3. Chapter 3
I had a therapist after my husband died, though I didn’t find it all particularly useful. Too much moving past things. I wasn’t ready. I stopped going.
In hindsight, it seems like I had everything. The house, the career, the loving husband. We met at work, though he was newer on the scene, a detective like me. For a time, we both worked the Cocooner case. Most detectives worked that case in some way or another back then. But when we married and moved out to the suburbs, he started working more, and I became less involved in that world, which was fast becoming his more than mine. The murders were getting more brutal, the killers more numerous. And most of them target women. But I thought we were safe.
In the end, it wasn't me we should have worried about. And it wasn't the Cocooner, either. It was someone new, the Needler. When Caleb was murdered, I lost everything. Everything was repo’ed, and I sank into debt that I could only get out of by selling all that we’d ever had together. I didn't even want to go back to work, just to sit in a dark foreclosed house and think instead, a fuzzy, directionless kind of thinking. His mother blamed me. Caleb was always her precious boy, and I wasn’t good enough even when he was alive.
A week is too long to sit with my thoughts, especially sober. But I know thin ice when I'm on it, and I sweat it out, not touching a drop. In every way other than mentally, I feel good. But that’s some omission. I have enough sick leave at work, having not taken a break basically since I came back.
I see the reports on TV, about Masker’s murder. The camera cuts to the families of Masker’s victims. They're praising Needler, all tears and clasped hands, thanking him for bringing them justice. Then there are quick shots of parties on balconies and banners over nightclubs. Come Raise a Glass to the Death of the Masker. People are celebrating the kill. Celebrating Needler.
And sure, I have little grief for the man that died. His method was slow and cruel. But I saw it happen, came face to face with the man that did it myself. Face to face with the man who killed my husband.
By Friday the draw is too much, towards that cupboard above the fridge. I know I should go and pull the bottles down, then pour them into the sink. But having them in my hands is too close to just one sip, then another. The sudden ringing of the housephone jolts me out of my deliberations. Something tells me it’ll be Dirk, and I lunge out from under the blanket I’ve been stewing under on the couch to snatch the receiver out of the cradle before the first ring is up.
“So, he taunts them,” is his opener.
I let out a breath. He’s letting me back to work. “Yes. With their crimes, their victims. He takes his time.”
“Right. Good. See you Monday.” And he hangs up.
***
If it was up to me, I'd sit in my room studying case notes, ready to go back on Monday. But Olivia can be persistent when she gets an idea in her head.
"You've been cooped up all week! Come on! Please? Come with me. It'll be fun."
"It’s really not my scene," I tell her, again. And it’s true. Usually, I drink alone, not pressed between three hundred other bodies.
"All the more reason to give it a go."
Somehow, persistence mostly, and the fact she was nice enough to go and get my car last week, I wind up squished into a booth of sticky leather seats, Olivia shouting across the table to a man with five piercings in his face, including a painful looking one in the middle of his chin. That one is inflamed, either new or infected. The music is too loud for me to make out exactly what she's saying, but the guy gives her his number, so I assume it went well.
True to myself, I stick to drinking lemonade, meaning I'm much more sober than anyone else in here. Olivia is tucking the small piece of paper into the top of her boot, which comes up to her knee. Then there's a lot of free space after that, all the way up to her black miniskirt. "You know," I yell, leaning towards her. "You should be more careful. There's a lot of crime in this city." And she's exactly the type on the receiving end of most of it, I don't say.
Olivia grins widely, sucking more of her candy-coloured drink up through the straw. "You need to be less careful!" she counters.
Given my last escapade, I sincerely doubt that. In the darkest time of each night since, it’s been impossible not to think about lying there on the cement floor, utterly vulnerable. Every sound seems to wake me now, leaving me too alert to get back to sleep.
"Have fun a little! Get laid."
I snort.
"Come on. I'll help."
"I really doubt it."
But she's already waving over a couple more guys, and one of them has his attention set on me. I smile politely, but sex with a strange man is the last thing I want right now. I wait for a lull in the conversation being shouted around the booth and excuse myself for the bathroom. As I squeeze past Olivia, I whisper to her, "See you at home."
She pouts after me but otherwise doesn't argue. The fact she even got me into this place is impressive enough, without keeping me here, or God forbid, convincing me to take some guy home. "Don't wait up." She gives me a wink. And indeed, I won't see her again until Monday morning.
Out into the fresh air of the night, I take a long breath, savouring the quiet, the chill in the air just cold enough to bring out gooseflesh on my arms. The streets are wet, but I can see the moon peeking between the tall buildings, so I figure I'm safe from getting caught in a downpour for the time being. I shrug on my jacket and decide to walk home.
