with me to let her go, but at that point her words were nothing more than white noise. Even now I can't remember them.

  I watched as she licked her lips, as if to lubricate the lies.

  So I cut out her tongue.

  It's always surprised me just how moist living things are. Little more than sacks of fluid once punctured. You slice the membrane and out it pours; the liquid red. Water falling. I never expected there to be quite so much. Never expected how quickly she would bleed out.

  I got the duct tape and sealed her mouth, so that she could drown on the blood.

  Chapter 13

  "Arsehole!"

  Slamming her hand into the steering wheel of her father's car, Barbara leaned out of the window and swore loudly at the passing silver Honda. The sound of her horn split the air and eclipsed her curses.

  "Fucking twat-bag!" she gasped, pulling her head back into the car.

  "Jesus, calm down," Christopher laughed, glancing nervously sideways at his best friend. "No need to get so aggy."

  "He just cut me off!" Barbara snapped back. "I missed the junction; you know what that means."

  "Um, we stay on the motorway?" he replied sarcastically.

  "At 5pm!" she continued. "We're going to hit the traffic coming off of the industrial estate. Evolution moves faster!"

&n
bsp; "Anyone ever tell you you've got mad road rage?"

  Turning her eyes away from the road, Barbara shot him a hard glare that prompted him to mockingly hold his tongue. Laughing under his breath, Christopher curled the corner of his mouth into a grin.

  "I catch you smirking again and I'm going to stop giving you dating advice."

  "I think you'll find I don't need your tips anymore," Christopher said, pulling out his phone and waving the screen at Barbara. "Look. Texts and everything!"

  Barbara chuckled. "Aww. Have you graduated to putting little 'x's at the end of your messages yet?"

  "Piss off."

  "I'll take that as a no then." Changing lanes, Barbara kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. "It's been a long time since I've seen you this into someone. It's nice."

  "Look at you getting all sentimental on me."

  "I'm what kind of mental?"

  "Oh my, you're so funny." Again, Christopher's voice took on a sarcastic tone.

  "Pretty too," Barbara grinned, flicking her hair ostentatiously and gasping. "And smart? I mean- Don't even get me started."

  "Sorry, I haven't noticed. Eyes for another and all that."

  "Lucky girl."

  "Do my ears deceive me, or did I just hear you compliment me? Miracles never cease!"

  "Hey, I've complimented you before!"

  "Really?" Christopher teased. "Name one other time."

  Gaining a distant look in her eyes, Barbara stared out of the windscreen. A pensive expression plucked at her face. She watched the cars ahead steadily advance along the carriageway.

  "It was a Tuesday..." she said, her voice soft and completely deadpan.

  His voice vibrating with laughter, Christopher turned towards his friend and shook his head. "You really had me going there for a second."

  Joining him with a jovial tone, Barbara pushed her dark hair behind her ear with one hand as she spoke. "No, but seriously. Do you remember when we got put in the same form class in Year Eight?"