Chapter Fifteen History Repeating
Chapter fifteen
History Repeating
Kenny was heading for ruin.
But before he got there, he had to be here .
Ryston Police Headquarters. Buzzing with that low, fretful murmur, distinctive of a Friday morning incident room where a time dependent case hung on the shoulders of all who were in here. It had been five days since the incident. Five days since he’d almost done something totally, utterly reckless. Since he’d lost control. Lost himself . And he couldn’t be more thankful for Jack having begged him to look over the case files of Rahul Mishra’s death and provide a report to update the team on his theories. It had been a reason to lock himself away from Aaron Jones.
Because it didn’t matter who Aaron Jones was. What he might or might not have done. What he was or wasn’t involved in. Purposely. Inadvertently. None of that mattered. Kenny had already dived in too deep. The danger, the puzzle, the complexity only attracted him more. Aaron was an irresistible force Kenny couldn’t shake. And Kenny’s restraint would crumble beneath the weight of his obsession. Because this one he couldn’t escape. Couldn’t close the book on. Couldn’t shove him to the back of his cupboard. Or hide him in a drawer and tell everyone he’d quit. Stopped looking.
How could he ever stop looking at Aaron when he was that beautifully seductive?
Officers shuffled papers, sipping on lukewarm coffee and eyeing the crime scene photos pinned on the whiteboard. The air hung heavy, thick with the stale scent of long hours and tension. This incident room, with its cluttered desks and tangled cords, felt more like a battlefield than a workspace, and it shunted Kenny back to the time when this had been his home from home. Red string crisscrossed the walls, connecting photos of Rahul Mishra with maps of the university and CCTV stills of his last moments alive, reminding him he was never far from devastation.
Cracking his neck from side to side, he glanced to Jack, at the head of the table, grave expression, tapping a pen against his open laptop, his screen filled with data and reports. That, at least, was a difference. Jack wasn’t in uniform, awaiting instructions from his superiors about what his next information-collecting task would be. He was running this one. And he looked good for it. Decked out dashingly in a suave suit framing his newfound honed body, cleanly shaven, ash-blond hair, short back and sides with only a smattering of grey, he fitted into the role of DI as well as he did his tailored shirt.
Kenny couldn’t see it as a loss. No, Jack was like a wounded creature he’d nursed back to health, only to release into the wild. He missed him. But deep down, he knew Jack was better off where he was now than broken in Kenny’s bed.
Jack cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the room, and the idle chatter died out, all eyes on him, poised and ready.
Once upon a time, Kenny had looked at Jack with as much anticipation.
Perhaps not for the same thing.
More like the way he’d gazed upon Aaron splayed over the glass casing of his jukebox.
“Right, everyone, listen up,” Jack ordered the silence. The colleagues in the room comprised the team of officers brought in to solve the Rahul Mishra case, including the detective sergeant case officer, evidence technician, forensics, family liaison, and intelligence support. And him. Forensic Psychology consultant.
A sliver of pride washed over Kenny. Jack, the man who’d used to burrow under his sheets, asking him to tell him bedtime stories and whisk him away to a better childhood than he’d endured, was now directing a team of trained police officers. A small smile crept on Kenny’s lips. But he kept his eyes focused on his notes, the ones he’d buried himself in for the past few days. The ones that had kept him from reaching for any of the vices that had him dangerously close to the edge.
Drink. Smoke.
Aaron .
“Rahul Mishra. Eighteen years old. Engineering student at the University of Ryston. Originally from Leicester. Found dead on Monday, October 14th, around seven-thirty a.m. by a dog walker at this location on the Ryston River.” Jack hovered a red dot on the projection screen behind him, showing the map of the river and woodland flowing through the University. “Parents notified, and because of religious customs, they’re pushing for a quick funeral. We need to scrape every bit of evidence from him before we release the body.” He nodded to the pathologist. “Dr Chong, what do we know so far?”
