Pure Killers (Tregam’s Fractured Souls Trilogy #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

I t’s been a long time since the lights were on in this part of town.

The building is lit up only in the flashing red and blue from the police cars, just enough to illuminate the graffiti on the crumbling walls.

I can only imagine the inside isn't in any greater shape. Though given what else awaits inside, crumbling walls are hardly a factor.

They're starting to set up the spotlights. I almost tell them not to bother, the sun will be up soon. Instead, I duck under the tape and into a narrow corridor. Off to either side, the offices still hold old computers that sit dead on waterlogged desks. Office chairs with chunks of their foam cushioning missing have sat empty for over three decades.

Everything in this part of Tregam is empty, except for when it’s not. Usually, that’s in the dead of night, made busy by the sort you don’t want to encounter alone in the dark. Conversation murmurs from the open doorway ahead, and dim light, frequently broken by long shadows, glows into the water-stained hall.

Maybe I was wrong about the sun being up soon. I try not to make a habit of being awake before dawn. This was an early call, thanks to some kids in here just after midnight hours, doing hell knows what when they found the body.

When I step in, the scene is basically as I'd expected, and yet it still hits me with a wave of unease. When I can look at these things and not feel that, it's probably time for a career change. For now, I take in the body duct-taped to one of those tilted office chairs, the pool of dark red under the wheels. Other, finer things stand out to my eye too—the length of rope lying discarded on the desk and the dark spatter across the computer screen behind, narrow and precise. No signs of a struggle, though that will have to be confirmed later, by the small army of lab technicians in here taking photos of just about every inch of the place.

The floor is half-rotted and bowing down into the foundations ahead, and I step around that part to reach my partner, where he's crouching by the side of the chair. He made it here before me, he often does. I don't sleep much, but sometimes I wonder if he sleeps at all.

Dirk turns his face up at the sound of my footsteps. He looks pale in the harsh white light, normally hazel eyes turned black by the shadow over his brow. "El," he greets me, passing me some rubber gloves. I pull them on, eyeing the frayed rope on the desk, and the telling bruising around the victim’s throat, with his head tilted back against the backrest. I’m not awake enough to look at the face yet. That’s the type of thing you need to be primed for.

"I suppose this is Strangler?" I ask. It doesn't take a detective to work that out. Because there's something else littered around the room. I always try not to look at those faces either initially, to let myself see just the body and the crime.

But they're here, looking on now just as they would have been looking on when this man took his last breath not a handful of hours earlier. Pictures are framed and neatly placed on the desk, or stuck to the wall, even to the ceiling, sometimes. Here, in this case, the faces are all women, and for each happy smiling expression, there's the counter to it—grey and cold, a dark bruise around their throats, heads tilted back.

The victims of the victim.

Those pictures, the grey and dead ones, are not released to the public, but of course, the media gets their hands on them anyway. There’s always a way, someone willing to pocket the cash and look away for the time it takes to snap a photo.

"Appears to be Strangler, yeah," Dirk agrees, a sigh in his voice. "Making this the work of our very own Needler."

Knowing the dead man was no saint makes it easier to look at his face, at least. I aim my torch, the light finding its way into a mouth open like a black chasm, and then bloodshot, filmy eyes. What I’m looking for, I don’t know. We never find anything when it’s Needler, but it pays to stay in the habit. The face looks to be about 30, plain edging on attractive. That was our profile for the Strangler. A similar age to his victims, attractive enough to lure them away from safety but average enough not to be recalled by their friends later. We were close to finding him ourselves, so we thought.

But we didn't find him. The Needler beat us to it. Absently, I say, "Don't call him Needler. These people get off on fame."

“Trust me, that ship has well and truly sailed."

I ignore that. "Did you drive in?"

"Caught a lift with Seb."

I'm taking my gloves off, even though I only just put them on. This is high profile. The media will be here soon. And eyeing the lab techs, who we’re merely in the way of, I suggest, "I'll give you a lift back into the office? Unless you want to stick around?"

"Can we stop and get coffee?"

I roll my eyes. "Fine."

"You must be the only detective on Earth who doesn't drink coffee."

"Uh-huh."

We're headed for the door. At the dip in the floor, Dirk looks back. "Needler is consistent, I'll give him that." He's peeling off his gloves too. "He knows how not to get caught."

And how to make people not want to catch him, I don't say. "We'll catch him," I say instead.

"Yeah, I guess," Dirk murmurs as he follows me. I shrug off the lacklustre tone of his voice, and pretend not to hear it. He's not the only one, not even the only cop, to doubt whether we should even find the Needler.

