Note: This is for Karma_gater, who offered a fic if I post this. Well, who am I to turn down fic? (rubbing hands gleefully. Bring it on, babe!)
Spoilers: Various episodes between series 1 up to 3X02. Strong spoiler references from series 2.
Warnings: Graphic violence, disturbing imagery, strong language. Pretty much what you'll find in a standard post-watershed BBC crime mystery.
Timeline: Takes place between Whitechapel episodes 3X02 and 3X03
It was better not to count.
Despite the darkness, there were many things here that begged to be acknowledged, sorted, reined in like an obedient horse, within his grasp, within his control.
Still...
It was better not to count.
Joe tucked the tips of his fingers under his thighs and tried not to think about how he could sense the fine wood grain under him (pine because Colbert wanted his victims to hope with the feel of the raw, unfinished wood around them) and if he gingerly ran his nails across the grain, he could feel the lines like hash-marks, slashing away one, two, three...
Immediately, he moved his hands to fold across his stomach instead, banging his elbows on the sides of his prison in the process.
As numb, chilled fingers interlaced to form a comforting weight on his stomach, Joe tried not to think about the pipe just shy of his right eye, its diameter of a 2p coin was barely large enough to see through or provide oxygen. It sent stale air from 1.8 meters, six feet or one fathom or...
Joe's breath hitched. He counted to ten soundlessly, airlessly from ten, nine, eight—No, he wasn't to count because counting meant time and then he would remember his time was limited.
The pipe. Yes, look at the pipe.
Joe tilted his head up, shifting his shoulders until he sidled up to align his right eye with the pipe opening.
There wasn't much to see. Not surprising given the length and diameter of the pipe. Nevertheless, staring up at the dark made his insides coil uncomfortably. No, the pipe led to somewhere, to the open, wide spaces, to fresh air, just like the others.
This, Joe allowed himself to think about. After all, he was a DI, and he'd hoped, was coming around to be a proper one; he'd chased after Colbert even before they knew he was Colbert.
Unfortunately, they didn't find Colbert.
Colbert found them.
Sort of. He'd found Joe.
God, he was such a fool. The fit Miles will throw once they found him.
There was still a throbbing ache on the side of his head where Colbert must have struck him. Miles swore left and right he and Kent should wait. Miles's "Wait for backup" was the last thing he'd said to them.
Joe swallowed hard. He hoped Kent was alright. He hoped Kent was not like he is right now, alone in the dark, breathing in damp air that tasted faintly of mud and grass. Kent had looked dead, prone on the ground, his mobile just a few inches from his slackened grip, screen cracked. . But there was no blood. That must mean something, yes?
His breathing stuttered again. His eyes flew to the pipe but there was no way to see if there was any blockage. But nothing had changed. Panic. Yes. That must be it. Caroline indicated the previous victims died of fright, not asphyxiation. If anything, Joe would succumb to thirst or hunger before—no, just thirst. The human body could only hold—No, don't think about it.
On principle, Joe should find something to align his inhales and exhales with. Perhaps go into a meditative state? No, that meant closing his eyes and presently, doing so felt a little too much like a self-fulfilling prophesy. His heartbeat? No. it was going too fast to be a good metronome and it could lead him to hyperventilate, which previous experience had shown was both unpleasant and sharply humiliating. Perhaps the throbbing on his head? Or the one on his wrist that had given a funny sound when he lashed out and struck a wall when he first came to. No, he was trying to ignore how much they hurt because allowing his brain to focus on that would remind his heart which would, in turn, shorten his breath and suddenly, he'd be very aware of how small everything seemed and how large he is and how there's hardly any room to move...
Joe's foot twitched and kicked out in the dark. The dull thud quieted his runaway thoughts.
Joe could feel his heartbeat picking up, hammering into the base of his throat. It was getting difficult to breathe as he automatically stretched his toes to ease the cramp in his legs and struck wall. Joe stared up through the pipe. It still offered nothing. Perhaps because Colbert returned and stuffed the pipe? No. They never saw any sign Colbert stopped the flow of oxygen. No, Colbert's victims didn't die for lack of air. They died for lack of food, water and hope. Specifically, their hearts beat too hard, too fast as they panicked before giving out.
That will not happen to me.
