The Fairytale Killer : E&M Investigations Prequel

by Lena Bourne

  His arm around my shoulders is once again guiding me, this time up to my apartment. He’s setting such a fast pace, I’m breathing hard once I’m finally unlocking my front door.

  He passes me and heads for the kitchen. He has the bottle of Rakia and a single shot glass waiting as I follow him.

  “Have a drink,” he says. “You’ll feel better afterward.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, my faint voice and shaking hands painting that as a lie. But my legs are steady as I move to stand beside the kitchen table.

  “What were you doing out there in the middle of the night?” he asks, his hands on my waist, their weight very welcome there, anchoring me in the here and now.

  “I was just settling down for the night when all hell broke loose. My phones started buzzing non-stop, I was getting about five emails and notifications a minute, my editors were calling, friends and contacts were sending me pictures. Snow White was found this morning, and then what’s her name, the Indian Princess by the river at dusk, and Snow White this morning,” I look at him questioningly as I say it and he nods. “And I thought one of the girls looked familiar…she looked like Selima—”

  “But it’s not the Cinderella,” he interrupts brusquely. “Which one then? Snow White?”

  “No. It was…it was Sleeping Beauty,” I say.

  Mark’s eyes narrow in confusion. “The one from before? In the tower? But we know who that one is and it’s not your Bosnian prostitute friend. And we haven’t found another Sleeping Beauty. How do you know about her?”

  I’m getting lightheaded again. The cold and shock followed by the warmth and this uncharacteristic brusqueness and thinly veiled panic in the voice of the man I thought I could always count on being calm, steady, and collected are making me question just about everything about this night. But not the reason I went to that alley. I step out of the circle of his arms and pull my phone from my pocket.

  I don’t have to search for the photo that propelled me out the door, it’s the last one I looked at.

  “This one,” I say turning the phone and thrusting it towards his face. “Sleeping Beauty at her spinning wheel. I think that’s Selima.”

  He glances at the photo then looks me dead in the eyes. “How did you get this photo?” he asks.

  The panic and concern in his eyes have been replaced by that soft calmness I like so much.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It was sent to me via email, by one of my sources, I guess.”

  “Check who sent it,” he says. The energy he’s giving off reminds me of a guard dog’s right before it pounces on an intruder and his eyes are all determination, no errant emotion left in them. Determination and anticipation.

  “Why?” I ask. Over the years I’ve befriended a couple of police officers and a forensic criminalist. Sometimes they send me leads. I bet the photo was sent by one of them. “You know I can’t reveal my sources, Mark. I can give you the photo, but why do you need to know who it’s from?”

  “Because we haven’t found that crime scene yet,” he says quietly, sucking all the air from the room.

  I stumble back and sit in one of my kitchen table chairs clumsily. Mark is pale, his eyes very dark as he looks down at me.

  “Let me just see who sent it,” I say, checking my phone for the email that had the photo attached.

  “It was sent by MyPrincess@freemail.com,” I say, looking up at him. “It’s from one of those one-time email address providers. Untraceable.”

  “Forward it to me, I’ll have my people try,” Mark says brusquely.

  The full implications of what just happened are raining down on me like pebbles hitting a calm lake until it’s roiling by the time I’m done doing as he asked and forwarding the email.

  “He sent me that picture, didn’t he?” I say. “The Fairytale Killer.”

  Mark looks up from his phone, which buzzed with my email. His gaze is serious and searching, but calm caring is at the edges of all that.

  “Not necessarily,” he says. “It could be from one of your sources.”

  It sounds more like he hopes it is, not that he thinks it is.

  “I don’t want you to leave the apartment tonight,” he says. “Lock yourself in and try to get some sleep.”

  A part of me wants to snap at him that I’m my own woman and can do whatever whenever I want. But that’s a voice from before I started getting emails from a serial killer.

  “All right, fine,” I say. “But I have an article to write for the Guardian. Can you at least tell me how many bodies you found?”

  “Three, including Cinderella,” he says. “But don’t give this madman notoriety. It’s what he wants.”

  He’s told me this before and he got very mad when the press gave this murderer a nickname, saying monsters like this are in it for the fame and the more of it they get, the more daring they become. But how can a guy who kills young women and poses them to be perfect replicas of cartoon princesses fail to get a nickname? Still, I’ll be glad when they find out this psycho’s actual name.

  “I’ll stick to the facts,” I say.

  He shrugs. “That ship’s sailed anyway. I have to go now. I’ll call when I can.”

  I nod and walk him to the door, where he kisses me then hugs me so tightly it takes my air. But in a good way. In as much as anything can be good right now.

  9

  Mark

  The night is turning to dawn, steel grey because of the thick clouds covering the city like the remnant of someone’s nightmare and not the welcome coming of day. The German police department had received their own envelope of photos, similar, but not the same as the ones we got. Theirs was sent by post and addressed to the chief’s secretary of all people. While we got a strand of hair with it, they found a single fingerprint in the corner of Sleeping Beauty’s photo. They’re running it now. I haven’t gotten around to viewing the photos they got yet, to see if theirs matches the one Eva was sent. There’s been too much else to do.