The city of Tregam has its very own ‘killer murderer’. This is the third in six months, the victims all confirmed serial killers as well. They all fit a specific mould. But people like to forget the first one; Needler's premiere victim. He didn't fit the mould.

Needler is some kind of hero of Tregam now, and it only gets worse with each new killer we find, pictures of their more innocent victims accusing their dead bodies. But I know better.

We should all know better.

***

We don't beat the media off the scene. They're here already, lights flashing at our faces, harsh in the lingering pre-dawn darkness as we step out of the building. I squint away from them—I'd like to ignore their questions, but by now they recognise me as the lead investigator on the Needler case. Which tells them enough about this crime scene to run with. By lunchtime, there will be a thousand theories about who Needler took out last night if I don’t say something.

They want to know if it’s his work; who the victim was, so they can make some glorifying headline and compound our problems. I face the cameras, the run-down office building of the crime scene behind me, and say briefly, "All we can confirm at this time is that it appears to be another case targeting a known serial killer."

"So… the Needler?" one asks immediately.

"Yes," I say, only slightly strained. I'm fighting a losing battle on this not using his glorified name front, always have been.

"Who has he taken?" another asks, thrusting a microphone at me. I squint to see his face past the glaring light attached to his hat.

"It's too early to confirm at this stage. We need to confirm the identity before saying anything else," is all I say, then Dirk and I scurry to my car, closing the doors against them, and soon they move on. Our Superintendent, Deana Tawill, is arriving as we’re leaving, so that draws their attention moving them off like a swarm.

I pull out of the parking lot, leaving them to it, my tyres crunching over the shattered glass as I pull onto the narrow road tracking between more abandoned buildings, a whole suburb and more which makes up Crennick Row. I feel like I spend more time in this ghost zone than at my own home, or the station, back in the city proper. This time of day, before the city is awake—before the daylight shines on Crennick’s ugly face… it can almost seem peaceful, though misleadingly so.

Dirk watches the crumbling fronts pass by out of his window. There's no traffic out here. I can tell his thoughts are going in the same direction as mine before he even asks, "You reckon it’s true? What they're saying now about the explosion impacting our rate of crazies here?"

A huge, grand warehouse passes by, the road-facing side a giant arc of windows, now alternately brown with filth or shattered. In other places, it would have been converted into bougie apartments, restored and filled with pot plants. But no one has wanted to be in Crennick Row, much less live here, in decades.

Ammonia nitrate, that’s what did it. An explosion in the fertiliser factory. The initial explosion killed hundreds, pulverising the immediate vicinity, and setting off smaller explosions in surrounding buildings, adding a new cocktail of chemicals to the mix that then rained down on the entire industrial zone. It wasn't just Crennick Row that was affected either; the toxicity seeped into surrounding suburbs, homes and businesses. But it’s all collectively Crennick Row now. It’s all the same. The chemicals have seeped deep into the ground so that nothing grows, and reports say it’s still toxic to breathe the air here for too long. On a day with a strong southerly wind, you can still smell something akin to bleach in the air even Downtown.

There's been theories and conspiracies aplenty over the past thirty years. People from my generation never knew Tregam before it, in its golden age if you believe what people say. I don't know whether it’s the chemical exposure, the black mark in our history, or losing livelihood that has seeped down into every aspect of Tregam life, that has elevated the rate of psychopaths here. And despite what various experts claim, I think no one does. Probably it’s a combination of everything. I only shrug. "We do have the youngest life expectancy in the country, but…"

"Not just the youngest life expectancy," Dirk corrects. "The highest murder and violent crime rate, by far. And double the number of serial killers compared to similar places."

"So people aren't coming here for the white picket fence." I raise an eyebrow, and ask, "What? You believe it, then?"

Dirk only shrugs, changing the subject. "Did you see the news about trying to empty the wastewater plant again? They can't filter the chemicals out of the standing water well enough. They've had to wall it off. Now they're pushing to clear the whole place again, bulldoze the lot of Crennick."

"And you agree with that too?"

"The majority of the city's crime does happen out in these abandoned buildings," he points out.

I scoff. "They'll just find some other place to commit their crimes. That won't fix anything."

"Yeah, I guess if we're going to do that we may as well level all of Tregam."

I glance sidelong at him. He looks drawn, and in need of a haircut, black hair curling around his ears. "You're in a sour mood today."

"I like to think of it as pensive." Finally, he smiles, white, almost straight teeth bringing a touch of childishness to his face. We've been partners for over a year now. He transferred in from the private sector, where he was no doubt making more money for less work. But I guess this is where he wanted to be, investigating homicides. I can hardly judge. I'm right here beside him.