Joe's foot stilled. He settled a hand on the base of his diaphragm. He exhaled slowly. The darkness around him eased a fraction, expanding instead of contracting. He thought he could feel the walls recede.
He relaxed. There. He could...this was bearable. He could wait. Because his team would find him.
"...still miss you..."
Joe blinked.
"...single day...our boy…all grown up now...proud..."
"'ello?" Joe rasped, but like Colbert's other targets (he refused to categorize himself as one of his victims), whatever numbing substance Colbert had used still paralyzed his throat. Joe could taste the bitter tang of something medicinal at the back of his mouth. He smacked his lips together, grimacing at the gummy, dry sensation.
"Hello!" Joe screamed, as loud as he could. The strain pulled a wire tight across his chest. He coughed and coughed. For a brief moment, there was a glimmer of fear that he was filling the space with dead, spent carbon dioxide, robbing himself of precious air.
"...not fair. No one listened...pretend to care...but no one would..."
"Down here," rasped Joe. He was dizzy from trying to shout. His hoarse voice bounced weakly around him.
"...do you right, Torbin..."
Joe froze.
"...make him pay...wish I could, Torbin..."
Oh God. It all made sense now. The pieces fell into place.
Six feet under, buried in a coffin, Joe knew exactly where he was.
But there was no one to tell.
Three days ago...
Sally Winters muttered to herself as she picked a careful path through the field. Mud sloshed under her trainers. She huddled deeper into her worn leather jacket, and tucked the carnations in as well so the strong breezes wouldn't snap more from her bouquet. Sally peeked within her jacket, counted the yellow and white blossoms, then impatiently blew a strand of blue-black hair off her freckled face.
"What a miserable day." She ran the tip of her tongue on the loop that pierced her lower lip.
"Shit," Sally yelped when her shoe sank lower into what was more water than mud. "Rotten..." Still, she pressed on, her blue eyes fixed on her goal just a hillock away.
The autumn rains had been relentless. She had wanted to come last week, but the rains kept her away and her boss at the cafe very unhappy. Rain had meant no one wanted to dine al fresco. His temper grew as short as the weather grew dark. Even if she had asked, he would have said no. Then assign her to wait on the area near the back. It was often empty, or occupied by scrooges who only want a coffee and a pinch of her bum.
Wankers. All of them. Leon would have knocked her bloody, blubbering boss off his feet and then stick it on YouTube.
A stone nearly sent her face first into a patch of dirt but when Sally straightened, she was smiling. One because yes, Leon would have done exactly that. Two, because she finally spotted Leon.
"Hey," she greeted breathlessly as she crouched down. She made a face when she pulled out her offering; the flowers' heads dipped almost in reverence.
"Sorry," she told Leon as she settled her gift in the holder by the stone. "Couldn't get off last week." She stuck her hands into her pockets, or rather, Leon's pockets. She'd found his jacket, draped over a chair in her flat, forgotten. She took it as her inheritance.
Sally stroked the name Leon Davis carved on the flat stone, the only grave marker she could afford. His mother had shouted at Sally how she never had no son and threw his pictures at her head. Sally had fled the bitch's caravan, photos of a chubby cheeked Leon clutched between her fingers.
"The police can't find him," Sally said. She sniffled. "I think they stopped looking though. Told me the bloke didn't show up on any CCTV." Sally rubbed over the surname on the stone. She chose Leon's dad, just to wind his mum up. Not that the woman bothered looking for his grave; Sally's carnations were the only flowers she ever saw.
"I think he's some rich son of Whitehall and the coppers can't be arsed to find him." Sally plucked a yellowing blade of grass and tossed it with a shaky hand. "What does it matter that some cashier from Tesco got run over off the A11?" She picked up a pebble and threw that as well.
Something clanged.
Blinking, Sally wiped her eyes with a sleeve. She looked up, frowning when she realized the stone had struck a pipe end that was sticking up behind Leon's plaque.
"What..." Sally muttered. She straightened from her crouch and went over to it, brow furrowed. It stuck six centimeters out of the dirt.
"Oi," Sally seethed. What was the groundskeeper doing? Why was there a pipe by Leon? Why did mud sloshed everywhere and trickle over Leon? She stood up, glaring at the horizon but she didn't see the bow-backed twit anywhere. Most likely taking a kip in the office rather than do his job. She tugged at the pipe, cursing under her breath. Hadn't Leon been through enough? Wasn't it enough to leave him forgotten in this shit place of a cemetery, watched over only by some soused geezer?