  We’ve found three of the four crime scenes in the photos. But not Sleeping Beauty.

  The frenzy of activity, of running from one crime scene to another, waiting for forensics to release each of them, waiting to see, not wanting to see, left no time to really wrap my mind around the scope of this thing.

  Schmitt finally suggested we get some breakfast and coffee, so I’ve been trying to finish my plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Everything tastes like cardboard, and the bacon is so hard, it’s impossible to chew. I give up the struggle after having to swallow yet another piece of it whole and lean back in my chair, making it creak ominously, the cup of almost cold bitter black coffee in my hand. Drinking it has cleared my mind by virtue of being nauseatingly disgusting and not its caffeine content.

  Across from me, Schmitt is finishing his own plate of bacon and eggs with robotic precision. His face is wearing its permanent scowl, and there’s no way to tell if it’s the poor quality of the food or the trail of gruesome death we’re still just trying to follow that’s causing it.

  His phone buzzes with a text and he scowls at that too as he reads it while chewing methodically.

  “They’re ready to let us see Cinderella’s crime scene,” he tells me.

  Around two AM I finally got clearance from Thompson to send our forensic people to the scenes to help with the workload, but it hasn’t exactly sped up the processing of the crime scenes, since all it actually achieved is doubling the workload. Maybe that’s for the best. With the lack of tangible, usable forensic evidence from the first two scenes, maybe we should double-up on collection from last night’s three, the fourth pending. Maybe. But I doubt it. Leg work will solve this one, not fibers.

  “I’m ready when you are,” I tell him and finish the last sip of my coffee. I’m still recovering from its cold bitter sourness when my own phone rings.

  The number’s withheld, meaning it’s not Eva, and that’s about all I think before answering.

  “This is Otto Blackman,” a clear d
eep voice says on the other end of the line. “I’ve been going over the case files all night. Have you found the last body yet? Sleeping Beauty?”

  Blackman arrived at the base at around ten PM last night and wished to arrange a meeting with me right away to go over the case. But we had just gotten the clearance to examine Pocahontas and reports were coming in that a group of squatters made a gruesome discovery in an abandoned apartment building. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to CID and have a quiet conversation. To be completely honest, with myself at least, ever since Thompson told me they were bringing in the legendary Otto Blackman to investigate this case, I’ve been plagued with a growing fear I’d be taken off it. Or at least pushed so far to the sidelines as to have no say in anything. Irrational, maybe. But I need to find this psycho. And I need free rein to do it.

  “Good morning,” I say, pausing to let all that fade in my mind.

  “Good morning,” he says curtly, his voice oozing displeasure at being reminded he forgot that simple courtesy when he called me. He probably considers it impertinence on my part, and his tone somehow clearly conveys that without being biting.

  “So?” he adds, again leaving no doubt that he’s not pleased with me.

  Whatever.

  “No, we haven’t found her yet,” I tell him.

  “Did you check the German History Museum and the smaller one on Neue Christstrasse? The one that shows just the history of living in these lands?”

  “Yes, we did,” I say. The spinning wheel in Sleeping Beauty’s photo looks authentic. This has been confirmed by both the CID lab as well as the German police.

  We checked all the museums that could conceivably house an artifact like that, but it was a desperate act from the start. Ever since the first Cinderella was found on the outside steps of the Old National Gallery, the security in all museums in the city has been tightened so much that a mouse couldn’t get in without someone knowing. I explain that to Blackman, using less colorful and more respectful language of course.

  Quite possibly this madman purchased his own ancient spinning wheel from some antique shop just for the photo. Though his recreation of the cartoon and storybook scenes ends with the position and dressing of the body, since all the actual sites he incorporates into his sick visions are pre-existing places. As soon as I have at least the preliminary reports from yesterday’s crime scenes, I’m going to sit down and go over everything again. There’s got to be a thread running through all of this. Something I’ve been glimpsing since the start but can’t quite wrap my mind around.

  “Check the museum called Anna’s Farm,” Blackman says. “It’s an old farm that’s been converted into a museum showing the daily life of a German farming family. It’s about ten kilometers out of the city on the road that leads to Snow White’s cabin. From their website, it seems they have a whole room showcasing the old weaving process.”

  That’s exactly the type of thing I should’ve thought of. But there had been too much input yesterday. Too much to think about.

  “I’ll send you the address,” he says.

  “Yes, please do,” I say. “And I’ll return to the office after we check this place. We can have a proper conversation then.”

  He murmurs something I can’t quite make out but puts me in mind of a master who finally put his insubordinate underling in his place. Legendary inspector or not, I have a hunch I’m not going to like this Blackman. But he seems to still be as sharp as his reputation suggests, and whether I like him or not is irrelevant.

  I tell Schmitt what Blackman told me and he’s ready to leave within three minutes. A police cruiser joins us on the regional road that leads to this farm museum. Even the Berlin well-equipped and well-manned police force have been stretched thin by the crime scenes we found last night, and the single car is all that can be spared for the time being. Schmitt has already been trying to have reinforcements sent from nearby cities, and I have no doubt he’ll get them. The German’s are nothing if not efficient. Unfortunately, the man we’re hunting is too.