The streets of Downtown here are lively on Saturday nights, but as I leave them, coming into the darker residential streets of my district, I can't help but look over my shoulder. Some level of paranoia goes with the job, I suppose. I've been to too many scenes where a woman just 'decided to enjoy the fresh air' and walk home.
Four blocks from my building, however, I need to admit that I'm not just being paranoid. Someone is following me and has been through several turns. I clutch my jacket tighter around me, taking faster steps. I catch sight of him around another corner. The street is narrow, crowded in by tall dark buildings on either side. He's short, but wide, and I can hear the thin chains on his pants jingle louder the more he closes the space between us. A guy from the club, then. He must have followed me out.
The end of this street seems far away. Everyone at the station needs to pass self-defence training twice a year, but it’s little more than box-ticking, Tregam’s answer to the handful of female detectives targeted by Cocooner about four years ago. Breaking out of pre-set holds while supervised on a soft mat is a lot different than facing someone in the dark alleys of the city. I’ve never tested those skills, nor do I want to. I quicken my step to the point where it must be obvious that I know he's there. Which is a mistake. You never want them to know they've got you running.
Then, abruptly, just when I'm wondering how effective that self-defence training could be, and whether the guy might have a knife, the jingling stops. The absence is so sudden that I halt and look back. And there's no one there. I hesitate. I should just get home as fast as possible. But I know exactly where he was, about thirty feet back, in line with a large dumpster. I eye the shadow of it now.
With one last longing look at the other end of the street, I cautiously walk back. Just to the dumpster, I tell myself. Just to make sure he's not following me anymore. Rounding the front of the dumpster, I stand back on the far side of the alley, peering into the shadows.
There's nothing there, just a blank space. I blink. Maybe I was imagining him? There's got to be some psychological effects from being confronted with the killer of one’s husband, not to mention many others, after all.
Unless… The lid of the dumpster is closed. I shift from foot to foot, and the voice of reason in my mind tells me to just walk away. But I step up to the dumpster, flipping back the lid and jumping back quickly.
And there he is, unconscious among the rubbish, lounging back in his foul bedding. My hand comes to my mouth. His mouth is fallen open, one gold tooth glinting. At first, I think he's dead, but then I catch the subtle rise and fall of his chest. And… I inch closer. Sticking out of his chest through his shirt is a syringe. Immediately in my mind’s eye, I'm back in the wastewater plant, looking down at my own arm at the syringe sticking out… right before I fell.
My back comes up against the far side of the alley. It can't be. Him.
My stomach turns. I snap my head both ways down the alley. There's not another living thing in sight. My nerves spike, and I turn and run the rest of the way home, not stopping to think or rest until I'm inside my bedroom, three locked doors between me and the outside world, and anywhere Needler might be lurking.
***
As I step into the station Monday morning, the place is in turmoil. And not this time, because of Needler.
"Cocooner struck," the first intern I manage to distract from his duties informs me. At the words, I feel cold. His second strike, then. I don't need to find Dean to hear about it, to know the body was found suspended, shiny like wax inside a split-open cocoon.
Within an hour of my arrival, the floor is quiet, and most of the force has gone out to the new Cocooner site. There's desperation in the hunt for Cocooner this past year, with more victims pretty much guaranteed, and a resume already years long.
I don't tag along, I've got enough to do on the Needler case, and despite what should be my more intimate knowledge thanks to my husband's long-held case on Cocooner, I've never been any help at the scenes. Too many ghosts getting in the way of the evidence.
Instead, I sit at my desk and look at the report made on the Needler and Masker scene. I'll need to check in with Seb, but so far, it’s looking like a positive match. It always is a positive match, with Needler’s victims. The small screen attached high on the far wall catches my eye as I try to concentrate on pictures from the crime scene- pictures I had first-hand experience of. It seems that Dirk hasn't said a word about my being there, thank goodness.
The latest victim of Cocooner was identified this morning, a young man this time, though they don’t show his picture yet. The TV is too far away to hear from where I sit at my desk, but I read the yellow subtitles and watch the statement made by the family. Like many, they ask for justice. But then, when asked a prompting question, the father of the deceased looks right into the camera and specifies, “ We want Needler to give us justice .”
"Good, you're here."
"Jesus," I gasp, twisting back to look at Dirk as he comes to lean on the corner of my desk.
“You alright?" His brow furrows as he glances towards the TV, which has now moved on to the weather. "You seem jumpy.”
Saturday night, the creep in the dumpster, the syringe that would keep him there stewing in filth for hours, seems long enough ago now that I can almost imagine it was a nightmare. Almost. Instead of answering him, I ask, "Can you believe this? People are celebrating him more and more, asking him for justice."
