1.2
We find Lee-Anne's home in a street of narrow row housing on the west side of Downtown, south of Crennick plus a couple of suburbs removed and therefore, by Tregam standards, middle-class. Rosie was right- she appears to be clean now, a single mother who eyes us with surprise and some trepidation when Dirk and I show up on her doorstep but invites us in anyway.
With her two sons running around the kitchen bearing toy guns, we face Lee-Anne across her coffee table and tell her our findings. It's not every day you need to tell someone they were getting eyed off by a killer, and I feel a particular guilt as I explain everything to her. Probably it would be better for her sake to never know that Strangler was eyeing her off. But the hard truth is that we need to exhaust whatever leads we find.
“Oh, my god…" She gulps, staring at the top of the coffee table, a crumb or two left over from breakfast there. Lifting back up, she asks, “I… are you sure?"
"We found your hair on his body. Likely it stuck to his clothes when he was mapping your schedule," I tell her.
"Jesus," she breathes, glancing back over her shoulder, but the children are none the wiser to the topic of conversation. One of them is hiding under the front of the kitchen counter, the other one stalking around the back. Lee-Anne takes a long breath. “So, the Needler, he saved me?”
"It’s a bit early to say that…”
“Oh, my god…” Still in shock, she shakes her head. "I can't believe it. I never even knew someone was watching me." She’s pushes her hands between her knees, shoulders small. It's not hard to imagine that she’s thinking of the rapes, or of the strangling’s. Seeing herself in those other women.
Dirk says softly, “We understand this must be a shock for you.”
"If you like, we can assign a security detail to your house,” I start to offer.
“I don’t want to scare my sons.” Her eyes widen. “Why would I need that?”
"You don't,” Dirk puts in quickly. Lee-Anne stares at him for an extra beat, some of the fear leaving her face. There is often this moment with him and the women we're interviewing when they seem to suddenly notice his good looks. Dirk is that kind of attractive, not the type that hits you the moment that you look at him, but during a shift in expression, sort of when you least expect it.
"That was the Strangler you found? He's definitely dead?" she presses.
“It's him. He matches the DNA found at the other… uh, crime scenes,” Dirk assures.
“But,” I put in, “we don’t know the motives of the Needler.”
Cutting back to me, Lee-Anne pulls a face. "The Needler? But he only hunts the killers. Why would he have any interest in me?"
“Well, we don't know that he only does that. If he knew you were a target, or…” I trail off, realising this is probably not what she wants to hear.
Dirk smiles at her, then fixes it on his face while he turns in my direction. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
“Sure!” I say, trying not to make it sound like a question.
To Lee-Anne, Dirk says, "Could you write out your usual schedule, please? Where's, rough when’s, that kind of thing. If we could see where you were being followed, it might help us track the Needler too."
Back out on the stone landing, Dirk turns to me. “Are you trying to freak the poor woman out more?”
I spread my hands. “What? I’m just telling her the truth.”
“We have no reason to believe the Needler has any interest in the potential victims of his targets.”
“Well, he lines the killing rooms with pictures of the past victims, so it could stand to reason that he does.”
“You and I both know there could be several other motives for that. Not least as part of his justice… or punishment, or whatever way you want to look at it.”
"Ugh," I wave a hand, turning away from him to look out over the quiet street instead. “Don’t tell me you’re getting caught up in the praise too.”
“Of course not! I’m just…” Dirk sighs, running a hand back through his hair. Jaw working, he asks me, “Should you be on this case, El? Think professionally.”
“Of course I should!” I say reflexively. I've been on it ever since I came back last year. The idea of not… of doing something else... I recoil from it.
Dirk spreads his hands. “Obviously, you have bias. We can't deny that.”
“I’m staying more professional than most people on this case,” I say pointedly.
With a heavy sigh, Dirk drops it. Sounding tired, he concedes, “Alright, your call.”
***
Reporters are waiting outside the station when we get back, harassing anybody going in or coming out. Less than a dozen of them, many with faces recognisable to me either from past encounters or from the television. It doesn’t really matter which reporters they are, since they all have seemingly bottomless energy for the macabre news they cover.
"Three guesses what they want to talk about," Dirk mutters as we pull up at the crescent-shaped stone courtyard that fronts the police headquarters of Tregam.
"We probably have to say something."