“Autopsy report is finalised. Cause of death determined as drowning. Toxicology results show elevated levels of alcohol and multiple substances, including amphetamines and benzodiazepines, which would have significantly impaired the victim’s motor function and cognitive abilities prior to death.” Dr Chong scanned through her notes. “There are indications of physical struggle. Notable contusions observed on the posterior aspect of the neck, suggesting that force had been applied to subdue or restrain him. These injuries are consistent with manual pressure, potentially from behind, exerted during the struggle.”
Kenny closed his eyes, the visions unbearable but necessary. He had to get into the victim’s heads as much as the killer’s. More often than realised, a person’s reaction or lack thereof acted as a trigger for the killer. Although, he didn’t believe that was the case here. This didn’t appear to be an abduction or assault resulting in death because of a struggle. And all the notes on Rahul suggested he was placid, obedient. He more than likely took whatever he was given thinking that would get him out of the situation quicker.
Poor bastard. The chief’s words rung in his head.
“Additionally,” Chong continued, “there is evidence of anal intercourse, which forensic examination confirms occurred postmortem. Tissue trauma and the absence of any pre-death inflammatory response in the area suggest this occurred after the victim was already deceased.”
Kenny’s heart sank as the forensics report continued on detailing Rahul’s last moments, none of it pleasant. Kenny wouldn’t expect it to be. Rahul had been so young, so vulnerable. He probably walked right to his death. Perhaps without fully knowing. A victim’s behaviour or response to an attack also determined how brutal it would be. All signs led Kenny to believe that Rahul might have… let it happen . Too shocked to fight back. Unexpected. It didn’t suggest Rahul knew his killer, although that would be an initial assessment, but more Rahul’s nature could have made for a perfect victim. The killer knew him. Or knew enough about him to attack with the least amount of struggle, leaving the least amount of evidence. The image of Rahul’s body slumped against a riverbank, rose vines coiled tightly around his neck, etched into Kenny’s mind like all the other victims he’d fought to bring justice to, yet this one carved him deeper, scraping out more of himself with it.
Sometimes he wondered what he had left.
Jack had warned him. “You’re dying along with every victim!”
But he’d brought him here.
Jack nodded grimly. “Thank you, Dr Chong.” He then clicked through a series of images on the projector, displaying Rahul’s last known movements, the locations where CCTV had tracked him, and the spot where his body was found. “We lose him on camera when he enters the woodland area. We’re guessing the killer knew where the cameras were, as there’s no sign of anyone else going in or out at the time Rahul did.”
The room fell silent. Jack turned to Kenny, giving him a nod. “Dr Lyons?”
Kenny snapped to. “Yes?”
Jack gave a brief smile, then addressed the room. “Some of you may remember Dr Lyons, Associate Professor of Forensic Psychology, at the University of Ryston, from previous cases. He was integral to the Howell case, and we’ve brought him in on this one because we believe there could be a link.” The air in the room sucked into a vacuum and Jack gestured to Kenny. “Ken—” he stopped himself from uttering the informality of his first name and cleared his throat, “Dr Lyons.”
Kenny adjusted his glasses, every pair of eyes on him filled with unease and anticipation. Those looks were familiar. Whenever he’d delivered his analyses before, there was always a mix of sceptics and believers in the room. They either distrusted what they didn’t understand or accepted it blindly in a benign sense of hope that Kenny could point out the killer in a crowd and make their job easier. Neither was true, of course. What he brought to the investigation was years of painstaking research, visits to multiple grubby crime scenes, and expert analysis of the worst of the worst in society to fuel his constant seeking for the answer to why .
Why was Jessica chosen?
“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Howell case?” Kenny cut through the murmurs, checking on those squirming in their seats, nodding idly. “But for those who need a recap, I’ll give a very brief rundown.” He inhaled, hating having to relive it. “Ten years ago, a local couple, Frank and Roisin Howell, were convicted of multiple murders. The total number of kills has never and probably will never be uncovered. Only the bodies that were found or recovered from their home, and those buried in the woodland surrounding Ryston, formed their charge. But their reign of terror lasted decades. Together, they lured victims to their home, drugged them, sexually assaulted them. Some were tortured. Others were lucky enough for a quick death. Remains were found within the home. The bodies dismembered postmortem.”
