Deadly Illusions

by Robert Brown

  “I’d expect nothing less from a London tourist hotspot,” replied Cael.

  The officer in question was Tyler Easton, a 20-year veteran with the London Met. Whenever Cael was summoned to assist with police investigations, Tyler was his partner of choice. Tyler was old school, driven by a longing for justice rather than a sense of personal prestige. The new guys on the force were “paperwork officers,” as Tyler had once put it, often worrying about the excessive admin work they’d have to undertake if they physically interjected themselves into a situation. Tyler, however, would shoot without question. Paperwork would come later, although most of the time he didn’t bother with it.

  “Come on through. I think you’re going to like this.”

  Cael and Tyler walked along the dirt paths through the forest. Impossibly high trees caused an overcast of shadows, with only fragments of early-evening light seeping through the cracks. It was uncharacteristically deserted. A rare sight for a London landmark, even on a Sunday evening.

  “What have we got?” asked Cael as the pair made their journey toward the death site.

  “Everything you saw on the picture and more.”

  “Is this a one-off?”

  “That’s your area, not mine,” said Tyler.

  “Who called it in?”

  “A guy named David Richards called us an hour ago. He said his son had kicked his football down here, followed it, and found her body.”

  “That kid must have gotten the shock of his life.”

  “Yeah. They were a family of four. They’re all a little shook up but we’re taking care of them.”

  Following a 10-minute walk, Tyler and Cael approached the crime scene. Uniformed officers and forensics teams worked away, taking photographs of the surrounding area. Two officers wearing medical apparatus knelt beside the victim, obscuring Cael and Tyler’s view. The officers picked themselves up and walked over to the detectives.

  “She’s all yours, boys,” one of them said.

  “Thanks. Ready?”

  “Not really.”

  “Perfect.”

  In life, she had clearly been very beautiful. She possessed pale, feminine features, framed by shoulder-length golden hair. She was a natural blonde, through and through. Even in death, there was still a glimmer of her appeal but it was quickly fading as she succumbed to the inevitability of her fate.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Cael.

  She lay sprawled on the concrete floor, her innards having spilled from inside her. Instead of a lower half, there was nothing. Her torso ended abruptly below her stomach. Her genitals and legs had been severed from her body. Dried blood that had seeped from her wounds lay in a trail from her body to the lake.

  “What do you think?” asked Tyler.

  “I think London has some seriously messed-up people.”

  “Too right.”

  “She wasn’t discovered like this, was she?”

  “No,” said Tyler. “She was posed upright on the floor.”

  “Like her bottom half was buried.”

  “Yeah. Significant?” asked Tyler.

  “Possibly. Some killers remove the genitals to express their intense love for a person. He might have struggled to remove the genitals alone, so took the easy route and cut off her entire bottom half.”

  “The easy route?” asked Tyler. “Do you know how hard it is to slice a person in half?”

  Ignoring his question, Cael stepped away from the body and looked out across the lake.

  “Do we have any idea who she is?” asked Cael.

  “Nope. Not yet. She’s going straight to the autopsy room after this so we might get a match there.”

  Cael surveyed their surroundings. Everything around them had to be considered before they jumped to any conclusions. The environment, the disposal, the victim ology, the theatrics, and the mutilations – it was all necessary to form a complete picture of the culprit.

  “This is a message,” said Cael. “But I’m not seeing one.”

  “Come again?”

  “Disposing of half a woman’s body in a public place is a way of sending a message. He could have discarded her anywhere. Hell, we’re right next to a lake. He could have just thrown her in there and kept her hidden for way longer. Plus, it would have been a forensics countermeasure. He’s foregone all that in favor of sending a message. He posed her here for a reason.”

  “Attention, maybe?” offered Tyler.

  “There’s more to it than that. This location is significant. We need to find out why.”

  Behind them, forensics teams returned to the body. They announced to the surrounding officers that they would be transferring the victim to the Royal London Hospital for examination, and to stand back to avoid contaminating the body with DNA residue.

  As two forensics officers leaned down to hoist the body off the ground, something fell beside them.

  “Whoa,” said one of the officers. “Detectives. We got something.”

  Cael and Tyler turned around.

  “What is it?”

  When the victim had been placed in a body bag, the officer leaned down to pick up the object. The detectives walked over to him.

  “Is this the first time the body has been moved?” asked Cael.

  “Yeah,” replied the forensics officer. “We haven’t touched her since we found her.” He handed the item to Cael. Against his gloved fingertips, the cardboard was tough, rigid.

  “Well,” said Tyler. “Does this mean anything?”

  Cael considered it for a second.

  The object in Cael’s hand was a Jack of Hearts playing card.

  “No idea,” he said.

  5

  In Tyler’s police vehicle, the two detectives sat for a moment in silence. Eventually, Tyler pulled out a package of cigarettes. He took one out and held it to his lips.

  “Want one?” he asked.

  “Not for me,” replied Cael, “I’m off the smokes.”

  “Shame. If you were smoking, I would too.” Tyler returned his cigarettes to his pocket. Instead, he pulled out a vaporizer.

  “On the vapes?” asked Cael. “Since when did you become a hipster in your early 20s?”

