AN
First Posted: 2018-03-01
Chapter 1 Edited: 2018-09-26
Marigolds.
A canopy of red and gold blooms arches high over his head, an explosion of vibrant color swimming in and out of focus against a backdrop of blinding light. The light flickers, shining between patches of red and gold, between patches of green and brown.
His vision, slowly failing, refuses to make any sense of it.
The stench of the canopy is smothering, the smell of earth and flowers lingering with the moisture that hangs heavy in the air. There's the whirr of a fan, but the air is stagnant.
A red petal falls and kisses his sweat-drenched cheek.
Price gasps for air through stiff lips, barely able to feel the saliva that leaks uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth. He tries to spit but his lips, his tongue, every muscle in his face all refuse to cooperate. His chest aches with each labored breath he takes, deep pain radiating from somewhere deep within, and his lungs scream for the air his body rejects.
His blood is a war drum in his ears, a frantic beat playing along to the sharp pounding in his skull. He forces his limbs to move, forces his body off his back and onto his side, then his belly. Nausea shoots up his throat and a groan sounds from somewhere deep inside him. His fingers, stiff and aching, dig into something cool and black. The earthy smell strengthens. His head, heavy and weightless all at once, drops.
No matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he fights to breathe, to stay conscious, the air around him, thick with mist and the smell of earth, won't enter his lungs. He rasps, sweat dripping down his forehead, down his cheeks, along the cold skin on the back of his neck.
A door opens. He looks up.
Marigolds.
The low hum of the radio comes to an abrupt end as Detective Sergeant John Price turns the ignition, the sudden silence permeated by the steady beat of rain on a windshield in desperate need of cleaning. He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel as the fans whirr to a halt, the slowly-stagnating hot air kissing the bits of bare skin his somewhat too well-insulated jacket fails to cover. His gaze flickers up through the windshield, beyond the confines of his Ford Fiesta, and he steals a moment to breathe before he must step out into the unforgiving January rain.
A derelict flat building, three stories tall, looms against a yawning black sky, its dark, rain-kissed windows glistening in the blue light thrown from the emergency vehicles scattered throughout the modest car park. Though their sirens are silent, the lights of the police cars still cut through the night, illuminating the uniformed officers who stand in the pockets between them. Peeking over the tops of the cars, standing just in front of the building, is a tent; it's likely serving as a decontamination point, Price assumes, as the crime scene itself is indoors. The tent glows from within, a white beacon at the foot of a black mass.
Price sighs and lifts his hands from the steering wheel, rubbing them together as he turns and peers into the passenger seat. Not finding his gloves, he reaches over and pulls open the glove compartment. He rummages through the papers stored there, and while the compartment is packed to near capacity, it fails to yield the spare gloves that are supposed to be there. He'd left his usual pair at the office, something he hadn't realized until the building was already in sight.
Of course the damn things go missing when I need them. Typical.
Price wasn't on the team assembled for this call. Not initially, at least. A call came in earlier about a murder in Mile End, a small team was assembled, and a group of three left for Summer Heights Flats, leaving Price behind at the Major Incident Team's office in Barking to twiddle his thumbs and work on the other, older cases shunted his way while he waited for further orders. He'd expected to go home earlier that night and catch up on this case during the next morning's briefing, but a call from Detective Chief Inspector O'Farrell—who'd barked at him to "get your arse down here, Price, there's something you'll want to see"—summoned him instead to the derelict remains of Summer Heights.
Price slams the glove compartment shut, muttering a curse under his breath. Before he can check the arm rest compartment or the driver's side pocket, a light rapping on his window catches his attention. Price glances up to see a wide, round face peering at him from under a black jacket, a pair of hazel eyes fixing him with an expectant stare.
Detective Inspector Harmon jerks his head towards the flat complex as a silent gesture for Price to get a move on. With a low huff and a roll of his eyes, Price motions for his DI to step back; when he complies, Price pushes the door open, bracing himself against the bitter cold that sweeps into the car.
"Took you long enough!" Harmon barks from under his jacket as Price steps out into the elements. Price hisses through his teeth as the rain hits him and he pulls his jacket tighter around himself, a shiver running up his spine as icy water attacks his cheeks and sneaks down the back of his neck. "Come on, let's get you suited up."
"Looks like you have more than enough people combing the scene already," Price remarks as Harmon turns on his heel and begins his brisk march down the car park. He's holding his coat over his head to shield himself from the rain, but it isn't doing much good; his tanned face glistens in the car lights and his golden-brown curls are weighed down by the rain that manages to seep through his coat. Price doesn't bother to try and shield himself, instead keeping his head angled downward in hopes of preventing water from getting into his eyes.
"The boss could've asked me to stick around for tonight's debrief if she wanted me to see something so badly."
Harmon scoffs. "She could've, but you know how she is." He steps into a puddle and swears, loudly; Price steps around him with a purse of his lips. "Shit. She thinks something's important enough, and she'll drag you by your ears herself to show you in person if she's so inclined."
"Hah, right." A shock races up Price's spine as rain trickles down the back of his neck and seeps through the collar of his sweater. He regrets not bringing a jacket with a hood.
"She's not keeping you here for the whole night, either, if you're worried about doing actual work," Harmon quips, earning a chuckle from Price. "She just wants your opinion. You're to be going back to Barking the moment she's done with you."
"Shame," Price mutters. Harmon throws him an unimpressed look at his dry tone.