  The thick grey clouds are hanging even lower over the vast open countryside. We reach the farm museum just before seven AM. It’s an old farmstead, meticulously renovated, the white-washed walls shining despite the lack of light. The museum consists of only three buildings—the main house, the barn, and the workshop. The house is a typical, stout, dark wood-paneled farmhouse that was once prevalent in this area—white walls, a brown thatched roof, and small windows with wooden shutters that have designs cut into them—hearts for the house, four-leaf clovers for the workshop. The barn has no windows. The complex is enclosed by a neat, new picket fence made of dark brown wooden poles. The fields all around it are covered by a thick, undisturbed blanket of fresh snow, but the road leading up to it and all the walkways between the three buildings were cleared of snow so meticulously that gravel and even tufts of grass are showing through in places.

  Schmitt, the uniformed policewoman, and I are the only ones here. Schmitt tells the policewoman to keep trying to get in contact with the overseer of this place again, like we’ve been fruitlessly trying to do on the ride here with no success, then strides towards the gate in the fence. As I follow him, I feel like I could touch the thick clouds if I just stood on my toes, that’s how low they are. They’re carrying snow in their thick bellies and I’ve been hoping they’ll hold on to it at least long enough for us to gather all the evidence from the exterior crime scenes before bursting. But after the vicious north winds of the past couple of days, the temperature is almost mild today, which is a sure indication that it’s going to start snowing very soon.

  Schmitt unlatches the gate and pushes it open. An objection that we should wait for the owner’s permission before we go inside is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. This is his show, and he knows the laws and which ones of them he can bend better than I do.

  “The weaving room first?” he asks, looking at me over his shoulder, while already striding towards it.

  The workshop is across the yard from the main house and to our right. A low rectangular building with slightly larger windows than the main house, though I suspect that most of the light the workers had to work in there came through the large door that dominates the narrower wall facing us. That door is bolted firmly shut and locked with a large dark grey padlock unless my eyes are very much deceiving me. Good. I’m sure we’ll see well enough through the cutouts in the shutters on the windows and the padlock will prevent breaking any kind of unlawful entry and search problem.

  Something’s off about the main house though, I vaguely notice from the corner of my eye as we pass it on the way to the workshop.

  I stop and turn to look closer.

  “Wait!” I say to Schmitt as I stare at the wide-open front door of the house. A light dusting of snow, which must have been blown in last night, is covering the dark entry hall.

  Schmitt follows my gaze and gasps, then clears his throat to hide his shock. He’s the kind of guy who tries very hard to always look composed, always hide his shock no matter how warranted it is. Only his red-rimmed, wild eyes betray it now.

  “Let’s check the house first,” he says and makes his way across the yard to it.

  We don’t have to speak to agree that we’re not going in via the front door, as that could compromise the little evidence this killer leaves behind. If he was here. Somehow, the nearer we get to the first row of windows there’s no doubt in my mind that he was.

  We peer through the heart-shaped shutters on the windows one by one, our eyes met with gloom and doom so deep I can barely make out the furniture. The large room to the left of the entry is the salon with a fireplace, a set of cloth sofas with a flowery design, and a hodgepodge of end tables, coffee tables, and lamps. The room next to it, the first on the narrow side of the house is a study, furnished with floor to ceiling bookcases covering most of the walls, and a large dark wood writing desk. Dark, but benefitting from the easter light.

  A yellow flickering light
is coming through the next window. An unshuttered window.

  The first things my eyes meet are the dead blue ones of the girl we’ve been searching for all night. She’s been positioned behind a spinning wheel, and she’s staring wistfully out the window. Directly into my eyes. The madman posed her in different ways to take all those different photos. The realization hits me with a wave of nausea that threatens to bring the hard bacon and runny eggs I had for breakfast right back up.

  Several fat white candles are standing on the table and windowsill next to her, some still burning, some just puddles of wax.

  The room itself is cheery and pleasant, with a thick homespun rug covering the floor and a fireplace large enough to warm the whole small space on one wall. There’s a comfortable looking winged armchair made of the same flowery cloth as the sofas in the salon in front of the fireplace and a matching one by the window where one could sit and read under natural light. The headrests of both are covered by white, lacy doilies which must have taken many an evening or morning to make. The spinning wheel the girl is sitting behind is smaller, a household sized one, which the lady of the house might have used to make what cloth her family needed while her husband worked on accounts in his study next door.

  I never met Eva’s prostitute friend Selima, but I saw her once from across a crowded coffee shop. She was leaving a meeting with Eva and I was just arriving to spend the rest of the night with her. I’m certain this is her. And of all the things I could and perhaps should be thinking right now, I’m most worried about how I’m going to break the news to Eva. She forged a very tight bond with the woman while she was interviewing her for the article, and even though they later fell out quite badly, Eva still hopes for a reconciliation. Hoped.

  10