Aside from the occasional philosophically dour mood, Dirk is a good partner. He shows up on time, he's sharp and has never, unlike some of the older, more-gung-ho men in our office, treated me any differently for being a woman.

I shake my head. "I'm gonna get you a coffee before you get any more 'pensive' on me."

I pull in at the first gas station on the edge of Crennick. At least Dirk isn't picky about his coffee. While he goes in, I fuel up and then follow him. The coffee machine is still rattling away after I've paid, and I drift over to that corner of the small mart and find him, looking up at the small screen that plays 24-7 news.

The face taking up the tiny screen is one we know well. Our boss, Superintendent Deana Tawill. The yellow subtitles, not always correct but accurate enough, pop up under her, accompanying the faint audio.

"…Of course, resources should be spent to catch the killer commonly known as Needler," she's telling the cameras in her stern voice. "We have to consider the consequences of celebrating vigilante justice. They are not beholden by law, they can always change their motivations, and indeed, someone capable of doing the things he has done, cannot be predictable or sane.”

“Consider also that he can make mistakes. It's all too likely that his form of justice will be exacted on an innocent if he continues unchallenged. Any information on his identity must be brought to our attention, for the good of Tregam.”

There's no pause at all before a voice from an unseen reporter comes through. "Can you comment further on the things Needler has been capable of?"

I turn away, heading out of the store. Always those questions. Looking for juice to drip to the public. No matter what Tawill tells them, it won’t sink in. Dirk follows me, coffee in hand. "She's not gonna be in a great mood after that."

"We've got work to do anyway."

Dirk only mock salutes me over the top of the car before ducking into the passenger seat.

***

Dirk has absorbed his coffee by the time we get back into the station, a low building surrounded by skyscrapers that seem to reach ever higher, the city itself wedged between the port and Crennick row with nowhere to go but up.

We've been in the 'team room' for a couple of hours, and my head is beginning to hurt. What does this latest attack tell us? Does it get us any closer to catching him? Dirk is standing by the whiteboard, looking at the mess of symbols and one-word explanations linked by a network of arrows. Even he seems confused by what he's progressively made over the last two hours. I lean back on a desk at the front of the room and squint at it.

At the back of the room, our current resident student, an enthusiastic young woman by the name of Chloe, appears to still be giving us her full attention, even taking notes. Though I do not know what on. Tawill insisted she sit in on our session today.

"So, we've essentially got nothing we didn't have before," I observe.

"Do you mean did he handily leave his fingerprint on the window? No. But…"

I groan.

Sighing, Dirk puts down the marker. "Okay. Let’s look at what we've got. So far…" he picks up the marker again, using it to underline the small cluster in the top left. "So, killers he’s taken out so far: Bay Killer, Flinn White, and now, last night, the Strangler. Right?"

At the back of the room, Chloe raises her hand. Dirk frowns at her and I look back over my shoulder. "You can just speak Chloe, this isn't school." Well, it’s kind of supposed to be. But neither Dirk nor I are very good teachers.

"I have a question," she states, somewhat redundantly. "Why not the Cocooner?"

Dirk and I look at each other.

"If he's doing this for the love of the people, and the notoriety, as you suggested last time, surely the Cocooner would be a good target?"

She's got a point. The Cocooner is potentially Tregam's most notorious killer. And standing out in that crowd is no easy feat. At times like this, looking at the list of serial killers who’ve been caught or killed, then considering how many are still at large, I’m inclined to think we’re all mad for some reason- chemicals or otherwise.

"He's been around longer than any of them, still hasn't been caught, and his method is, well, not nice. If he took out someone like that…" She beams, having made her point, and a good one at that, damn her.

"Okay," I say. "So based on that, he's not doing it to be a man of the people. He's selecting them based on some other criteria."

"Or," Dirk says. "The Needler also can't find Cocooner, just like us."

"Right." I rub my face. "How is he finding them anyway? What information does he have that we don't?"

"If I could…" Chloe raises her hand, then thinks better of it and aborts that move to suggest, "He's only found Strangler so far."

"How's that?"

She points her pen at the board. "Well, Flinn White was released on bail when he got taken out, and the Bay Killer, well, pretty much everyone knew who that was, that millionaire down on the Southside. And then there was the initial vic, Officer…" She freezes mid-note-checking, her eyes cutting up to me, seeming to realise where she was about to go. I tense at the look in her eyes, which has halted somewhere between fear and pity.

I turn away and stand, moving the topic along. "Okay, just the Strangler then." I take the marker off Dirk and circle the name. "We need to find out how the Needler found him."