The pipe wiggled in her grip, most likely loosened in the earth by the constant rain. Sally didn't care what it was for. She just didn't want it bothering Leon.
Sally pulled. She ignored the mud soaking through her jeans as she had dropped to her knees. She ignored how her shoulders ached. She ignored the frantically ringing alarm she had set on her mobile so she wouldn't be late for work. All she cared about was that the pipe was moving.
Like a parody of Excalibur, Sally pulled and pulled with both hands gripping the pipe. She dug her knees in, flinching as droplets of mud splattered her. It moved, sluggishly, then with a wet, gurgling pop, it came free.
Sally screeched as her arms flew up in the air, the pipe raised high above her head and she felt something drop on her cheek before falling into her lap.
Panting, Sally shook the pipe in her hands at the sky.
"Fuck you," she shrieked at the clouds. "I..." She sniffled again. Her eyes burned. She was suddenly very tired.
Sally dropped the pipe to the ground. Idly, she watched it roll away. Then she remembered something had dropped on her. Still kneeling in the mud, one hand cupped over Leon's name, Sally looked down at what fell out of the pipe. Her eyes widened, her breath quickened.
It was a finger.
Sally screamed.
"Not another one? Mansell muttered. He pressed a handkerchief to his nose. He coughed. " It smells like—"
"Shut up," Riley hissed. She looked tempted to whack his broad shoulders with her little purse, or would have done, if she was the kind of woman who carried one.
Ray shot them both a warning look as he went by before returning to concentrating on not breaking a leg traversing the damp, rain-soaked knolls of Kind Fields Cemetery. Up ahead, as if not noticing the uneven ground, DI Chandler was climbing the slope with broad, sure steps. Kent doggedly followed his DI with the tenacity of a billy goat: hopping and zig-zagging with an occasional arm flail to keep from falling.
Sanders came towards them looking ashen and walking downhill away from the crime scene. He ran a hand over his shaven head. He looked about ready to vomit, and maybe because of it SOCO had balked having him on site.
"It's bad," Sanders muttered once he was within earshot. "I'm gonna...witnesses. Going to talk to—pardon me..."
"Poor bastard," Mansell said under his breath, but the closer they got to the site and the canvas tent on the apex, the paler he got around the nostrils.
Ray spotted a girl a couple of gravestones away. She glared at the small bulldozer like it had offended her personally. She looked ghoulish, in her beige coat and dyed blue black spiky hair, her face a mix of too-pale makeup and mascara running down her cheeks like dark tears.
"Mansell, you and Riley question the girl," Ray murmured. He nodded towards the young woman, who looked fit to leap upon the newly arrived groundskeeper.
"You sure?" Riley whispered. She snagged Mansell's elbow before he could gladly agree and swan off to check her out.
Ray waved her off. "Go on. The boss and I got this."
"This is the third one." Riley glanced towards the top of the hill, at the solitary figure standing outside the yellow tent. He wasn't alone; SOCO milled about like scavenging ants, but Chandler stood apart from the activity. Riley's brows knitted. She flicked a look back to Ray.
"Go on," Ray urged. "I don't want Finley contaminating the scene."
"Oi!" Mansell glowered but didn't stay to argue the point.
Ray watched them for a moment before finishing his trek. He was glad those two were no longer there to witness him huffing and puffing his way to the top.
The crime scene tent covered both the true grave and the makeshift one, partially to protect it from the light drizzle that never seemed to go away. But mainly to block prying eyes, like those of Tommy Sifts from the Daily Mail, taking another shocking picture of the 'Grave Robber's' latest victim. Sifts had snuck into the crime scene and managed to snap at least one photo of the previous victim, Frank Sage. The bastard couldn't even have been arsed to blur out the poor man's frozen, wide-eyed gray face. Riley had stayed with Sage's little sister all day in Chandler's office while she cried and cried, the article clutched to her breast.
Kent's body faced the tableau, but his eyes were elsewhere and the notebook he carried was slack in his hand. Ray could see the boy's throat working as parts of the body were carried out of the tent.
An old bloke in dirty coveralls gaped at the tent erected over the gravestone. The name on his tagtag—'Wilkens—was so worn it was barely legible. He looked like he needed to be carried out himself.