Indistinct chatter colors the air around Price as he and Harmon pick their way between the police cars scattered throughout the car park, approaching the white tent at the base of the flat complex. Price, relieved at the prospect of shelter from the rain, slips inside the tent when Harmon steps aside and gestures for him to enter first.
The inside of the decontamination zone is brightly illuminated with lamps positioned throughout the tent, and it takes a few blinks before Price's eyes can fully adjust. A woman wearing white Tyvek coveralls presses a matching folded pair into his hands and wordlessly gestures for him to put them on. Price steps aside, giving Harmon room within the tent. After he slips off and surrenders his stuffy jacket, Price gets to work at unfolding the coveralls and sliding them over his clothes. "So, the victim…"
"Was found at approximately 8:55 this evening. A 999 call was received about an assault victim found on the ground floor office." There's the rustle of Tyvek as Harmon steps into his coveralls. "Witness says he was driven inside by the rain and heard whimpering from the other room. By the time first responders arrive, she's already dead."
Price hums and zips up his coveralls, then is handed a pair of gloves and paper shoes. He puts on the shoes first, sliding them over his own before putting on the latex gloves. "He found her alive?"
"Barely. When the witness first called, he'd said he found her bound, naked, and all cut up. He says she was conscious, but unresponsive. Likely paralyzed or in shock." Harmon's voice is muffled as he puts on a mask given to him by the officer in the tent. It fits over his nose and mouth, and with his hooded coveralls, all that's visible of him are his eyes and his still-glistening forehead. "Her skin was clammy and cold to the touch."
Price raises a brow. "He got close enough to touch her?"
"He got close enough to untie her, wrap her in his jacket, and hold her until first responders arrived. When they found him, he was staring into the distance, all covered in claret." Harmon sighs. "He didn't talk much after that."
Price scowls. He's handed a mask and he fits it over his nose and mouth before tugging the hood of his coveralls over his head.
"And let me guess—he didn't see who did it?"
"Nope. Neither hair nor hide of the perpetrator."
Price huffs, following Harmon as the two of them are ushered out of the decontamination zone. CSIs in white coveralls are ghosts with cameras, flitting about the room and examining every nook and cranny of the old flat complex's ground floor. Groups of them are huddled around points of interest, low muttering filling the room.
The stench of rotting wood floats from deeper within the lobby, and a moldy odor lingers in the stagnant air that hangs heavy around them. Price can smell it through his mask, and he wrinkles his nose as he allows Harmon to lead him through the old lobby. His paper-covered shoes thump against old wooden floors that have long seen better days.
"That's the office down there?" Price asks, pointing towards a set of wooden doors on the far side of the lobby. When Harmon nods, he adds, "Are you sure he just heard whimpering, all the way from here?"
Harmon shrugs. "Not sure what to tell you; that's the story he sticks by, so it's all we've got. Either way, the man was a walking crime scene, so he was taken to have his clothes confiscated for evidence. Uniformed officers took him in first, but they should be transferring him and the evidence over to Barking as we speak."
"You said they found him looking shell-shocked. He's getting the help he needs, I assume?"
"Well, I would hope so." Harmon nods at the uniformed officer standing just outside the office doors and grabs one of the handles. "Getting anything out of an incoherent witness is like pulling teeth." He turns and peers up at Price over his shoulder, one brow raised. "You ready?"
"You ask that like I haven't been poking around dead bodies for twenty years." Price jerks his chin forward. "Go ahead."
Harmon pushes the door open and holds it so that Price can enter first. Price takes a moment to brace himself for whatever scene might be waiting for him, then steps past the threshold.
The unmistakable stench of vomit, stronger than the smell of fluids normally expelled from a dead or dying person, hits him before anything else and Price is forced to swallow the nausea that rises in his throat, unable to contain the disgusted expression his face slips into. A CSI with a camera blocks his view of the body at first, but she's revealed the moment the man in white coveralls steps aside.
The victim is sprawled on the floor, surrounded by men and women in coveralls that photograph and prod at her body as her dead eyes stare at the ceiling. Her mouth hangs open as though she'd spent her last moments gasping for air, her pale face smeared with running mascara and streaked foundation, with blood and dark brown stains that indicate the vomit Price smells is hers.
There's a flash of light as a CSI snaps a photo of her bloody, sliced-open wrists, which peek from under the forest-green jacket draped over her torso. Her legs protrude from the jacket, splayed out as though frozen in a moment of violent struggle.
Price ignores the small part of himself that screams to look away. Twenty years in MIT may have watered down the shock that comes with seeing a corpse, but some deeply human part of him, untouched by years of training and experience and self-preservation, still reacts with a unique sort of horror.
"Price!" a voice calls from somewhere within the office, heavy with an unmistakable Cork accent. Price, distracted from the cadaver sprawled out on the floor, looks up to see a tall figure approaching him; it's DCI O'Farrell, recognizable only by the parts of her face her hooded coveralls and blue face mask fail to cover. Price spies a glimmer of sweat on her deep umber forehead; it's significantly warmer in the office compared to the lobby, and there's no circulation. "It's about bloody time you got here."
"I'd have gotten here faster if you'd picked me for the job in the first place, ma'am," he says. The grin he earns from his superior officer deepens the fine lines around her eyes. "You wanted me to see something?"
Wordlessly, O'Farrell turns and steps up to the body in the center of the room. "This will be removed and sent down to evidence once we've got the photos in order," she states as she crouches down beside the body and gently grasps the jacket. "But we don't have time to wait for that. For now, I'll let you have a peek. Tell me what you see."
