Death Word Chapter 1, a murdoch mysteries fanfic

Death Word

Story Notes: AU set in S8, post-wedding. No Edna/Simon. (No hating, I like them just fine. Just not in this story.)

Also, this and Hannibal are the only shows I've ever watched with any element of crime scene investigation, so be prepared for me just straight up making shit up.

Lastly - I have a deep respect and appreciation for BDSM. I may not always use correct terminology in this fic, but I'm unsure how such terms would have been presented back in 1902ish. I've tried to incorporate the open-mindedness (and at times, wide-eyed curiosity) from the show in dealing with new things. Please forgive me if I stumble!

Chapter 1

Where the infamous Cousin Higgins makes an appearance and while proving useful to the investigation, manages to accidentally drive a wedge between Henry and George. There is also a sequential killer.

Henry Higgins had nothing against his cousin, and certainly nothing against station house four, but he was quickly finding that he deeply disliked those two variables coming together.

"And you're sure Thomas Higgins will be able to provide valuable insight for the...criminal profile you're compiling?" Detective Murdoch's brows drew in as he asked his wife. Clearly he was unsure whether they were proceeding in the correct direction. Not for the first time, Henry found himself in complete agreement with him.

While Detective Murdoch was considering the investigation, his own reservations were personal, however. His cousin Tom was a good man to be sure, but Henry wasn't altogether enthusiastic about bringing him into work. What if Tom flirted with someone? Worse, what if he made entirely unwarranted observations about Henry's friendship with-

Dr. Ogden - Murdoch, now - sighed, interrupting Henry's thoughts. "I believe he might, William. The latest victim upsets the previous pattern of this sequential killer, and we need a more informed opinion as to where that leaves us. And as we've frightened away all our other leads, Henry's cousin seems to be the best bet."

Detective Murdoch was not an expressive man, but after having worked with the man for over a decade, Henry thought he might not be looking forward to the coming interview. "Well then," he allowed. "We'll interview him as a consultant and see what he can tell us about our sequential killer." He glanced down at Henry, who was trying his hardest not to imagine Tom and the admittedly handsome Detective Murdoch in a room together. He could only pray his flirtatious cousin behaved himself for once. "Would you like to sit in, Henry? Would it reassure him?"

Henry winced. "That's quite all right, sir. Tom knows he's got nothing to fear from anyone in station house four. About that at least. I'm sure he'll be fine without me holding his hand."

Dr. Ogden-Murdoch smiled down at him warmly. "Just know it is an option, Henry. We need his help, and if your presence would allow him to speak more freely…"

Henry groaned. "Trust me, Doctor. He'll need no help doing that."

Murdoch hummed abstractedly, attention already focused back on his chalkboard. On it were the names of the three victims of Toronto's newest sequential killer. The first had been Mr. Rolf Schmidt, an immigrant german dockworker who had been found 3 days ago, suffering from lacerations, bruising, signs of strangulation and deeply-grooved bite marks before he had been killed by a knife to the heart. Painted on his abdomen in his own blood had been the word London.

For nearly two days Murdoch and George had traveled down the roads that implied, finding little of the man's life and expecting Britain's capital to be a clue. Yet 26 hours ago the next victim had been found and the investigation had taken a new turn. Mr. Kevin Sawyer's injuries were similar - and the mode of death identical - while forensic evidence pointed to the same perpetrator. The word on his stomach had been pinecone.

Nothing tied the two men together in their habits, work, or mutual acquaintances. All save the killer, his penchant for wordplay, and the fact that the two men had been repeatedly sodomized before their demise.

They had continued on assuming the killer to be a homosexual, and guessed that he was targeting men who shared that inclination, or simply triggered his interest. Yet only 10 hours ago the latest victim had been found, Miss Evelyn Hadyn. She too fit the killer's modus operandi, replete with the evidence of internal sexual violence, biting, savagery, and a word of her own: black.