"Who's going to bloody fix that?" the splotched-cheek man complained. He staggered unsteadily towards Chandler, his bloodshot eyes having determined the man in the bespoke navy suit and brushed tan wool coat was the one in charge.
Kent leapt in front of his path. The move reminded Ray of their neighbor's tiny brown and white spotted spaniel, barking obliviously at the giant Dobermans and pitbulls who strode past its gate.
Biting back a smile, Ray let Kent steer the drunk away as he joined Chandler inside the tent.
"Sir," Ray greeted as he ducked in. Behind him, Kent and the drunk were buzzing like angry hornets
"Good morning, Miles," Chandler returned, distractedly. Ray doubted he noticed the ruckus outside. "SOCO found a wallet. Alexander Chambers. Thirty-one. Address is in Malmesbury."
"Chambers. Malmesbury," Ray jotted the information into his notebook. "Right. I'll call it in and have them send down any records on him."
"Thank you." Chandler's eyes never moved from the hole in the ground.
Ray peered in as well. It was a hole, alright. He turned his eyes to Chandler.
"Six feet," Chandler murmured. He pointed at the walls. "In the past, graves were dug down to six feet so the diseased bodies wouldn't infect the living." At Ray's incredulous stare, he offered a small deprecating smile. "Lots of courses."
"You took a course in grave digging?" Ray countered with a skeptical frown.
Chandler blinked, temporarily wrong-footed. "What? No. History of European Plagues."
Ray pursed his lips, thinking.
"You ever considered taking up knitting, Sir?" Ray bit back a smirk at Joe's baffled "Pardon?" He studied the hole in the ground. The coffin was already removed. It was just dirt now. Plain, wet brown dirt. And somehow, looking at it made Ray very angry.
"So you think our killer was trying to avoid infecting us?"
"Or infecting him." Chandler frowned. "But with what?" He spared a glance at the discolored limbs the lads from SOCO were struggling to tumble into a black body bag. There was no dignity in the way they tried to cram them in, like nothing more than a sack of blood and bones.
Ray's eyes watered. Christ, the smell. He leaned into Chandler's space; the DI obligingly mirrored him.
"You got any of that stuff with you?" Ray muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
A light eyebrow rose in silent response.
Ray exhaled sharply through his nose to expel the smell that seemed to fill the tent. He held up two fingers and gestured tiny circles on his temple.
Chandler stared at him, blank. His eyes widened a fraction then rolled upwards. He fumbled the tiny glass jar out of his coat pocket. He hesitated in handing it over until he heard one of the officers outside gagging.
Ray grunted as he snatched it off Chandler's palm.
"Left my stuff in my other coat," he muttered as he patted Joe's arm in thanks. "Judy's probably washed it by now." He unscrewed the cap and dabbed a small amount under his nose. Almost immediately his eyes began to water.
"What the hell—" Ray shot Chandler a glare even as he pulled out a clean handkerchief to wipe the ointment's surface smooth before replacing the cap and handing it back.
"You put this on you every day?" Ray pinched his nose repeatedly. Even his ears burned. "Feels like I sniffed a vat of acid."
"It's not really meant for that," Chandler told him as he secreted the jar into his coat with a magician's sly grace. He paused. "And I don't use it everyday."
"Uh huh." Ray flicked a glance at Joe's temples. He'd ask Judy if there was a lotion she would recommend because bloody hell, this stuff couldn't be good for you. "Hey, why aren't you gagging?"
Chandler tapped his nose. "Can't smell anything today." He seemed pleased by the prospect.
Ray narrowed his eyes. Come to think of it, their DI was looking a bit rough. His eyes were red-rimmed and his shirt's white collar tips were curled up as if they hadn't been properly ironed. There was a distorted timbre to Chandler's syllables; congestion, punctuated by an occasional quiet sniffle he couldn't quite conceal.
Ray scowled.
"Thought you said you were going straight home," Ray accused. He remembered Chandler's preoccupied but amused, "I will, mother" when he'd warned Joe to go home. He'd left Joe, the squeak of the marker on the whiteboard, and the smell of cold, salty pork pies for the warm hearth of his home and Judy. The fool had said he was going straight home, damn it.
"Ed was telling me about a young man in Bolivia who was buried alive in retaliation for a crime," Chandler murmured as he walked around the border of the hole, toe touching heel, like a tightrope walker, counterclockwise then back the other way.