O'Farrell pulls the jacket back as far as she dares to disturb it and Price takes a step forward, feeling his face twitch into a scowl at the view he's given. The victim's naked chest is stained with vomit and caked in the blood smeared around the lacerations on her torso. There's various stab wounds and bruises that suggest a vicious beating, but the first thing that catches Price's eye are the long gashes that stretch from her collarbone down to her navel. The lacerations are jagged and messy; if the victim was paralyzed on discovery, she had certainly put up a fight when whoever did this to her was cutting her open.
It's the number and arrangement of the gashes that demand Price's attention; there are six of them, three on each side, angled downward towards each other as though her assailant had carved arrows into her flesh. Despite the messiness of the wounds, easily attributed to the victim's struggle during her torture, there's a meticulousness about their arrangement that Price immediately recognizes—
It had been late afternoon on November 7th, 2012, when the first victim was found. Concerned neighbors called authorities to the home of Lee McCubbin, aged 49, after he'd been missing for three days.
Price had been on the team assembled to respond to the call once life was pronounced extinct. It had been his first job with MIT in East London after his transfer from South London, and his first job under DCI Eric MacMillan after ten years of working with different syndicates. McCubbin had been dead for days by the time authorities were alerted, and the stench of death was what greeted MIT to McCubbin's modest bungalow in Tower Hamlets.
McCubbin had been tortured, terribly so. He was naked, with unique lacerations along his chest, face, and arms alongside the various stab wounds and bruises that were attributed to release of sheer aggression. He'd seen violent death many times before that point, but Price still hadn't been prepared for the way the victim's eyes bugged towards the ceiling from where they'd been nearly pried from their sockets.
A flower, decaying, had been clutched in his right fist.
Silently, Price steps around the body, taking care to examine her arms. The insides of the victim's arms are sliced open, the angles of the bloody gashes mimicking those of the wounds on her chest. Her wrists are bruised and raw, as though her assailant had bound her, Price decides, so that she couldn't fight back—
Price looks up. Just a meter from where the body lay is an old metal desk, left behind from the last people who owned this place. There's a bloodstain on the corner of the desk, and a bloody rope is still tied around one of the legs.
"Right, Glen mentioned the witness untying her?" He looks down to catch O'Farrell's curt nod. "Of course he did. Probably got his fingerprints all over the damn crime scene."
Price's attention shifts back to the victim and he kneels beside her, paying closer attention to her hands.
The first thing he notices is her lack of fingernails, the nailbeds bloody and torn. The nails themselves are nowhere to be seen; Price assumes they're elsewhere in the room, or else taken by the assailant as a trophy. Two fingers are swollen and bent, suggesting breaks.
It was shortly after New Year's when the second victim was found.
Ivy Hope, aged 45, found on January 3rd, 2013, when contractors sent to survey an abandoned lot in Newham found her bloody, rotting corpse on the ground floor. She'd been stripped naked and mutilated, tortured in the same way Lee McCubbin had before her. Once again, Price was on the team assembled to respond to the call.
It took days for the body to be identified, because by the time she was found, rats had already made good work of her face.
Of the flower in her hand, bits and pieces of a petal and a rotten stem remained.
Price signals for O'Farrell to lower the jacket. As she does so, Price studies the victim's face.
Her face is bruised where it hasn't been sliced open. Four lacerations, two on each cheek, cut a jagged path through her grey skin. One of the cuts is very deep; he doesn't dare check to make sure, but Price assumes that whatever her assailant cut her with sliced straight through her cheek and into her mouth. Her face is bloody, smeared with makeup and vomit, and her glassy eyes stare unwavering at the ceiling.
Around the victim's head lays a halo of dark brown hair, cut in chunks and scattered across the grey-green carpet on which she lays. It's a messy job, done with a weapon unsuited for cutting hair; where her hair had been cut extremely short, Price can see lacerations on her scalp.
April 27th, 2013.
That was the day they found the third victim, Stephen Blythe. Aged 53, his body was discovered in a derelict storefront across from his flat in Tower Hamlets when teenagers skipping school trespassed on private property. It was a rainy morning when MIT was called in, the warm, wet air smothering the once-quiet neighborhood that had suddenly become an explosion of police cars and crime scene tape.
Despite their best efforts, the authorities couldn't stop a crowd of civilians and vultures with cameras from descending upon the site as MIT and the CSIs initiated their investigation, drawn in by the rumor of a serial killer's third strike.
Blythe had died merely hours before the morning of his discovery, tortured and killed in the dead of night and abandoned for a group of high schoolers looking for some fun to stumble upon. Like the victims before him, he was found naked and mutilated, suffering the same torture Hope and McCubbin had.
Like Hope and McCubbin, in his fist was a monkshood.
Like Hope and McCubbin, later postmortem revealed the wounds sustained during his torture were not the cause of death.
"Look familiar?"
O'Farrell's voice distracts Price from his thoughts. He looks up to meet her even stare, her cool green gaze betraying little.
"Have you found any injection sites?"
"The coroner might, once the body's been cleaned up and postmortem's begun." She tilts her head. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Price?"
His gaze falls to the victim's face again, onto dead grey eyes that at one point held life. It's been years since he's seen a body like this; the last time had been—
December 15th, 2013.
Donald Crowes was discovered after his neighbors called in complaining about a horrid smell coming from his flat in Hackney. He'd been dead for a week, left to rot in the middle of his living room before anyone bothered to call in. He hadn't been reported missing, because no one cared enough to notice he was gone; laid off from his job, with no family and few friends, the 45-year-old may as well have been invisible.