The mood in the room darkened. Kenny expected nothing less. No one could hear this and not react. Unless they were psychopaths.
He continued, “Police found some victims out in the open, waiting to be discovered. These were their trophy pieces. Them taunting the local police. They used rose vine as a consistent calling card. Although, my theory, based on interviews with the Howells, is they were gifts. Frank’s way of showing his wife he could be active without her. Roisin was a recluse. She never left their house in over twenty years. Widely believed in the community to be frail with a long-term illness preventing her from getting out. On arrest, she maintained her innocence, declaring she was forced to stay in the house under Frank’s abuse. Frank, however, was a pillar of the community. Had a job selling antiques. Their manor house, in the village of Wilton, just outside Ryston, was inherited from his aristocratic family.”
The officers in the room shifted uncomfortably. Some stared at the photographs, others took notes, but all locked onto Kenny’s words as if any moment now he’d be like Poirot or Scooby Doo suddenly revealing who Rahul’s killer was by ripping off a hooded mask. He couldn’t do that. But he could make the net they threw out to catch him smaller.
“The Howells’ victims were often vulnerable, young, troubled, easily manipulated. Both male and female. The reason this is important? Rahul fits the Howell profile. He was young, away from home for the first time, struggling with his identity, his sexuality. He was vulnerable. Desperate for a connection in a new place he felt disconnected from. And the rose vine is an almost exact replica of how Frank’s outside victims were discovered.” Kenny’s eyes darkened as he continued. “The rose isn’t just a signature. It’s a message. In the Howell case, we know how Frank would leave roses as a tribute to Roisin, his wife. Offering her a gift, a twisted display of his affection. She, being agoraphobic, couldn’t leave the house. So Frank would make her part of the kills with the rose. But here, in Rahul’s case, the rose isn’t a gift of love. It’s a signal. Placed post-mortem, methodically, and the killer leaving no trace. This wasn’t sloppy. Wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. The killer is meticulous. Calculated. And clever. Like the Howells.”
A ripple of unease coursed through the room. Jack’s jaw tightened as he stood at the front of the team, eyes locked on Kenny.
“Are we thinking this is a copycat?” Detective Seargeant Cleveland asked from across the room.
“No.” Kenny shook his head. “Whilst there is evidence of some behaviour contagion here, it’s too personal for a copycat. It’s also too clean. We’re dealing with someone who has refined their methods over years. Maybe even decades. This isn’t someone pulling up an old case, learning from it and reenacting it. Serial killers evolve. They learn from every kill. They adjust, they improve, they perfect their craft. Rahul’s murder wasn’t messy or chaotic. This is someone who knows intimately how Frank and Roisin murdered their victims and, as it would appear, wants them to know they do. Rahul’s a gift.”
Officer Jenkins, fresh faced, bright eyed and bushy tailed, probably straight out of training, broke the silence. “So, are we looking for someone who knew Rahul? Or knew the Howells?”
“What I can tell you is this certainly wasn’t an impulsive act. The killer likely waited for the right victim. Someone who fit their profile of vulnerability. So, in that sense, yes, the killer would have known him, but it doesn’t necessarily mean they were acquainted. Sometimes, killers choose a victim because they were wearing the same colour shoes as one of their previous kills to whom they were particularly attached. Rahul may not have had any emotional connection himself with the killer, but the killer knew exactly who they were looking for. Perhaps he was similar to a previous victim of theirs. Or someone who got away? He’ll have some connection. It’s finding it.”
Murmurs between those in the room elevated, then lowered when Jack glared at them all.