  “Fifteen years ago, when I was in my early 20s.”

  “Good one.”

  “Anyway, do you want in?” asked Tyler.

  Cael looked at him and laughed. “Do you really have to ask?”

  “Because the answer is yes or because the answer is no?”

  “A woman has been cut in half, displayed in a public forest, and the killer is using a Jack of Hearts as his calling card. This is like Christmas to me. Tell the chief I’m in.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear. Let’s get to the office. You can fill in all your paperwork noise when we’re there.”

  “You can drive,” said Cael.

  “You never answered my question, by the way.”

  “No, you don’t blow, it’s just called that.”

  “Good one. You know what I mean.”

  “I do, and yes, I do know. It’s very difficult to cut someone in half, especially as clean as the victim was.”

  In the past, Cael’s initial theories had been the police’s investigative starting point. Psychological profiling wasn’t a big business in the UK, and due to the lack of serial murders in the country, it wasn’t often required. Crimes of passion constituted most of the country’s murders, followed closely by gang deaths, suicides and robbery homicides. When ultra-violent crimes raised their heads, or crimes that were indicative of a possible serial case, Cael Adler’s skills were required.

  The two detectives drove through the barren London backstreets. It was Sunday, March 5, 2017. A newly-arrived scent of spring filled the evening air, although both Tyler and Cael were still recovering from the unmistakable scent of death.

  Cael held up the Jack of Hearts playing card. Tyler interrupted his train of thought.

  “Any ideas?”

  “I think you know exactly what I’m thin
king.”

  “Yep. Gambling.”

  “First of all, I was thinking coffee. But after that, yeah, gambling.”

  “You said the magic word,” said Tyler.

  In a late-night coffee shop in Soho, Cael and Tyler refreshed themselves via caffeine overdoses. Tyler, as always, opted for the vanilla latte, while Cael requested coffee as black as the night itself.

  Darkness began to set in outside. London was retiring for the evening.

  “I didn’t interrupt you earlier, did I?” asked Tyler.

  “A little. I was out with a lady.”

  “Another one? What happened to the last one?”

  “You know how it goes. Move in together. Avoid each other. Separate. The circle of life.”

  “What about this new one, then?”

  “I’m not sure.” Cael took a drink of his coffee then looked directly at Tyler. “Teacher.”

  The look on Tyler’s face was one of reluctance.

  “Exactly.”

  Tyler’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. “We’re up,” he said.

  “Already?”

  “Dr. Hawkins wants us. Drink up.”

  “What’s he got?”

  Tyler slid his phone under Cael’s nose. The text message read: You boys are going to want to see this.

  6

  The London Metropolitan Police Headquarters didn’t have its own autopsy room. Instead, any medical assistance required was carried out by subcontracted doctors and surgeons at the nearby London General Hospital.

  It was closing in on 11 p.m. While the rest of the world slept, Cael and Tyler were summoned to what many would refer to as the hospital basement. At the pinnacle of a descending stairwell, a seasoned doctor arrived to meet the detectives.

  “Dr. Hawkins, good to see you again,” said Tyler. Cael followed with a similar gesture.

  Cael had worked with Dr. Hawkins regularly for the past 10 years. He had thick grey hair, despite the fact that he was in his 60s, and he possessed an unrivalled aura of authority. For years, he had been giving law enforcement the facts as they were regarding murder victims. Sometimes the theories didn’t match the bodies, and it was Dr. Hawkins’s job to deliver the truth, however much it may disprove their beliefs.

  “Gentleman, step into my office. I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

  Cael and Tyler followed Dr. Hawkins down the stairwell and into the green-tinted medical office. When Dr. Hawkins used his keycard, the giant double doors opened to welcome them. Inside, the smell of medical fluids combined with the decomposing body from Epping Forest overwhelmed the detectives.

  “What we got, doc?” asked Tyler, holding his nose.

  “First, we no longer have to refer to her as ‘the victim.’ Her name is Stephanie Brady. She’s 23 years old and she’s from the Gloucester Road area. Her friends reported her missing two days ago.”

  “How long’s she been dead?”

  “Less than 24 hours. That’s lucky, some might say.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, here’s the bad news. As you’re both two of the more competent detectives on the force, you might have noticed that quite a large chunk of her is missing.”

  Cael and Tyler remained silent.

  “See these cuts?” asked Dr. Hawkins. “These lacerations are perfectly straight. Too straight. You know what that means.”

  “They weren’t made by hand,” offered Cael.

  “Correct. Also, the reason you’re lucky is because I found trace evidence of steel in the surface of the skin.”

  “Steel? Like from a knife?”

  “No, actually. Most knives aren’t made from pure steel, they’re made from mild. Most weapons are made in bulk in East Asian countries. This, however, is pure British metal. Tough as granite.”

  “At least that narrows it down,” said Tyler.

  “No,” said Dr. Hawkins, “I think you’ll find that might make your job a little harder. No weapons are made from this type of material; certainly not knives.”

  Cael and Tyler exchanged a look of confusion.

  “In fact, I believe this type of steel is really used only in the construction industry. Oil rigs, mega-structures and the like. However, it’s used in most construction industries.”