"Buchan," Ray muttered darkly. Someone ought to bury that twit under his files and notes and ruddy old newspaper clippings.
Chandler shot Ray a look, almost chiding, but didn't comment.
"It was relevant to the inquiry. Being buried alive is a common fear people have."
Ray wished Joe wouldn't say "people" like it didn't include him. "So what did Buchan say this time that got you running around in the rain?"
"I wasn't running," Chandler corrected him. "I was standing most of the time, at the previous sites. Ed's remark got me thinking our victims were punished." He paused and went around the plot again.
"Well, I didn't think they were being rewarded," Ray agreed. He scowled at the hole again. "The monster got them a cheap pine box, stuck them in the dirt with a pipe and waited for them to scare themselves to death."
"It's ironic," Chandler murmured as he squinted down the hole. "They were essentially in safety coffins, yet they died anyway." At Ray's frown, he shrugged. "During the cholera outbreaks, there was a widespread public fear of being prematurely buried, so coffins were manufactured with breathing apparatuses and hinges in case the occupant woke up." A quick smile and he added, "Death Rituals of Early 18th Century."
"Christ, your education was morbid," Ray groaned good-naturedly.
Chandler offered an unsure smile and went back to tracing the hole with his feet.
"What are you doing?"
Chandler pressed his lips together. "Judging by the loose dirt and how compact the sides were, we can figure out the size of the original hole that was dug out. The measurements are the same like the others, same distance apart."
Ray eyed the loose dirt that trickled down under Chandler's weight. "Should you be standing that close?"
"Probably not," Chandler said, but he continue to do it anyway. There were times Ray wanted to throttle the man. He leaned in to stare into the pit to see what was so bloody fascinating about a hole in the ground.
"What am I looking at?" Ray finally said, giving up.
Chandler stopped his circling and waved a hand a hand towards the pit, then the gravestone it was adjacent to.
"This cemetery is crowded, not like the others. There's barely room between rows, yet the killer dug holes with precisely the same dimensions; the same width, the same distance apart. There was no deviation."
"As if he knew ahead of time," Ray said. A tickle poked the back of his head. "The killer chose this spot. He researched it. He knew it would fit."
"These spots were not random as we initially thought." Chandler was pacing around the plot again, this time including Ray in his orbit. "The victims, where they were placed, they were all deliberate, Miles. The killer chose these spots specifically for each victim."
"But we found no connection between the plots and the victims. They didn't know each other," Ray reminded him as he tracked Chandler, staying within arm's length, to make sure he didn't break his neck.
"We need to check again." Chandler rhythmically patted his right coat pocket as he circled the hole. He paused then stuck his hand in his pocket. "We need to search harder now, knock on every door again. I'm missing somethin—"
"We're missing something," Ray interrupted.
Chandler paused, shot him a smile and looked like he wanted to give Ray a hug.
Ray took a step back before he was trapped into something emotionally embarrassing. "Stop doing that," he said gruffly. "It's making me dizzy. You're going to make yourself nauseous, with your cold, and lose your breakfast."
"I didn't have breakfast," mumbled Chandler but he did stop his measuring pacing. He blinked. He frowned mildly at Ray.
"I don't have a cold."
God's strength. Ray nodded jerkily towards the tent flaps.
"Come on, I need a coffee and you need a lozenge," Ray growled. "By the time we're back, Caroline may have something for us."
Chandler gave him an exasperated look but followed with the air of humoring him.
"But I don't have a cold," Chandler protested with a hoarse rasp.
Ray barely stopped himself from letting the tent flaps smack his DI in the face.
The snap of the surgical glove was loud and sharp as it struck flesh, despite being behind the partition glass.
Joe inwardly flinched. The sound was incongruous with Doctor Llewellyn's usual soft-spoken voice, which always sounded weary. Perhaps, Joe thought, it is the nature of her job. Or the odor of the morgue, deliberately sterilized of any smell. Maybe it muffled all those who spoke in such hollow rooms.
"Alexander Chambers drowned," Llewellyn announced.
"Come again?" Miles frowned.
"That's why the decomposition of the body was more advanced than the others; why the body deteriorated so rapidly. Even though the others were buried longer than this one was, water saturated the tissues, speeding up the breakdown. That's why we had so much difficulty keeping the body intact this morning."