Kenny continued, “We know from the interviews with family, friends, those at the university who knew Rahul,” Kenny peered down at his notes where the name Aaron Jones singled out as if highlighted in bold, “that Rahul was quiet. Hard working. He didn’t drink. Had few friends. He was struggling at university to fit in. Unsure of himself. These indicate he was a prime target as someone who could go missing, unnoticed for a period, and easily led.”
The room grew darker, the gravity of Kenny’s words pulling everyone deeper into the case. They weren’t just looking for a murderer. They were looking for a ghost, someone who had been hiding in plain sight, someone who was a master of blending into the background. Someone who might have been involved ten years ago.
Kenny shifted in his seat. “This killer, he’s sending a message. To us, yes. To the police. But mostly to the Howells, or someone connected to them.” He was on a roll now, professional distance allowing him to get through it without falling apart. “This isn’t just about showing off his kill. It’s about proving something. This is someone who feels underestimated, someone who’s probably stuck in a mid-level job, believing he’s capable of more. He’s desperate for validation, for someone to recognise his work as superior. Perhaps having acknowledgement from Frank that he can still go undetected. He could be taunting him. And he’ll do it again. Because he’ll always need the gratification of knowing he is superior. Serial killers don’t stop. They get bolder. So this won’t be his first kill in ten years. He’d have been active in that time.”
The officers in the room exchanged uneasy glances, a heavy silence following, tension suffocating. The people in this room had homes to go to. Weekends to start. Families to put to bed. Yet they were here, listening to the potential reopening of one of the worst serial killer cases to have ever hit this police force. They were in for a long day. A long night to follow. An even longer three months if they didn’t crack this before it went cold.
“I’d suggest you start by looking at local sexual predators.” Kenny snapped the team back to attention. “This person will have a history of deviancy. Long history. He’s likely to be in his midlife to older. Would have had previous dealings with the authorities for flashing, stalking, predatory behaviour. He’s likely to have been in trouble before but has flown under the radar. Escalating from his less severe acts, where he would have tested his boundaries and refined his method. He also knows the area. It’s evident he knew where the CCTV ended and where Rahul’s body would rinse up. He’s local, or has studied the area extensively. So looking into similar unsolved cases over the past ten years is also a good place to start. At this stage in his career, he believes himself untouchable. So be mindful of that. He may well revisit the scene of the crime. Try to involve himself in the investigation. He’ll be tracking this case. Keep vigilant on those offering their services to you for help.”
Jack, standing at the head of the table, finally spoke. “You heard him. We dig into the local files. Sexual offenders, anyone with a history of predatory behaviour. I want eyes out on the river, talking to everyone passing. I want every name, every lead. No matter how small. We find him before he strikes again.”
The room stirred into action, officers pulling out files, flipping through papers, and exchanging hurried whispers. The atmosphere had shifted from routine briefing to a race against time. They were no longer dealing with an isolated murder. They were chasing a predator who had perfected his game, and the clock was ticking.
Kenny sat back, scanning over the crime scene photos one last time. He could feel it. The killer’s presence. A methodical, patient hunter who thrived on control. Somewhere, he was watching, waiting for his next moment to strike. And Kenny knew they were running out of time. If this had any link to the Howells, which he knew it did, something big was about to happen.
As Jack dismissed the team, he caught Kenny’s eye across the table, nodding in gratitude. “Thank you. I know that can’t have been easy.”
Kenny took his glasses off, wiping the lenses with the edge of his sleeve. “You have the hard job.” He tucked his glassed back on. “This could mean Jessica’s killer is still out there and we’ll make some links.”
“Kenny…” Jack’s voice softened, but Kenny didn’t let him finish. He stood, gathering his notes and shoving them into his bag. The room felt suffocating, and he needed to leave, needed air. There was too much about this. It was cloying. And he wasn’t sure what was real. What was right. What was happening.
As Kenny moved to flee, a knock echoed from the glass door. Jenkins poked her head in. “Sir?”
Jack ripped his gaze from Kenny to the entering officer. “Yes?”
“Your fiancé’s out front. Says he’s brought you some stuff.” She angled her head. “Smells delish.”