At the wide steps leading to the headquarters doors, they start on us. I do the talking, just confirming things they already knew, Yes, the Strangler has been found dead, yes , we have reason to believe it was the Needler.
A woman presses her microphone a little further past the invisible wall holding them back from swamping us completely. "You're leading the Needler case, is that correct?"
"Yes, that’s right."
"Do you think the best use of the city's money is spent in trying to catch the man taking murderers and rapists off our streets?"
I fix a professional smile. "We shouldn't lose sight of what Needler really is- a serial killer, and a prolific one."
"Do you think your search for him has something to do with your late husband?" That’s a different one, an older man. For several moments, none of the other reporters say anything, not wanting to side with him but also wanting to see if I'll answer. I should be able to answer those questions by now. But I freeze, words stuck in my throat, none of them the right ones.
"That’s all for today." Dirk presses between me and them, turning us both for the door. "Damned vultures," he’s muttering as we reach the top of the steps.
I clear my throat like something needs to be dislodged. “Yeah,” I agree, without much spirit. Dirk looks to me like he’s about to say something when a shout behind us has us turning to look back. Across the street, not far along enough to be out of sight, is the larger, older building that is the courthouse. A sleek black town car has just pulled up to be almost immediately surrounded by the same reporters we just escaped from.
A man in sunglasses and a nice suit, black hair slicked back, steps out, looking more like a celebrity than a suspect on trial.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Greg Talisof,” Dirk says, “Although they’re calling him Gerry…” When I frown, Dirk wrinkles his nose and adds, “For geriatric killer.”
I look back at the man and his security making their way up the courthouse steps. “That’s the guy who’s been slipping cyanide into tea at nursing homes? Not what I pictured.”
“Those are the dangerous ones.” Dirk pushes open the door, and we turn from the drama unfolding across the road, making for the main hall and so our desks.
I sit down to do my last couple hours of work, and the next time I look up, the sun is well on its way down, and the twenty or so other desks are mostly empty, with the laggers steadily filling out. I let out a breath, stretching my neck. Tugging his badge off, Dirk grabs his coat as he comes to the side of my desk. Standing up, I take my jacket from him. I didn't realise it had gotten so late.
"Oh wait," I remember, mid-putting it on, "We said we'd talk to Howie and Dean about the Cocooner case, remember?"
Running a hand back through his hair, Dirk points out, "El, it’s 6 pm."
"Well, it'll only take…"
"You go ahead if that’s what you want. I'm clocked off." The way he says it indicates I should be too. But he knows better than to try instilling a good work-life balance in me by now. "The Cocooner has been at it for nearly a decade. I'm sure another day without our input ain't gonna affect too much."
I've already shrugged off my jacket. "I can see them, they're still here. I'll only be five minutes."
"Uh-huh." He gives me a wave as he heads for the exit. “I’m gonna catch the tube, see you tomorrow.”
Dean and Howie are poring over Dean's desk as I approach. They both look surprised to see me. We're the only three left in the building by now. They're a good pair, Howie has been doing this for longer than a lot of us combined, and Dean is fresh-faced. They're your typical combination of wisdom and energy, and they even seem to get along most of the time, too.
"How is it?" I ask, leaning on the side of the desk. "I heard he struck this month." My eyes scan the pictures in front of them. The Cocooner isn't picky about his type of victim. He turns them all into his 'art' in the same way.
"I think the whole city heard about that," Howie comments.
"Pull up a chair, we want to show you something," Dean suggests. He looks younger than he is, with coppery hair and a long, open face. Howie is due for retirement soon, though I get the sense he’ll go down fighting that tooth and nail. Without Howie there to stare ominously in that special impatient way of ageing men, I wonder how seriously Dean will be taken by his interviewees. But hopefully, he ages up a bit by then. Howie will probably be there still, shouting pointers at him whether he’s on the case or not.
I hesitate. This doesn't seem like a five-minute conversation. But I roll over a chair anyway, sitting on the other side of Dean. He shows me a set of three pictures. "These are from the three vics last year. There were only two the year before."
I look at the pictures. They're familiar, I saw them circulating back when the news was fresh. The first, the body suspended upside-down, though you can't see it, wrapped entirely and neatly in layers of gauzy cloth. The second, the same cloth dipped in plaster, dried and cracked open to reveal the nude body inside. Everything is shiny like wax, with something bright tucked in behind the body. The third, the body is upright, arms spread, the cocoon having fallen away. Bright orange wings made of cloth and wire stretch out two meters to either side, everything similarly propped to hover several meters above the ground.