The faint tingle of the Tiger Balm on his temples anchored his thoughts as they struggled to align themselves with what Llewellyn had said.
"You said the other two died of heart failure due to dehydration," Miles said, not bothering to wait for Joe to say the very same thing. "You saying this isn't one of his victims?" He glanced up to Joe, brow furrowed low over worried eyes. "A copycat, you think?" Miles darkened, "Bloody Sifts and his camera..."
"No." Even the intercom couldn't mask the puzzlement in Llewellyn's voice. "The pine box was like the others: same thickness, constructed by hand with the same mass production nails. And the toxicology report came back the same as the other victims: same toxin in the blood, injected in the neck. This detail wasn't released to the press. This man was drugged with the same chemical."
Joe glanced at the body; seeing it now after the dissection was done made it look…less human. He averted his eyes.
"You've identified what was used?" Miles appeared not to share the same compulsion. His eyes were glued to the body, intent, as if waiting for it to speak.
"Only that it seems to be similar to Saxitoxin, which is found in a lot of shellfish," Llewellyn said. "The response in the human body is almost anaphylactic in nature. Our lab couldn't sort it out."
Joe's brow knitted. "They had an allergic reaction?"
"Not everyone is allergic to shellfish though," Llewellyn reminded him.
"Judy is," Miles muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "She touches one of them clam things and she puffs up like a balloon."
Joe offered a smile, but it dropped quickly. He's never clear on what he's supposed to do in these social circumstances.
"I sent a sample to a commercial lab in Bury. Once our department approves the expense, they'll attempt a chemical breakdown, but God only knows how long that could take."
The intercom also couldn't disguise the frustration that sharpened Llewellyn's words.
"But this man definitely died from drowning." Llewellyn hefted a purpled, bloated mass out of the scale with both hands.
Joe's right hand twitched towards his coat pocket.
"The lungs were saturated with water; fresh water, in fact. I've sent a sample to our labs to see if we can pinpoint it more accurately." Llewellyn waved towards the torso on the stretcher, chest peeled back like a—
Joe turned around to lean against the glass. He wished they'd thought to put chairs in here. His joints ached from the climb.
Miles stared hard through the divider and not at Joe, for which Joe was immensely grateful.
"He changing his methods, you think?" Miles muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Joe to hear.
Staring at the beige, almost colorless wall with its yellowing workplace safety flyers calmed Joe. He lined up the facts in his head and reviewed them, one by one.
Joe shook his head. "Even when killers escalate, their MOs don't evolve too far from their core aspects. They're methodical, precise and habitual in their killings." Very much like OCD, Joe thought with a bitter laugh inside.
Miles watched him intently for some reason Joe couldn't muster the energy to attempt to divine, then grunted.
"It's not the same," Miles nearly growled.
Huh? Baffled, Joe turned to Miles but he was already talking to Dr. Llewellyn again.
"Why was this one drowned then?"
"Don't know, but that is not for me to say, is it, Ray?"
"Now, Caroline, I'm not—"
Things tumbled in place, then clicked.
"The rain," Joe said abruptly. He turned back to the coroner. "It rained for weeks."
"My rain gutters are all clogged up," Miles agreed. His brow knitted. "The pipe, you think?"
Joe slotted the numbers easily in his head. "Considering the volume of the coffin, minus the victim's mass, the rate water came in through the pipe..." He trailed off at Miles's arched eyebrow. "I'm good with numbers." Joe chuckled awkwardly, almost to himself. "Must be all the counting."
Miles said nothing but shot him an exasperated look. Joe cleared his throat and turned back to Llewellyn.
"It's possible," Llewellyn thought out loud. "The coffin's construction would have let the rain water seep out, particularly if it was already coming apart from the amount of water in the ground from the continuous rain. Water reabsorbing into the ground after the rains eased off would explain why the coffin was soaked through but there was no water in it when we found him. Might also explain the finger in the pipe when the girl pulled the pipe out."
"Poor bastard probably stuck his finger in it to try to stop the water," Miles muttered. His expression darkened, and he looked like he wanted to punch the glass. "Only way for him to get air and he jammed a finger up it."