Unlike the two men, however, black had not only been scrawled across her torso, but also on a blank business card found amongst her effects. Yet rather than illuminating the meaning or purpose of it, it raised more questions. How had she received the card? Had Miss Haydn known her attacker? Had there been some sort of agreement in place? Or was it simply another part of the killer's flair that they hadn't caught yet with the previous two victims?

The question of the card aside, Dr. Ogden's entire profile had to be adjusted to fit this new victim. She needed advice. And as Henry's infamous cousin was one of the few homosexuals in Toronto who would be caught dead within the station house walls, he had been invited in.

"London, pinecone, black," the detective muttered, trying to find a way to fit the clues together. "How are all the victims connected? Could the words be some sort of message? "

"Sir? Doctor?" All three turned to face Jackson, framed in the doorway. He wore an apologetic expression which deepened when his gaze fell on Henry. "George is back with Mr. Higgins. They're waiting for you out in the pen."

Murdoch nodded, "Thank you, Jackson. We'll be right there."

"Sir," Jackson nodded, before glancing at Henry and outright wincing.

Henry's eyes narrowed. What did that mean? What had his cousin done now? He charged out after Jackson, leaving the Murdochs to follow in his wake. He saw the cause of Jackson's consternation immediately. At the far end of the pen was Tom - tall, strong, handsome Tom, who had the girls swooning over him without even wanting them to - and next to him, looking rather beleaguered, was George.

"Now, if you could just come right this way, sir…" George was doing his best to deliver him to the detective's door, but Tom was having none of it.

"Come now, George," Tom said, giving him a flirtatious grin. "We're friends, aren't we? Can't you tell me what this is all about?" His tone turned mischievous. "Our little Henry didn't get into trouble did he?"

Henry growled and both George and Tom noticed him at the same moment. "Higgins!" George called out in unmistakable relief, but the momentary animation died immediately, as if George had just remembered something sombre. "I was just escorting your cousin to the detective."

"I noticed," Henry ground out. "Come on, Tom. This way."

He needn't have bothered. Detective Murdoch and Dr. Ogden-Murdoch stepped up just then, and Henry could only be thankful that the inspector was out meeting with the chief constable about some administrative business, because at the sight of the two of them Tom practically simpered.

He stuck out a hand, smiling the broad Higgins smile. "You must be Detective Murdoch! And is this the lovely Dr. Ogden? It is an honor to meet you both at last - I've heard so much about you."

Henry sighed, and across their joined hands his gaze met George's. George had a peculiar look on his face, as if he had just heard something he didn't much care for. Henry's eyebrows quirked into a question, but George's expression simply grew darker before he shook his head.

Ice pooled in the pit of Henry's stomach. His friend looked positively upset, whereas he had been fine just this morning. What could have happened in the last hour to change his mood?

Thomas Edward Higgins, that was what. Or who, rather. And as soon as he got out of that interrogation room, Henry was going to give him a piece of his mind. It was one thing to be friendly with Henry's best friend. George was a good man, open-minded and barely able to judge the most hardened criminals, let alone Henry's cousin. Yet if he had done something to upset George, or perhaps, even said something upsetting…

Piece of his mind indeed, Henry reassured himself. In English and in French.

Yet his plans would have to wait. Murdoch turned back to them and gave orders in his soft-spoken manner. "George, I need you and Jackson to check with Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Sawyer's landlords, make sure they didn't pick up any cards with either London or pinecone written on them. Henry, you're on fingermark duty. Check the markings on all three bodies to all known sexual deviants in the collection."

And on top of everything, fingermark duty. Could the day go any worse? Apparently so, for even before Henry had murmured sir, George turned and stalked off, grabbing Jackson by the shoulder as he went. Henry watched him go with raised eyebrows, and even Murdoch looked a little confused.

"English and French," Henry fumed under his breath, as he sat down at his desk with a thick sheaf of fingermark sheets. "In public. At length."

…

...

Thomas Higgins set down the pictures with a queasy expression on his face. For a moment, William worried that he might be ill over the interrogation table. But the moment passed when Mr. Higgins swallowed thickly and gave a quirky smile, making him look more like Henry than he had since entering the station house.