"That was the first time he did that- a set, you might call it. He branched out.” Dean passes me another picture, and I stare at it. It’s an opaque cocoon. “And look at the scene this year."
"He's doing the same pattern again. Which means…"
"There's going to be at least two more before the end of the year," Howie asserts.
I sigh, lowering the picture to rub my eyes. "He's doing three a year now? That’s… a lot." Not as much as Needler is gearing up to do, but people care less about that.
"Yeah, and we're no closer to catching him."
“Some of them, you never catch,” Howie says, and Dean blinks, pulling a slight face. It’s a hard truth to hear. Sensing that, Howie lifts his head and gives Dean a companionable pat on the shoulder. “We do our best no matter what.”
I smile a little at the exchange, though that falls away as I look back at the pictures. "How? How is he so good at hiding? He never makes a mistake. And why is he changing his style now?"
Shrugging, Dean takes the picture back. Howie says, "We need to issue a warning to the public. They’re going to work it out for themselves soon enough as it is."
"It'll be bad for the department, we're pretty much admitting we're not going to be able to stop him in time. It doesn't matter how safe everyone is," I say.
"No."
"There's already been calls out, graffiti and the like, to the Needler to get him." Howie shifts in his chair. I hear his back creak. "They've got more trust in another killer than in us nowadays."
Dean tilts his head to me. "How is the Needler case going?"
Leaning back in my chair, I wobble my head from side to side. "We're making some progress. But the public perception is… difficult. It makes them less cooperative."
"They don't want him caught."
"That’s about the gist of it."
There's a lull in the conversation now, and I feel them share a look, feel it grow tense, feel their thoughts slipping towards him, Needler’s first. I clap my hands on my thighs, standing up. "Well, I think it’s home time."
"Yes, us too," they're grabbing their coats as well. Around the topic of the Needler, with me, people get like this. Afraid to delve too far.
***
Thanks to a drunk driver on the ring road, it’s nearly 10 pm by the time I get home, the exhaustion of the day long since caught up to me. I sit on the couch and open a can. Just one, I tell myself. Help me sleep.
One drink turns into two, turns into three. It's close to midnight now. I should go to bed, I know that. I'm being a cliche, I know that too. Sitting on the couch in the dark, looking at old photos of a time I'm never getting back. My housemate is out for the night. I'm all alone, and it sure feels that way.
In the pictures, we're all smiles, arms around each other. In this one we're standing in front of the house we thought we'd have a family in, down in Brinik on the south side, the suburbs, away from the worst of it. There was a pool, a two-car garage, and a security system. An empty room, ready for… I finish off the can.
The next picture is dark, too hard to distinguish. I’m looking back into the camera flash, laughing as Caleb leans over beside me, looking through the eye of his telescope. I used to tease him about how massive the thing was, how he’d get everyone who came over to look through— see the Northern Cross? And there, the Winged Horse? I never quite could see them, but I’d smile for him and say yes anyway.
Of course, pictures aren't the whole story. But I don't look at his face long enough to remember the bad times.
And yet it’s the bad times they eventually lead to. Him being taken away from me. I've reached the end of my third drink. Everyone thinks the Needler is some kind of hero. But here is what he took away from me. A husband, and a future. I've opened the fourth can without thinking about it. Why can't they see? Why don't they want to remember that his first victim was the opposite of a killer? He was a detective, like me, and the first and only to even come close to catching the Cocooner.
And now, three years later, we've still got the Cocooner, and a new killer added to the mix to boot.
Those tiny, so so deep wounds, difficult to see even in the morgue once the blood was cleaned away. But they puncture deep.
He's refined, since then. On my husband, the wounds were numerous, varying depths between one inch and five. Puncturing his lungs, his throat. I saw them, made the mortician point them out to me. On a body I couldn’t recognise… too different under that harsh light, lacking the life I’d known in it. And the face, I wasn’t allowed to see. Burned, unrecognisable. But him.
The wounds were clumsy, the burning a spiteful act apparently reserved just for my husband. Never since. Now, the Needler finishes them with just one strike, maybe two. He leaves them clean, recognisable.
I can't fall back into this grief. Making myself stand, I go to the sink, and pour out the rest. Then I open the last two cans and pour them out as well.