He had been the same as the many others before him; naked, bound, tortured with the same meticulous cutting patterns as the previous victims. The killer had gotten better; given Crowes' likely struggle, the cuts were more even than the lacerations the first victim suffered. He suffered trauma to the head where his assailant had rammed him into a coffee table to subdue him. Post-mortem revealed high Aconitum alkaloid levels in the liver and kidneys.
Crowes was the last of eight victims of a serial killer dubbed by the media, "The London Viper."
"The Viper hasn't been active for five years now," Price murmurs, half to himself as he continues to stare at the victim's ruined face. The air in his mask is hot and heavy with his own breath's moisture; he tugs on it, part of him aching to retreat from the crime scene and tear it off for some fresh air. "Why would he come back now, out of nowhere?"
"Whatever circumstances that may have caused his dormancy must have lifted."
"And the chances of a copycat are slim."
"Unless a witness has been blabbing to the press recently, no details of the Viper murders have been released to the public."
Price raises a brow at O'Farrell. "Do we have a name?"
She shakes her head. "No. Her phone, wallet, clothes, and anything she might've had on her person are all missing. CSI's been combing the area for a dump site, but so far, no such luck. As far as we know, there are no current missing person's reports matching her description."
"Of course. Killer would've taken everything with him." Price crosses his arms, his gaze wandering down to the victim's hands—
—Which are empty, her grey palms bare and turned up towards the ceiling.
"…But usually he leaves something behind. Did any of you happen to find a monkshood flower anywhere?"
"Afraid not," O'Farrell answers, and Price purses his lips. "Considering that the victim was found alive, it's entirely possible that the killer, if it is the Viper, got spooked and fled before he could leave his signature."
"Right, of course." Price sighs, standing and stepping away from the body to give the CSIs more room to do their work. O'Farrell follows him, crossing her arms and giving Price an expectant look as he turns away and studies a cobweb in the far corner of the room.
If this is the Viper, then the missing flower makes sense. The flower was only placed on the victim after death, the Viper's own twisted way of leaving a signature on his "work." If the witness DI Harmon discussed had been telling the truth, then the killer wouldn't have had time to mark his victim; the poor woman hadn't even been dead yet.
Which brought Price to another question. The location fit the Viper's preference; if not the victim's residence, then somewhere secluded, preferably abandoned, where most people wouldn't think to look until long after the murder had taken place. The witness had arrived in time to interrupt whatever else the killer had been planning, but not in time to save the poor woman sprawled out on the floor—but why had he come around in the first place?
"Did the witness see anyone leave the building?" Price asks, turning to face O'Farrell in time to see her shake her head.
"We believe the assailant used the back exit to gain entry to and escape the building," she responds. "There is a broken lock suggesting forced entry, and fresh tire tracks which indicate that the killer and the victim arrived by car."
"A kidnapping?"
"Most likely. Since the car is no longer there it's obvious that he used it as his escape. There are two sets of partial footprints, which confirm that the victim was brought in from the back." O'Farrell places her hands on her hips. "She might have been wearing heels. Coming back from work, maybe?"
"Or an outing," Price suggests.
"I'm hoping that CCTV in the area will give us something on the car, the victim, and maybe even the killer, but I'm not holding my breath," O'Farrell continues. "If it's the same guy, he'd have been careful. There aren't many residences on this block and all the businesses 'round here are closed but house-to-house will have to pull something of interest."
"We can hope." Price sighs. "So, this is what you brought me in for, eh?"
"Figured you'd at least want to take a look before the place is cleaned up and the body's shipped to the coroner," O'Farrell says, clasping her gloved hands together. "Looking at photos is nothing compared to the real thing and since as my Sergeant you have more experience with the Viper than I do, I figured you may have some input."
"And now I suppose you'll kick me out and let the rest of you do your jobs, hm?"
"Precisely. And I need you in Barking anyway, I want you on that witness"
Price raises a brow. "Tonight? Will he be fit for it?"
"He'll have to be! He's our only witness, and if our suspicions are correct then he's the first one who's ever found a victim while they were still alive. I need you to talk to him, now, while everything's still fresh in his mind."
"Right." Price opens his mouth to say more, but is interrupted when DI Harmon's voice calls out from the other end of the room
"Sian! Come take a look at this!"
O'Farrell twists around in her spot to face Harmon, her Tyvek coveralls crinkling with the sudden movement. "Be right there!" she responds, and then she turns to Price again. "You should get going, now; I called ahead and had DC Archer draw up an interview plan for you, and the witness should be transferred over to our custody by now. I also want you to make sure that all the evidence has been transferred to us; the witness's clothes, his phone—"
"I know what to do."
"Good. I'll be back once we've wrapped up here and the body's been shipped off to the coroner."
"Right. See you soon, then."
O'Farrell turns and walks to Harmon without another word, and Price excuses himself from the office, letting himself out.
It's a relief to be free from the office, away from the stuffy room filled with the stench of vomit and bodily fluids. Price comforts himself with the thought that at least it hadn't been another Donald Crowes or Ivy Hope as he lowers his mask, gulping down an unobstructed breath of air. It's stuffy and stinks of mold and rotten wood, but it's still an improvement.
Price crosses the lobby and steps outside into the white tent, relieved when he's ordered to remove his coveralls and the rest of his protective wear. He strips them off with little ceremony and hands them over to the officers in the tent, receiving his jacket in exchange. Pulling his jacket tight around himself, Price draws a deep breath, then pushes out of the tent and steps into the freezing January night.
"You left your gloves again."