Screaming, sobbing, the rattle of feet kicking a box echoed in Joe's head, flashing like glimpses of a macabre movie. Joe thought about Joey Wester found contorted in his box. Joey had scratched out his dead wife's name before his heart gave out. He thought about Frank Sage; he had somehow scratched words, including his little sister's name, inside the box. He had broken almost every finger clawing the inside until his fingernails were embedded on the lid.
Shouting, pleading, kicking, Joe could see their last moments, immortalized in the dents, stains and scratches of their coffins.
Joe wished he had less of an imagination. He swallowed hard.
Miles stepped into his space, his head tipped up to peer at him. "Sir?"
"This is definitely a third victim," Joe said quickly. He nodded briskly. Miles retreated back. "I don't think the killer factored the rain. The first two died after four or five days underground." Four or five days trapped in the dark.
Joe's eyes slid half-mast in thought. "The coffin would have filled with water in a day. The third victim drowned accidentally. The killer hadn't meant for that to happen."
"Bloody hell," Miles muttered. "I don't know which is worse."
There was a churning in Joe's stomach, not from the porridge Miles harangued him into eating this morning. Miles had watched him like he would a suspect, tracking the movement of his spoon. At the time, Joe's stomach had cramped at taking in so much food after a day without. But the warm, mushy mixture did soothe his sore throat and seemed to return warmth to his long frame for the first time in what seemed like days. Joe didn't admit it though, because he didn't have a cold. He refused to suck the cherry lozenge Sanders had tossed him, keeping it in his pocket.
Joe rolled the aforementioned candy between his fingers, one turn, two turns, three turns, as he thought aloud.
"Why bury them alive? Why the prolonged death sentence?" Joe itched for the whiteboard and the steadying movements of writing in neat lines on a pure, clean surface. "Why does the killer want them to suffer?"
"It's personal," Miles snarled. "Sick bastard wanted to see them squirm."
"No evidence anyone monitored these sites during their interment," Joe countered. "No signs of cameras or microphones."
"Or hidden rooms," Miles mumbled but Joe heard him anyway.
"It's a shame," Llewellyn said sadly as she marked something on a clipboard. She rested a hand on the autopsy table, unbothered by the pink streaked water that drained around her fingers. "The size of the pipe, the length of it, one of them might have survived if we had found them sooner or their hearts hadn't given out." Llewellyn sighed. Her head tipped towards a bloated limb she was measuring. Joe couldn't tell if it was the left leg or right arm.
"Then perhaps you could tell us who's done this to you, hm?" Llewellyn sighed quietly; she was not immune to the tragedy. Carefully, she wrapped the limb up with the blue tarp; one fold, two folds, three folds.
Joe stared at Llewellyn, not seeing her gently binding up the limb and attaching the tag to it, but rather her words, floating above her like balloons inviting his reach.
"What is it?" Miles murmured. He leaned in after a look to Llewellyn. "You feeling all right? Should we fetch a medic?"
Joe blinked. A medic? Why did they need one? He shook his head. The morgue spun briefly. Oh. He won't do that again. The candy in his hand rolled round and round, its cellophane wrapping crinkling noisily in his pocket.
"The pipe," Joe murmured.
"Eh? What about it?"
"Why a pipe? Why give them the chance to survive? Why prolong their suffering if the killer couldn't watch? If—" Joe and Miles turned as Kent arrived. He panted, winded as if he had been running.
Wagging a finger in the air to wait a tick, Kent was flushed with exertion. He coughed into a fist before he straightened up.
"Well, what is it?" Miles asked impatiently as Kent's mouth gaped open and closed like one of Miles's fish.
"I think..." Kent wheezed. There, Kent sounded like he has a cold, "I think we have another one, sir."
"Damn," Miles swore under his breath.
The candy tumbled over and over in Joe's fingers; one, two, three. "Where's the body?"
"He's living in the Brusk Sanatorium."
The candy stilled in his grasp. "Sorry. Did you say living?"
By the way, feedback is like cookies. I like cookies! LOL.
Many thanks to Brate for the graphic to start this tale and for picking out exactly the feel I was looking for!
Kudos to clumsyfingers for heading this Big Bang! To the little_details community on LJ, thank you for your guidance with the British references!
Finally, most of all: much love to Penfold for the beta, proofing and verifying Brit. We went from 18K to 40K+, yet her only response to that was, "Awesome!"
No, my dear, you're awesome. Happy belated.