"We also have a time frame," Dirk points out.

"Do we?" I squint at the list of three dates.

"Sort of," he says, leaning back on the desk, "Every three months-ish. Not super reliable."

"Yeah, not precise at all." I stare at the dates a bit longer, then something occurs to me. "Chloe, look up moon cycles. Do these dates align?"

Appearing thrilled to have been assigned a task, she taps away on her laptop, then a second later, declares, "Yep! Perfectly."

"Full moons? Like a werewolf?" Dirk raises an eyebrow.

"Absent moon," Chloe corrects, eyes on her screen. "New moon."

"When it’s darkest," I conclude. That would make sense. There's no lighting in Crennick.

"Which, following the pattern of one every three months say, puts the next kill on…" She clicks once more. "The 12th of May."

"We've got a date," Dirk says, lips curving into a smile. “If he sticks to schedule.”

Progress, finally. I grin back. "Yes, we do." I clap my hands. "And I’ve got a date in the lab. Dirk, I told Howie and Dean that we'd take a look at the Cocooner case with them…"

"Oh! Can I come?" Chloe asks with an excited gasp.

"…Sure, why not? Okay, let’s think about potential next vics back in here tomorrow. We've got about two months to figure out who and where."

I slip out of the room and down the hall. Just a bit closer. Finally.

Rosie is our lab lady, and as I look through the glass walls that cube the lab off from the corridor, I see her in her usual reliable spot, at the desk with her glasses tilted up on her head and her eye pressed to a microscope's eyepiece. She looks like a young but quirky grandmother, with faded pink hair and a collection of necklaces always clattering away under her lab coat, the tails of some patterned dress sticking out from underneath it.

She looks up at the sound of the door as I step in, and rolls back on her pedestal chair, a move that is both precarious and somewhat impressive.

"Anything from the scene so far?" I ask.

Rosie changes out her glasses before answering and then stares at me through thick lenses. Even with them, I get the sense that her eyesight is bad enough that I might still be blurry. "A couple of things," she says, reaching for a print-out. "We ID'd the Strangler."

I'm looking at a profile on the man, and his license photo. "Name’s Don Zavala. Clean criminal record but he has a string of past employers who either fired or reported him for attempted sexual assault. And a former prostitute who filed a report saying that he choked her almost to the point of passing out nearly five years ago. Her charge was dropped due to a lack of evidence."

Perfect, that’s going to make the people happy. The rapist with potential prior convictions that were ignored. Hell, it even makes me angry.

"Right," I sigh.

"Also, we found some hair on his clothes. Long, probably a woman’s."

Now that’s interesting. "One of his prior victims?" I ask.

"Doesn't match."

“Could have been a friend…” I look at his picture again. “Doesn’t seem like the type to have close female friends. Maybe a future victim," I muse. "Run it for me?"

"Already did! Or rather, Seb did." Rosie nods towards the other side of the room, where her current intern is hunched over his own desk, so quiet that I didn't even realise he was in here. The guy talks so little that it’s taken me three months to even learn his name.

Since Rosie doesn't go in the field much anymore, she usually sends out whoever happens to be her intern. And they're normally only too happy to go since field work is the thing that most get into this career for. Seb looks like he's been back for some time, so focussed on his work. His lab coat is too big on him, even though he's not a small guy.

Seeming to realise he's being talked about, Seb lifts his head. His glasses, like Rosie’s, are thick enough to distort his eyes, making it unclear whether he's making eye contact or not. Given the awkwardness of the rest of his demeanour, I'd guess not.

"Oh! Detective Bis- Bis-hop…"

Rather than letting him struggle over the name Bishop , I put in, "El is fine, please."

Seb's stutter pulls his mouth askew, a tic that seems to come out most when he's being spoken to. Stepping over to another machine, he continues "I got a m-match."

Following Seb, I stand behind him, and when he turns around to look down at me, he hunches a little lower, seeming to want to back away before he tells me, "The hair belongs to a woman. N-named Lee-Anne." Brown hair sticks out from under a matching brown beanie, and he favours one leg as we stand there. Somehow, despite all this, he's kind of cute, in that awkward nerdy kind of way.

Sensing that my perusal is making him even more self-conscious, I look down at the file, and the face of an Asian woman about my age, and therefore in the right range for the Strangler.

"She's alive," Seb adds. "In the s-system for prior driving under the influence."

I flip the page. "That was five years ago."

"Could be clean now," Rosie puts in, her face pressed back to her microscope.

"Maybe…" Catching Seb's eye as he stands awkwardly waiting, I ask, “Can I grab her address?”

***