"Well," he began. "I'm not sure how I can help, but if I can do anything to help put this beast away, I'll do it."

William shifted in his seat before he pointed to the three photographs in front of him. "Do you recognize any of them?"

Mr. Higgins shook his head. "I'm sorry, detective."

"And are any of the names familiar?"

"No. Should they be?"

William's mouth tightened. "We're looking into the possibility that any or all of them may have been…" He hesitated, struggling past the familiarity of the word sodomite. "...homosexuals. We were hoping you might be able to prove or disprove this theory."

Thomas Higgins looked down again at the pictures, just of their faces, bodies covered primly with a mortuary cloth. "I'm sorry detective," he said again. "They may run in very different circles than my own, but I've never heard nor seen any of them. Is there a reason you suspect them to be homosexuals?"

William shared a look with his wife. "We have reason to suspect their killer may be. We're trying to determine how he selects his victims."

Julia smiled reassuringly before she leaned over the table, slender fingers tapping at the picture of Mr. Schmidt. "What we've called you in for is advice. All three victims have been...sexually abused, and while a homosexual male fits the profile for the first two victims, it is somewhat skewed by the inclusion of Miss Haydn. Any information you might be able to share would help us in drawing a more accurate description of the killer, allowing us to catch him more quickly."

Mr. Higgins fell silent. William had seen that exact look of inner contemplation too many times to count, and laid his hand over Julia's, urging her to hold her silence for just a moment. Higgins had already suffered some backlash from acting as an informant before, years ago when William had solved the murder of Wendell Merrick. Now he had to gauge whether or not whatever information he held might be worth confessing in light of this sequential killer and his morbid tastes.

Finally, the young man looked up. "I said I would help and I will. What is it that you need to know?"

Julia lined all three of the victims pictures in a row. "How likely is it that the same man perpetrated all these crimes? That is to say, how likely is it that he desires both men and women?"

Higgins considered this. "If you're sure the violence was perpetrated by the same man, then I would say quite likely. Sexuality is not set in stone, Doctor. While you and I exclusively like men - and the detective women - I know of some who favor both, in varying degrees."

She leaned forward, interested. "What do you mean?"

"Some prefer one gender over the other, but are willing to make do with what is socially acceptable. Others seem to favor them both equally." The young man weighed his hands up and down, like balances on a scale. "It's fluid, doctor. I believe there is no tried and true method in attraction."

William leaned forward. "And for those who favor both equally...are they able to desire both so strongly as to constitute a drive to murder?"

Higgins frowned. "Perhaps. Off the top of my head, I can think of one that largely prefers women, perhaps...90% of the time. For the most part men do not move him. Yet when he meets a male in that 10%, he is just as strongly attracted to him as he is to women. If your killer was similar, I could see passion as being a driving force for both his male and female victims...but there may be a percentile difference in the gender of those he selects."

Julia nodded, fascinated. William was less so, especially as it opened up the pool of suspects in his murder investigation. Still, at least he had something specific. This killer favored both men and women, and the killings were still sexually motivated.

On impulse, he flipped open his portfolio and removed one more photograph. He slid it in front of Higgins and asked, "And is there anything you can make of this?"

The young man's recoil was genuine, and William noted it as keenly as if the man were a suspect. For a moment he once again feared for his investigation table, but the man displayed some of the Higgins stiff upper lip when he brought his attention back down to the photograph and looked more closely.

It was the picture of Evelyn Haydn in her entirety, lying naked on the mortuary table. Her bruising and lacerations were thrown in sharp relief of her pale skin. "Poor girl," Higgins murmured as he forced himself to look. He swallowed thickly when he looked away. "It would appear she had been shackled, detective. Around her neck as well. Is that common?"

"No," William replied. "And from the anterior imprint it looks as if it were a collar. Have you heard of such a thing being used in a sexual way?"