Dirk doesn't need me to specify who I'm talking about, rather tellingly. He shrugs and rolls over a chair from another empty desk. The owner probably won't be back before the end of the day, what with the Cocooner scene still hot. "They see results. Trust in the law is not exactly at a high right now."
I put my pen down. The anger is gone from Dirk now, and the relief hits me deep. We're back to normal. It crosses my mind that I should mention Saturday night. But the events feel too crazy, too beyond reality to spell out now. Maybe I was mistaken. It was dark, and I was scared and confused, and let’s face it, I’m in dire need of therapy. Telling Dirk that I think Needler jabbed a guy who was getting ready to jump me in an alley on the way back from a club will probably only see me suspended, officially this time.
"So," Dirk stretches his legs out, forearm resting on the corner of my desk. "Why did he hit twice this month?"
"Well," I start. "He didn't. The first got away. He likes the pattern; he didn't want to miss one."
"But what… he had a back-up hit in case the first slipped away?"
"That sand from the wastewater filtration… We found it at the Strangler's scene. Indicating he'd been using that location as some sort of base for a while. Maybe for supplies… maybe planning. So my theory is that he had to use the filtration plant for Masker because it was too late to prepare anything else."
Dirk nods thoughtfully. "Which would mean that he needs a new spot now."
I blow air out between my lips. "Are we back at square one?"
"Not quite. You saw him, spoke to him. That’s got to be worth something. Even if it’s not admissible."
I pick up the pen again, tapping it back and forth. "Not really, he knew who I was, but most killers know the detectives on their case. They like the feeling of importance."
"That’s it? Nothing else?"
I tilt my side to side. "He did say something strange. I can't remember word for word… being careful of what I find? Something of that nature."
Dirk's eyes narrow on me. "Did he threaten you, El? We have to be realistic if he did. You'd need to go into witness protection. The only reason I’m keeping it quiet for you is because you weren’t hurt…"
"No," I say quickly. I spent time in witness protection… too much, after Caleb was killed. "He didn't threaten me. He had every chance to hurt me." Saturday night pops into my head. Every chance to let me be hurt. "But he didn't."
Dirk purses his lips but otherwise drops it. "Just… don't take anything to mean nothing, okay? You hear a noise, you get a spidey tingle, anything, get around people and call me or whoever is closest."
"Okay okay."
"El…"
"I got it, alright? I'm fine. It was just a random encounter because I was somewhere stupid. I'm fine, honestly."
Dirk gives a long sigh, then shrugs. "Alright. So the case." He taps his fingers on the wood. "What does he want?"
I raise an eyebrow. "To kill people…?"
"Just killers. Serial killers, specifically. Why?"
“Not just killers.”
“Your late husband is, so far, the only one that doesn't fit the bill. And he was also the first.” Dirk is one of the few people here who doesn’t skirt around anything even nearing the subject of Caleb. Sometimes it’s confronting, cold even. But overall, I appreciate it. Better than pretending like he never existed, of taking away everything he was and is just for the sake of taking away the tragedy.
"The only one we know of. There could be others, missing people. Some of his hits could be mistakes."
Dirk doesn't disagree. "And he wouldn't be the first to kill one, then come back after a break, more precise, more… thorough."
We both fall silent. It really feels like we are back to square one. "You know, one thing that always stuck out to me," I say, "Needler only takes one at a time, usually."
Dirk nods, getting where I'm going. "Tristan," he says, naming my husband’s partner.
"The corpse in the furnace at Caleb’s scene. Assumed to be Tristan Fyld, but too burnt to identify, enough that his death can't even be credited to Needler. And it’s not Needler's MO to burn. Why did he do it that night?"
Dirk runs his hand back through his hair. “Usually when someone tries to burn something… it’s to hide it. But hide what? Why, when we'd all assume it was the partner anyway?”
"Unless it wasn't the partner. I imagine you've heard the theory that Tristan’s alive and is the Cocooner? That he was all along."
Dirk snorts. "Seems fanciful. There are all kinds of theories about Tristan. One even has him alive and being the Needler. But… it doesn't fit for me, something’s off. What’s his motivation?"
"Well, his sister was killed by Cocooner, pretty horrifically. Cocooner screwed that one up. They could only identify her body by matching hair…"
"Cassandra, yeah. But it was years before the Needler made any appearance whatsoever," Dirk cuts me off, then shrugs. "I dunno. It's all a little too neat. And he faked his death for what? To wait a year and a half, then start murdering psychopaths? None of which are Cocooner? After already waiting so many years after his sister was brutally murdered. Why start there? Plus, there was definitely someone thrown into that furnace. Who were they if not Tristan?"
"God, I don't know. Too many questions."
Dirk grins. "Shouldn't have become a detective if you didn't like questions."
***