Price scowls at the dark brown gloves dangling from Gaz's grip, a lopsided smirk plastered on his birdlike face as he waves them over his head. Price marches up to where Gaz is leaning against his desk and snatches them back, choosing to ignore the snicker from his friend as he shoves them back into his coat pocket.
"Have fun poking around dead bodies?" Gaz asks as he slides off Price's desk and stands behind him. Price peels off his jacket and drapes it over his chair before sinking into his seat, relieved to be in the comfortable warmth of the MIT office and away from the rain-turned-downpour that assaults the windows. "What did the boss want you for?"
"She wanted me to see the scene in person before everything's bagged up," he explains, propping his elbows onto his desk as he leans forward in his seat. There are files sitting on his desk on top of his desktop keyboard, and shifting through them, Price finds a document left behind by Archer; it's a quick draft of an interview strategy, left for Price to look over and approve.
"Hell," Gaz scoffs, walking around the desk and plopping in his own seat. He picks up a mug of tea sitting precariously close to his own computer and steals a sip, making a face as he does; it must've gone cold. "Couldn't she have at least waited until the debrief?"
"She wanted my opinion before everything's reduced to photos and anecdotes."
"And again I ask…couldn't she have waited?"
Price sighs, dropping the files on his desk as he leans back into his seat. Gaz is giving him an incredulous look, his light brown eyes boring into him with a particularly unimpressed stare, and Price hesitates a moment before he lowers his voice and says, "She thinks it may be a Viper."
Gaz's eyes are blown wide and he leans forward. "Shit, really? What makes her think that?"
"Hell, Gaz, almost everything fits the Viper's MO. The location, the type of victim he went after, the wounds sustained; everything's the same." Price shakes his head, dropping his hand when he catches himself picking at his beard, not even realizing the agitation bubbling in his chest. "The only thing missing was the bastard's signature."
"The flower, you mean? Any idea why?"
"Interruption. Our victim was found alive this time around."
"Fucking hell." Gaz lets out a breath, sinking back into his chair as he swirls tea around in his mug. "That must be the guy they brought in a little while ago. The witness, I mean."
"You saw him?"
"Briefly, while they were bringing him in. I was on my way up from carting bags of his bloody clothes down to evidence. The man looked like a ghost." Gaz clicks his tongue. "If it's anything like the other victims, then no wonder." He pauses, then asks, "You agree with her, then? That it's another Viper?"
Price pauses.
Months passed since the discovery of Donald Crowes. Months turned into years. Time went on, and no more victims fitting the Viper's MO were found. No more victims left rotting in their homes or decrepit buildings in the abandoned corners of London, no more victims with diagonal slashes cutting deep into their bodies and deep purple blooms in their dead hands, no more victims with high levels of Aconitum alkaloids in their liver and kidneys and blood. Leads went cold, more cases came in, and suddenly the London Viper was no longer a priority.
"Maybe," Price sighs. "It's been five years, Gaz, and assuming he hadn't been picked up for something unrelated, we haven't heard hide nor hair of murders fitting his MO from other cities." He leans forward in his seat and props up his elbows on his desk, dropping his head into his hands. The day, which had started with the blaring of Price's alarm at five that morning, had been a long one, and the night is taking its toll. "Why would he crop up out of nowhere now? Serial killers don't just stop like that."
"Maybe it's just what you said. He was picked up for something else, the murders were never linked to him, after a while he was released…and he gives in to the urge." Gaz pauses. "How 'bout a copycat?"
"Unlikely."
"Well, we'll know for sure once the postmortem comes in, eh? It was poison that did everyone in, right?"
"Yes."
Gaz hums and falls silent, tapping his fingers against the side of his mug. Price rubs at his eyes before lifting his head and leaning back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling.
Price can't say it's been years since he'd thought of the London Viper. The murders haven't dominated his mind, not since the last murder in December and the hellish months that followed, but every now and again, a creeping memory, a sneaking thought, will slip to the front of his mind and throw Price into a world of regret and second-thoughts.
Since the beginning of his career as a police officer, being part of the Major Incident Team had been Price's dream. Maybe even before then. Since his first months as a young, bright-eyed Detective Constable, Price had dedicated everything he had to the job, sacrificing much of his personal life "in the name of justice," as he'd have put it in his far too idealistic youth. Over the years Price has worked on cases that meant something to him, that reminded him why he joined up in the first place.
The Viper, however—that had been different. The Viper was the first serial murder case Price had ever worked on, and it shook him down to his core. He couldn't quite place what it was about the murders that disturbed him, that still disturbs him, so deeply.
Perhaps it was the way the killer would torture his victims before administering the poison that killed them, cutting their bodies open and leaving them naked where they'd been slain as a final act of humiliation.
Perhaps it was the specific poison he used; a unique compound derived from monkshood that killed its victims by paralyzing them after a period of convulsions, leaving them aware and unable to scream or seek help as they slowly asphyxiated or went into cardiac arrest. In all his years with MIT, Price had never seen such a sophisticated poison administered in such a way, and neither had the coroners who examined the bodies of the victims the Viper left behind.
Perhaps it was the signature he left behind: a single flower, always tucked away into the victim's right hand, clenched tightly in a fist made after death. Always a deep purple monkshood.
Perhaps it was the way the Viper was so meticulous in his murders, how, despite the bloody torture and the death granted with the prick of a needle—a signature that earned him his moniker—he never seemed to leave much evidence behind. No blood of his own, no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, only the barest of glimpses on CCTV that couldn't even begin to identify him.