From the way Higgins stilled, he imagined so. He glanced back down at the photograph, grimacing. Then, slowly he admitted, "Perhaps I have. There was...a rumor. From years ago, in a club I no longer frequent. Something about a European gentleman who had rather...specific tastes. I don't remember his name, but I do recall some of the specifics of it. He was interested in some form of sexual servitude, and I do believe I'd heard something about him wearing a collar. Ah...something about a method of control? Manipulation? Apparently there was a manner of pain involved as well, for punishment and pleasure." He shook his head. "It was all too sordid for me, detective. And for...any partners I may have had at the time. I remember wondering if the practice was largely European? I'm sorry that I can't recall it more clearly…"

This sexual practice being European might connect Rolf Schmidt to the murders and may provide a clue for the mysterious word left on his chest. If he were lucky, it may just provide a connection to both Kevin Sawyer, and-

Inspiration dawned. "And is this practice common only among men? Or do women favor it as well?" William leaned across the table in his excitement, practically seeing the connection form in front of him.

Mr. Higgins leaned back a little at the detective's intensity. "I would imagine it's not bound to either gender, detective. But I reiterate, I don't know anyone who pursues that kind of...play."

William leaned back, eager to be on the move. "Thank you, Mr. Higgins. You've been most helpful. Julia, do you need me for anything more?"

His wife shook her head, smiling a little at his impatience.

"Then please excuse me. The room is yours as long as you both need." With that he made his way out the door, mind whirling with new branches to investigate.

As he left he heard Julia ask in a voice that betrayed keen interest, "Now, could you possibly tell me more about your opinions on sexual fluidity…?"

…

It was not turning out to be his best day, oh no, that was for certain. Sequential killer aside, this muck up was turning out to be a little like the time he had accidentally told Aunt Nettle that Aunt Iris had taken one of her gentleman callers, but only to knock Aunt Petunia out of the running for the house's best earner for the month.

Aunt Petunia had not been amused, and neither had the gentleman caller.

What he meant to say about all this was that murder aside, he was embroiled in a rather uncomfortable situation. Worst was, he didn't quite know who he most identified with in this situation - Nettle, Petunia, or maybe even the reverend himself who'd had to sort out the whole mess with a bottle of altar wine and Aunt Daisy's prize pig.

One thing he knew for certain, however, was that the part of Aunt Iris was currently being played by none other than Henry Higgins, and perhaps George was Aunt Nettle after all, because the thought of his best friend's betrayal made him madder than a cat in a windstorm, as Aunt Marigold liked to say. Henry knew better! And even if he didn't, he should have guessed better!

Unless Thomas Higgins had been lying to him. But why would he? He had mentioned it in such an offhand manner that George had almost not even caught it, what with it being amidst all of Thomas's shameless flirting. At the time he had been too shocked to say anything at all. But the grim expression on Henry's face had brought it all back, and George didn't know what to do. Clearly he couldn't make a scene in the middle of a murder investigation and so he had let the moment pass. But the idea of Henry doing that made his guts churn...

He shook his head. Right. They needed to talk this out. Clear the air, and make all as right as rain, so to speak. George wasn't the biggest fan of rain, but he understood the power of expression. So he slammed his hands down onto the desk and stood abruptly, startling Henry to drop the same fingermark sheet he'd been examining for the last five minutes.

"Higgins! If you have a moment, I'd like a word."

Henry glanced up, nervousness flashing across his face. "About what, George?"

George belatedly realized that this might not be the proper venue for the projected conversation, and glanced back toward the locker room. "In private, please."

Henry glanced over at the locker rooms, paling. "I'm not sure about this, George. We're on duty, and the inspector's due back any minute now."

George frowned. Henry's reluctance wasn't helping matters. Neither was his guilty evasion! "We're due for lunch anyway. Come on, Higgins." When Henry still didn't move, just sat there defiantly with his shoulders hunched, George continued. "Or would you like me to clear the air here in the middle of the pen?"

Henry sighed. "No," he murmured, and then continued on with something that sounded suspiciously like I'd rather not clear the air at all.

George sniffed. Well! That was not the correct attitude to take at all, and only made the coming conversation even more imperative! He strode off toward the locker room, only glancing back to check that Henry was indeed following after him.