  The half-body of Stephanie Brady lay on a metal gurney in the middle of the room. A plastic sheet covered most of her body except for the area showing her mutilations. It was one of the most undignified death poses Cael had seen in a long time.

  However, as he visualized the impact of her wounds, he couldn’t help but notice a familiar image form in his mind. He couldn’t go there, not yet. He needed to know a few more things first.

  “He used a machine,” said Cael.

  “Looks like it,” replied Dr. Hawkins.

  “A death machine,” said Tyler. “What kind of person owns a death machine?”

  “Only the most committed psychopaths,” said Cael.

  “Or could he have used an ordinary machine from the construction world? A CNC, maybe?”

  “I doubt it. He needs privacy for this kind of stuff. If he owns a business that gives him private access to that type of machinery, he’d be too smart to use it for murder.”

  “Alright. Let’s check out this girl’s history. Thanks, Doc, you’ve been a great help.”

  “No problem, boys. See you soon.”

  The detectives left the Royal London Hospital with more questions than answers. As the cool midnight air enveloped Cael, the image of Stephanie Brady – a vibrant, young, magnetic beauty – being torn in half seemed so horrific, yet so normal. Something wasn’t right about this picture. An abnormality was present. Hopefully, Stephanie Brady’s home would shed some light on the matter.

  7

  Stephanie Brady lived in a modest apartment in the Gloucester Road area of London. The apartment complex was a gated, high-security area, one rung below what many people would consider luxury.

  “What do we know about this kid?” asked Cael as the two detectives made their way through the halls to Stephanie’s middle-floor residence.

  “Twenty-three. No employment records. Has a boyfriend a few towns over.”

  As they reached apartment number 36, an elderly gentleman met them outside their destination. He extended his hand to greet them.

  “Mr. Mayweather, my condolences,” said Tyler.

  “Thank you,” he said with a deep breath. Mr. Mayweather was the owner of 36 Apollo House. He was Stephanie Brady’s landlord.

  “No, thank you for taking the time to meet with us. I understand this can’t be easy.”

  Mr. Mayweather opened the door to Stephanie’s apartment. “She was a lovely girl. A perfect tenant. No problems whatsoever. Please, take your time, officers,” he said, ushering the pair into the flat.

  It was of reasonable size. The main area was a lounge-kitchen hybrid with a hallway leading to bedrooms and the bathroom.

  The first thing the detectives noticed were the lounge’s lavish furnishings. A 60-inch flat-screen TV dominated the far end of the room, which contained crisp white leather furniture. Between the furniture and the TV, an exquisite white-gloss table with crystal ornaments sparkled in the spring sun. Two French doors opened to a balcony with a view of the surrounding London suburbs.

  “Let me guess, she paid you 12 months upfront?” Cael asked Mayweather.

  The landlord hesitated for a moment.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not here to probe your finances. We just need to know your arrangement.”

  “Yes,” Mayweather finally said. “Twelve months in advance. Why did you assume that was the case?”

  “According to her records, she has no official employment,” offered Tyler. “That means she’s not paying you direct debit.”

  “What she does for a living isn’t my business,” said Mayweather. “As long as she pays, I’m okay with it.”

  “We totally understand. Do you have any idea what she did do for a living?�
� asked Cael. He moved his way into the closet in Stephanie Brady’s hallway.

  “None at all. To be honest, I assumed she had wealthy parents. A lot of these youngsters do. They just like to give the impression they’ve earned it.”

  “No,” said Cael. “That’s not it.”

  “Why not?”

  “If she had wealthy parents, they’d transfer the money to her bank account. Even if they did give her the money cash-in-hand, we’d see huge deposits taken out of her parents’ accounts.”

  “Maybe she had a job that paid her in cash?”

  “What kind of job pays enough money in cash to afford this apartment as well as these furnishings?”

  “A few ideas come to mind,” said Tyler.

  “Drugs, gambling, prostitution. The big three,” said Cael.

  “Exactly.

  In her bedroom wardrobe, Cael uncovered multiple outfits that left little to the imagination. He picked up one by the coat hanger. It was a short green dress with a slit down one side. Alongside her clothes was a box of S&M-style collars.

  “And I think I know the one I’m leaning toward,” said Cael.

  From Stephanie’s second bedroom, Tyler called out to Cael. “Goddamn. Come and have a look at this,” he shouted.

  Both Cael and Mayweather approached the second room. It took them a while before they realized what they were looking at.

  There, as the centerpiece of the room, was a gigantic surgical table. Each corner had straps that allowed a person to be restrained, along with padlocks attached to each corner.

  “Oh my God,” said Mayweather. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Is this what I think it is?” asked Tyler.

  Cael approached the surgical bench and leaned down to inspect it. No foul odors emanated from it. There was no sense that it may have been a device for extracting simultaneous pleasure and pain from paying customers.

  “I can’t believe a tenant of mine would do this kind of weird shit on my property,” said Mayweather. He walked toward it.

  “No. Don’t touch it,” said Cael. “We need to know some things first.”

  “Like what?”

  “This may not be what we think it is. I’ve seen this equipment before.”