Since the discovery of the first victim in November of 2012, the Viper had eluded identification and capture, and after his fall into dormancy in late 2013, any hope of catching him ebbed away with each passing year. Price had always been well aware of the fact that every copper in the force had their own "one who got away," but he never dreamed that his would be someone like the Viper. It seemed like cruel fate at the time, some kind of punishment for a divine infraction Price hadn't known he'd committed, and it still feels that way now.
And then MacMillan—
"One thing that gets me, though…" Gaz's murmur pulls Price out of his thoughts, and Price shifts his gaze over to the man across from him. "…Is that the victim was found alive. It was down by Summer Heights or something, right?"
"…Right," Price sighs after he registers what Gaz had just said, still partially entrenched in his thoughts. He rubs at his eyes and drags one hand down his face, trying to physically pull the thoughts out of his head. "Old abandoned building, businesses along the street long closed for the night, residences a few blocks away."
"What was the witness doing there?"
"That's what I'm planning on finding out. Shit, which reminds me…" Price shoots forward and gathers the files Archer had left on his desk before standing upright, his chair rolling off somewhere behind him with the sudden movement. "I want to go over this with Archer before I go down to interview the witness. Are you slotted to monitor the interview?"
"Yeah, me and Griffen. I'm assuming Sian's gonna swing by and join us once she's done at the scene."
"Right." Price flips through the files one more time, making sure everything's in order. He has to remind Archer to stick the witness in the soft interview room if that hasn't been the plan to begin with; Price isn't sure quite what to expect, though from what the others say it's more than safe to assume the man will be beyond shaken up. Easing the witness into talking will likely yield far better results in the long run, if he's in any state to communicate to begin with. "Go ahead and wait for us in the other room, I'll send Griffen up once we're ready to get the interview started."
"Gotcha. Good luck, Sarge."
With a groan Price rolls his eyes, tucking the files under his arm. "I thought I told you not to call me that."
"It's exciting, though, yeah?" A toothy grin splays across Gaz's face and Price, annoyance rising in his gut, can't stop the scowl that he feels cross his face. "Twenty years in the force and you've finally on your first case as Detective Sergeant. How's it feel to be a step above us lowly Constables?"
"Just be grateful I took the position at this syndicate instead of ditching you lazy buggers," Price hisses, though there's no real venom in his voice and Gaz's grin, ever widening, proves infectious. He claps one hand on Gaz's shoulder. "See you after the interview, mate."
It's an hour before the witness is ready to be interviewed.
Price silently walks downstairs to the interview room where DC Archer waits with the witness, his footsteps echoing through the empty stairwell as he makes his way down the winding metal stairs. An electric buzz runs through the room as the white fluorescent lights overhead flicker—Price briefly wonders when the damn things are going to be replaced as he steps onto the landing at the foot of the stairs. The short hallway before him is bare of any posters or furniture, the pale walls a sickly blue under the lights overhead.
Price goes over some of the witness' information in his head as he walks down the hall, flipping through the papers Archer had given him one last time.
The witness's name is John MacTavish. He was born in July of 1983, according to the information given once he was taken in custody. He lives in Clapham, and been passing by Summer Heights when he decided to take shelter from the rain—
The interview room is marked by a room number stamped on a placard, fixed just above the windowed wooden door. It's hard to make out anything other than two silhouettes through the frosted windows, dark shapes against the warm light inside the interview room, but it's all the confirmation Price needs before he enters the room. He grabs the handle and pushes the door open, the mournful creak of the hinges heralding his arrival.
The interview room is lit up almost as well as the hall outside, though it lacks the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights; instead, an overhead light casts a warm yellow glow over the room, aided by table lamps perched on the end tables which sit between the couches centered around a coffee table in the middle of the room. A camera is sitting in the corner of the room, another camera hanging from the ceiling, both turned towards the couches. In one sits DC Archer.
In the other sits the witness.
He's folded in on himself, his arms wrapped over his torso and legs tucked under the couch. He lifts his head as Price enters the room, fixing him with a stare as he steps past the threshold. He's exhausted, the bags under his eyes closer to bruises and his face drawn into a miserable expression. His tired eyes follow Price's path from the door—which he softly closes behind him—to one of the couches.
Price doesn't say anything, careful to school his features into neutrality as he takes a seat beside DC Archer, closer to where MacTavish sits. There's the click of a pen as Archer prepares to take any needed notes during the interview, the sound punctuating the thick silence that hangs in the room.
The witness looks down at his hands, clasped tightly over his lap. Whatever clothes he'd been wearing before are now sitting in bags in the evidence room awaiting analysis, so now he wears dark grey sweats provided by the syndicate. The man's far from small—he looks to be taller than even Price, broad-shouldered and long-legged—but the oversized sweater he wears hangs from his frame.
Price quietly sets the files he'd carried in onto his lap and rests his hands on top. May as well get right to it then.
"Good evening," is the first thing Price can think to say, breaking the silence in the room as he starts to ease into a script he's recited hundreds of times in the past. He forces his voice into a low, professional drone. "Before we begin, I must let you know that this interview is being tape recorded. Do you understand?"
The witness says nothing at first, but after a moment he gives a shallow dip of his head. "I do," he mutters, in an accent that's decidedly Scottish. It's all the affirmation Price needs to continue.
"I'm Detective Sergeant John Price, based with the Major Incident Team at Barking. Can you provide your full name?"
There's another short stretch of silence before the witness responds.
"John MacTavish."