He wasted no time when the two of them reached the empty locker room. "So I hear you have something to tell me, Henry Higgins."

Whereas Henry had turned pale before, now his face turned to stone. For a moment George was struck at the total lack of expression on his face, and wondered if he should have begun a bit more gently. Then his anger flared and he stiffened, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Well?" He prodded none too gently. "Is there something you'd like to say?"

Henry glanced away, his jaw set tightly. "I don't know what Tom told you, but-"

"Oh, don't you?" George broke in. "Because I can only think of one thing you've done that might make me this angry!"

Henry swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. "I'm sorry if I...inconvenienced you, but rest assured that I told him that in confidence, in the understanding I'd never talk about it again. I-"

"Inconvenienced?" George's brows drew in. "You betrayed me! Although I suppose you might have inconvenienced Dr. Grace, I cannot speak for her. But betrayal, Higgins! She'd been my girl!"

"Dr. Grace? What are-" Henry glanced back at him with a confused expression before he cut himself off. He glanced down, and when he looked back up he had adopted a knowing, somewhat resigned expression. "This is about Dr. Grace. Tom told you about how I asked her to the agricultural fair, didn't he."

There was something odd about the way Henry replied, but George was too wound up to spot it. "He told me you'd been sweet on her, is what he said. Your best friend's girl, Henry Higgins! How could you?"

Henry shook his head, breathing heavily. "It was after you two were done, George! I didn't make a move until after you assured me you two were over. I promise. I wouldn't do that to you, you have to know that!"

"Well, I thought I knew that," George muttered. "But apparently I don't. And neither do I know Emily, for she didn't breathe a word of this either!"

Henry huffed in frustration. "There was no word to breathe, George! She declined rather forcefully, and that was that. Nothing happened so there was nothing to tell."

George could see it so clearly. Henry, hat in hand, going down to the morgue. He would have been nervous, grinning at all the wrong moments, yet oh so earnest in his delivery. Emily behind the mortuary table, shocked at the invitation, half-believing it to be a joke. She would have spoken harshly, and George knew just how harsh that could be. Henry would have walked off, heart bruised.

And then what? He had come back to their desks and said nothing? He had sat right across from George, his best friend and behaved as if nothing had happened for the rest of the day? The week? The month? How long had it even taken Henry to get over his crush on Emily? Had it taken him longer than George? Had he cried when he went home that night, alone in his one-room apartment in that old boardinghouse?

The mental image caused anger and some unidentifiable hurt to flare up in him, and before George could examine the cause of it, he snapped, "I don't think I know you anymore, Higgins. I just… I mean to say…" Henry's expression shifted into stubborn disbelief, and George found his backbone. "Friendship suspended until further notice, is what I mean to say!"

Henry lifted his chin, his light eyes narrowing. "Yeah, well. Let's see if I still want to be friends with you when you stop being such an idiot, George Crabtree!"

George drew up in pure, unmitigated anger, just as his Aunt Begonia had during the church fair where one of the other parishioners had attempted to make insinuations about her, a horse, and a bottle of Newfoundland rum. But before he could unleash what would have undoubtedly have been a scathing reply, Jackson stuck his head into the locker room.

"Finish your love spat later, lads - there's been a robbery down at the Westside bank. Henry, you're with Brackenreid. George, you're to go with Murdoch. He's got an idea about the killer."

Henry stormed off without another word, nor even a backwards glance at George. George scowled, but the thought of facing Henry's anger later - sure to be even worse when time had allowed it to escalate - made his stomach twist into knots. Now, he suspected he felt like Aunt Briony during the Great Lettuce Debacle, when she had just shook her head and shut the door to to the kitchen, washing dishes until she was sure she was done crying.

He felt like crying a little himself, now that he thought of it…

...

So, rather than finish any of the stories I should be finishing, I spent 4 days and powered through 30K (and counting) of Murdoch Mysteries fanfic. This is after taking about 2 weeks to watch 8 whole seasons. Good Lord that show is charming, and I love everyone on it. The end.