Kenny peeked through the glass partition, where outside, a man in sweats and a base layer stood holding plastic containers. Stocky, strong, with a warm, proud smile. Jack’s fiancé was a chiselled jaw, muscle-bodied sweetie-pie, and Jack’s cheeks flushed as he scrambled from his seat, crossing the room in a few hurried strides. Kenny watched through the window. He couldn’t hear what was being said. But he didn’t need to. The body language said it all. The casual stroke of Jack’s arm. A gentle squeeze. Eyebrows knitting. A concerned frown. Then a tilt of the neck and a quick peck to Jack’s lips as the office watched on. So easy. So carefree. So…normal.
The envy would wear off. It would.
The man met Kenny’s gaze over Jack’s shoulder and Kenny ripped his away to continue stuffing his contents into his bag. Jack came back into the room after having handed out various boxes to the team out front, then sat, unclipping a lid on a Tupperware box to reveal beautifully decorated cupcakes.
“Thought he was into fitness?” Kenny quipped, hiding the bite in his voice.
“He is.” Jack pulled out a lemon frosted cupcake. “These are natural flavourings, fruit based. Low sugar. Low fat.”
“Low taste?”
“See for yourself.” Jack took a bite out of the cake, then offered the box to Kenny.
Kenny shook his head. “I have a lunch meeting back at work in exactly twenty minutes. You know how they like to stuff us academics full of bread and cakes. Makes us think harder.”
Jack snorted, putting down the box. “You can take one with you? For Heather?” He took a bite from his cupcake. “Friday night in, surely?”
“Sadly, no night in. We’re at a party. One of her colleagues is retiring.” Kenny kept it to himself that this was only their third date, and how he believed it way too early to bring in friends and work colleagues, but he’d also been unable to say no considering what had almost happened a few days ago. So he threw the strap of his laptop bag over his shoulder, crossing it over his chest, then peered down at Jack. He watched him lick around the twirling icing, picking through the sprinkles, and it was so childlike, it struck Kenny in the heart. Jack deserved that cake. And he deserved the man baking it for him.
“You should tell him,” Kenny said before he could stop himself.
A long silence stretched. Then Jack tucked the cupcake back in the box, dusting his hands together. “Fuck off, Kenny.”
“If he does this for you,” Kenny gestured to the homemade goodies, “then he’s a natural caregiver. He could give you all of what you want. Need.”
“I thought you were a criminal psychologist, not a sex and relationship therapist.”
“We all start at the same point.”
“Why are you pushing this?”
“You deserve to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
“In bed?”
Jack shot out of his seat, pointing a finger at Kenny. “Fuck you, Kenny. Fuck all of you.”
Kenny remained calm, letting Jack’s rage burn out. Then, “I mean it, Jack. You weren’t happy when you walked out of my life. I could only whisk you away for a short time. But this man who checks in on you, bakes for you, ensures you’re fed and watered, that you’re okay …he’s smitten by you. And he can make you happy and also whisk you away to your fantasy beach, making you come harder than even I could.”
Jack leaned away. Folded his arms. “Does it not hurt you?”
“Does what not hurt me?”
“To think of me like that with someone else?”
“Does it hurt you to think of me like that with someone else?”
“Yes. Now you answer a fucking question for once.”
Kenny exhaled, chest deflating around the truth. “No.”
Jack looked away, hiding the crumbling expression Kenny knew all too well.
“I want you to be happy, Jack. So fucking deliriously happy that you shove it in my miserable, broken face. I want you to revel in it. Swim in it. I want you so damn happy that you never think about me again. Never think about what I did to you. I want you so fucking happy that when I ask you if it hurts to imagine me fucking someone else, you say no .”
Silence engulfed the room. Until another knock and the same officer from before popped her head in, glancing from one to the other with unease. “Sir?”
“Yes, Jenkins?” Jack snapped.
“Frank Howell’s just been found dead in prison.”