There's a scratch of pen on paper as Archer begins to take notes. Price doesn't take his eyes off the witness, loosely clasping his hands together as he pushes forward. "Thank you. Mr. MacTavish. Can you confirm your date of birth?"
"July 27th. 1983."
"And also present is Detective Constable Ian Archer. I will be the detective conducting tonight's interview."
MacTavish glances up, meeting Price's gaze. Price can't decide if his exhausted stare is unnerving or pitiful.
"The date is Saturday, January 6th, 2018, and by the time of my watch it is"—Price glances down at his wrist—"11:49 in the evening. This interview is being conducted with the Major Incident Team, syndicate 9, in Barking."
MacTavish's gaze wanders downward and he wrings his hands together. Price draws a breath to continue—
"Am I under arrest?"
Price coaxes his expression into a relaxed smile, a foreign expression that feels more forced than anything else. Comfort has never been his forte. "No," he assures, though MacTavish doesn't seem any less tense. "You're free to end the interview at any time. We just want to understand the events leading up to the discovery of the victim this evening."
"The discovery." MacTavish tries to let out an unimpressed scoff at Price's choice of words, the most emotion he's shown since Price walked in the door. His voice wavers and the witness wraps his arms around himself; Price sees the fabric of his sweater bunch where his hands clench into fists. "Am…am I a suspect?"
An understandable enough fear, considering the circumstances. "At this stage in the investigation," Price explains patiently, "we're just trying to paint a picture."
"Right. Fine." A sniff, a shuddering sigh as MacTavish settles back into the couch. He's still looking away, arms wrapped around himself as though he's trying to hold everything in.
"Just as a reminder, you're not under arrest, and you're free to leave at any time." MacTavish glances up, his brows furrowed. "But you're still entitled to free and independent legal advice. Do you understand this?"
A pause. The witness nods.
"…Yes."
"And did you want to have a solicitor present?"
He shakes his head. "No."
"Right. Before we continue, I just want to remind you that while you're not under arrest and you do not have to say anything, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say can and will be given in evidence. Do you understand?"
MacTavish tugs on his sleeves and shoots a look past Price, towards Archer. Out of the corner of his eye, Price catches a glimpse of a small, encouraging nod from the Detective Constable beside him.
"Yes," the witness finally answers.
"Right. Let's get to it then, shall we?"
MacTavish's gaze falls to the floor again.
"Tell us about yourself, Mr. MacTavish. The information you gave us says you live in Clapham, is that right? Is that Lambeth or Wandsworth?"
The witness draws a deep breath and he reaches up to rub at his eyes. "Yeah, that's right," he mutters. "Wandsworth, near the Commons."
"You live by yourself?"
A moment of hesitation. "…No. I live with two of my mates."
"Would you be willing to share with us their names?"
MacTavish's gaze flickers upward at that and he briefly meets Price's gaze. "…Yeah," he says after a few moments. "Gary Sanderson." He shifts in his seat. "And Simon Riley."
A scratch of pen on paper.
"Are you employed?"
He nods, tugging on his sweater. "Yeah. I work up in Camden Town."
"Camden Town, eh? What do you do up there?"
A flicker of something other than exhaustion crosses MacTavish's face for a brief moment; his lip twitches just a hair upwards before his expression falls back into the drawn, miserable look he wore when Price first walked in. "I'm a manager at a music store," he responds. "Forte Records."
Another encouraging smile works its way onto Price's face; it feels foreign, but it's worth the tension that slowly leaves the witness's shoulders. "You like music, then?"
A small nod, another fraction of a smile.
"So you work in Camden Town, and live in Clapham…which is down in Lambeth, right?" Another nod. "Quite some distance from where you were in Mile End, am I right? May I ask what you were doing up there?"
The witness presses his lips together and casts his gaze downwards. "I was visiting my niece. Coming back from her place, I mean. She lives up there. Sunrise Flats."
"With roommates?"
"By herself."
"I see. Would you be willing to confirm her name for us?"
"Siubhan Faulkner."
Price casts a glance Archer's way; it goes unnoticed, as Archer is still writing in his notepad.
"What were you and your niece up to, Mr. MacTavish? Did you go anywhere?"
"Yeah, the cinema." The witness lifts his head, though he doesn't look Price in the eye; instead he stares at Price's clasped hands, resting atop the files he'd brought into the interview room. "A little after four in the afternoon, I think. It was the first showing available after I got off work and Siubhan was worried about being late."
"And after that?" Price presses. "Did you and your niece go anywhere else?"
MacTavish shakes his head. "We just went back to her place. Film was boring, so we decided to watch some shows on Netflix or on the telly or something at her place, since it was closer. You know, to pass the time."
"Until?"
"Until it was time to go home, I guess." MacTavish's gaze flickers upwards. "Spring semester at university is starting soon for her, so it's the last chance we get to spend time together before it eats up all her time."
"You weren't planning on staying the whole night, then," Price says. "What made you decide to leave?"
"My mates wanted me home, and I was getting tired anyway."
"Do you remember what time you left?"
MacTavish bites his lip, staring back down at Price's clasped hands. "Uhh…quarter to nine, I think?" He gives Price an apologetic look, his thick brows turned slightly upwards. "I don't exactly remember."
Price offers the witness a shallow nod. "You left on foot, is that correct? You weren't planning on walking all the way back to Clapham, were you?"
A small smile finds its way on the witness' face and he shakes his head. "No. I was headed for the train station. I would've driven, but forecast said there was gonna be rain."
"You have a car?"
He shakes his head. "Motorcycle."
