Author's Note : So I'm new to writing fanfic but I've been on this site for a loong time and I really love reading all the amazing fics people have written, even though I'm a lousy reviewer. Thought I'd give writing a go though so here's the first chapter, hope you enjoy!
Naomi Campbell was exhausted. Rubbing futilely at her tired eyes, she let out a cavernous yawn before lobbing a ball of paper at her dozing partner's head. Cook woke with a start, head jerking up off his arms as his eyes blearily searched the room for the source of the paper projectile.
"I don't think Chief Jones will appreciate sifting through case notes covered in your drool," Naomi remarked dryly.
"Fuck off, blondie. I haven't slept in twenty four hours, I've spent the last thirteen stuck at this fucking desk and I've fucking had enough of going through phone records and bank statements and all this other crap for evidence that isn't there. I'm telling you, Naomikins, this guy's smart. If we do catch him, it won't be because he bought "Dismemberment for Dummies" with his credit card or something," Cook complained, massaging the back of his neck. "And plus, Cookie so does not drool."
Naomi smirked. "Whatever. Save it for when you have to explain to Jones why your report smells like Chinese food."
"Pffft, old Jonesy doesn't even know what day of the week it is. I bet his wife has to tie his shoelaces for him. Double knots," Cook sniggered. "Hey, apparently his son's joining Homicide soon. Guess what his name is? Jonah Jeremiah Jones. Poor fucker."
"Yeah well we could do with some more manpower. Honestly why is it always just us two working these ungodly hours? Sure, it's nearly Christmas but the whole of Bristol's in fucking panic mode and all the other detectives just fuck off home at quitting time like normal," Naomi gave her trademark scowl, eyes sweeping around the otherwise deserted bullpen. "Sometimes I wonder why we even bother. No one else seems to give a fuck."
Cook didn't answer, but Naomi got her reply in the way he turned his head to look at four large photos attached to a whiteboard in the middle of the room. Chelsea Wickham's face beamed at them from the first photo, cheeky grin and sparkling green eyes immortalised in a moment of youthful delight that belied the horrific way in which she had died. The other photos were more of the same; two men and another woman, all smiling obliviously at the camera, unaware of the terrible fate awaiting them at the hands of a killer who'd, rather unimaginatively, become known as the Butcher of Bristol.
"Yeah we owe it to them," Naomi said heavily, continuing the unspoken conversation that had just passed between her and Cook. The two of them had been partners since they'd joined the Homicide division of Bristol's police department five years ago. They'd met at the police academy as fresh-faced recruits, both having lost a family member to violent crime in the past and both with their sights set on Homicide. A combination of youthful passion, knowledge of the streets and undeniable sleuthing skills had seen them rise quickly through the ranks and here they were, two of the youngest and brightest detectives on the force, both of them willing without a moment's hesitation to take a bullet for the other. Luckily it had never come to that, since Cook would have bemoaned any occurrence that prevented him from 'shagging some fit bird from sunset til sunrise' at least once a week, and Naomi had a girlfriend who'd no doubt be upset that the blonde had been shot protecting 'that fucking lecherous creep'.
"Coffee, blondie?" Cook asked, breaking the sombre mood with his patented Cook grin firmly back in place. "Fuck knows I need to stretch my legs."
"Ugh, I'll pass. Reckon I've already got about two litres of the stuff running through me right now. Give Sandra my best," she winked at him, knowing that he'd just been making an excuse to give his girlfriend-of-the-week a call. Phone sex, she thought wryly as Cook stumbled out of his chair, cursing at the pins and needles in his legs.
Sighing, Naomi left him to make the call she really wanted nothing to do with and returned to the papers scattered all over her desk. She had to admit that Cook had a point – whatever lead them to the killer was hardly going to be found in grocery shop receipts and tax return records belonging to the few suspects they had. Personally, Naomi didn't think any of their three current suspects had committed the gruesome murders that had left Bristol crippled with fear, but she knew better than to turn away leads based on something as insubstantial as her gut.
Not for the first time since this case had begun, hopeless frustration threatened to overwhelm her as she wondered for the umpteenth time what could drive a man to kill and maim four innocent strangers, always at the full moon, discarding their bodies like trash after he'd finished with them. A piece of skin in the shape of a perfect pentagon had been removed from the left shoulder of each victim – a cruel but bizarre signature flourish, like the murders always occurring at the full moon, which made up this killer's sadistic MO.
Naomi knew it was inevitable that the Butcher would strike again. As the press had been all too happy to point out, the next full moon was in a week's time and Bristol's collective gaze was looking to the Homicide squad for answers they did not have. Since the previous victims had shown signs of being held by their captor for up to a week before their deaths, a fifth victim was probably already in the killer's clutches, while we sit here going through fucking paperwork, Naomi thought bitterly.
"Naomi," Cook had returned, a paper cup of the dishwater the vending machine offered as coffee in his hand. No phone sex then. Naomi opened her mouth to comment, but stopped at the look on her partner's face. It was the look he got only when he was being dead serious, the look that got confessions flowing from suspects' mouths, the look that meant he'd found something which might finally break this awful case wide open. "I've been thinking about those pentagons," he said, walking over to another board where photos of the victims' bodies had been stuck. "You know, we always just thought it was this fucker's way of taunting us, having a fucking laugh. We thought it was just some sick signature or something. Serial Killers 101. But I've noticed, there's something about the number five with this guy. Wickham had five piercings in each ear. Bell wore size five shoes. Chen had five kids. Neill was fifty-five years old. See what I'm getting at? We thought the victimology was all over the place, but they're all connected by the number five."
"Pentagon," Naomi breathed. She leapt out of her chair, grimacing as her numb legs threatened to collapse beneath her but managing to hobble over to the map showing the locations of each crime scene. It was as though the proverbial light bulb had lit up in her head; she could almost see the one glowing in Cook's. "These locations aren't random either. They'd make a perfect pentagon on the map if the next, the fifth victim, is found here." She stuck a pin into place, excitement coursing through her. A quick check of the privacy abomination that is Google maps revealed that the final point of the pentagon was a warehouse, by the looks of things deserted since the nineteenth century.
"Get in the car, blondie, we're going for a drive!" Cook yelled, looking more awake than he had in days. Naomi guessed that she looked about the same, but in their defence they'd had precious little to be excited about in the past few months.
They tore through the streets of Bristol, turning the siren off as they approached their destination since it was highly likely the killer was already there with his next victim. They parked the unmarked car a few streets away from the warehouse, wanting to give the elusive killer as little warning to their approach as possible. As they moved stealthily towards the imposing grey building, Naomi noticed immediately that something was wrong. There was a smell coming from the open doorway, a sickly, coppery smell they were all too familiar with in their line of work.
"Blood," Cook groaned softly, unholstering his gun and aiming it at the entrance while Naomi did the same. They stepped cautiously inside the warehouse, already knowing, from the stench of blood permeating the air, that it was too late for the victim but hoping that their killer was still lurking around basking in the grisly glory of his work.
"Police! Freeze!" Naomi shouted suddenly as something, or someone, shifted in the far corner of the warehouse.
"Put your hands where we can see them!" Cook roared, sweat beading on his forehead. A figure emerged from the shadowy corner, both hands raised in the universal sign of complacency. Naomi's jaw dropped as the figure stepped forward into the harsh light of her torch.
It was a young woman with vibrant red hair and large, chocolate brown eyes – she was more than a head shorter than Naomi, and that, along with her almost pixie-like features, gave the overwhelming impression of someone who looked incapable of even raising her voice, let alone committing five counts of murder in the first degree.
"This is the Butcher of Bristol?" Cook turned to face Naomi with one eyebrow raised incredulously, asking the question she herself was too shocked to voice.