Another forced smile, another shallow nod. "That would be quite a pain to drive through a winter downpour, wouldn't it?" MacTavish looks down. "Now, you called us from Summer Heights, which I'm assuming is near your niece's flat, am I right?"
"Yeah. 'Bout ten minutes down the road, I think." MacTavish draws a shaky breath. "I think."
"Now, that old flat complex isn't the station, is it?" The witness shakes his head. "Can you tell us what caused you to stop there?"
A trembling sigh leaves the witness as he leans back into the couch, bringing a fist up to his mouth. His shoulders are stiff as he presses himself into the cushions, and his eyes slide shut as he hesitates on his response.
"The rain got bad, it was cold, and I didn't have an umbrella or anything. I went inside to take shelter."
Price can't stop one brow from raising before he's able to force his features into a cool mask. "There's a tube station just a block down the road from Summer Heights," he says. "In the opposite direction. Can you tell us why you not only stopped a block too far down the road, but you also trespassed on private property?"
MacTavish's chest heaves as he lets out a harsh sigh. "I don't usually take the train to and from Siubhan's place," he mutters. "And it was dark and rainy. I probably got turned around, and, well…" He opens his eyes to give Price a sheepish look, fist still raised up near his mouth. "I figured maybe five minutes to dry off in a building no one uses anymore wouldn't hurt anyone. Front lock was broken anyway."
"Hm." Price chances a look towards one of the cameras set up in the room; briefly he wonders what Gaz and Griffen must be thinking. And has O'Farrell come back from Mile End yet?
"Right. So you go inside, looking for shelter, and…"
The fist shakes. MacTavish's tired expression shifts into one of pain and he turns his head, eyes squeezed shut. "I heard something from the other room. I don't really remember what it was."
"In your 999 call you told responders what you heard was whimpering."
"It might've been that." He shakes his head. "It's all a blur."
"Do you remember what you did next, Mr. MacTavish?"
"I…" He swallows. "I went further inside to see what was going on."
"And can you tell us what you found?"
His eyes snap open and lock on Price's face. "You lot heard the 999 call, right?" he suddenly snaps, a sudden chance from his low tone. "Saw the—" His voice cracks, he winces. "Saw the body, right? Do I have to tell you what—what you already know—"
Price's brow twitches, his expression threatening to fall out of the carefully-composed neutrality he'd schooled it into as he watches the witness fold in on himself, accusatory blue eyes squeezing shut once more as he lets out a strangled gasp. A pang of pity hits Price in the gut when he catches a brief glimpse of MacTavish's quivering lip, quickly hidden behind a warm brown hand that shakes like the rest of him.
Price exchanges a look with Archer, the pity reflected in the Detective Constable's eyes matching his own.
"I appreciate that this is difficult for you," Price says, careful to keep his voice low and even. He turns to face the witness once more, who's now reigned in his sudden outburst. MacTavish is staring off into another corner of the room, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Would you like some water?"
"No." The answer is firm, clipped.
"Alright."
There's a stretch of silence as neither Price nor MacTavish say anything. The interview room is almost as smothering as the crime scene had been, only instead of the stuffy, stagnant air and the stench of a messy death, the air is heavy with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Silently, Price urges MacTavish to either continue or ask to go home already; he hopes that staring at the man for another few seconds hard enough will yield results, and thankfully, MacTavish turns back around before Price has to prompt him verbally.
"I found a woman."
"Did you know her?"
The witness shakes his head. "No. She was…on the floor. All bloody. Whimpering, shaking."
"Could she talk?"
A twitch of MacTavish's brows as they threaten to turn upwards. "No."
Price purses his lips. "What did you do when you found the victim?"
"I panicked."
"…And?"
"I…" MacTavish draws a deep breath and closes his eyes again. "She was tied up, so I untied her. Took off my jacket and covered her with it, because she was naked and…" His voice wavers again and he pauses to compose himself. His shoulders haven't stopped trembling. "…I dunno why. It was the first thing that came to mind. I held her tight, tried to keep her warm, maybe tried to stop the bleeding, I don't know—" He cuts himself off, his head dropping. A tremor passes through MacTavish's body, and when he looks up again, Price suddenly notices how red and puffy his eyes are. "I tried asking her name, who did this. She just whimpered at me."
"And then what?"
"It…finally dawned on me to ring 999. So I did."
"And you told them—"
"That I found a woman who'd just been assaulted. Assaulted." MacTavish shakes his head, an empty laugh sounding from somewhere within his chest. "That wasn't assault, was it? I saw…I saw what'd been done to her. That was torture, wasn't it?"
Price tilts his head. "What do you mean by, saw what'd been done to her?"
The witness lowers his head. "I saw the cuts on her," he whispers. "On her face, on her…her body. When I untied her hands I saw her nails, and…" He trails off and remains silent, lips pressed tightly together.
Price draws a deep breath, then slowly lets it out as he ponders his next question.
"What did you do after you called 999?"
MacTavish shakes his head, his hand coming up to tug on the collar of his sweater. The color is drained from his face. "I just held her. I was freaking out and didn't know what else to do." There's a long pause as he stares at Price's hands. "I…don't remember when, but at some point, she stopped breathing."
Price raises a brow. "She died?"
"Not right then. I don't know. She stopped breathing, but she was…twitching, really bad." MacTavish's voice rises in pitch before he falls silent, and it's a few moments before he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what happened. One moment she was breathing, and the next—nothing. I think she was choking somehow. Or asphyxiating? I don't know." He runs a hand through his Mohawk, the dark brown curls a frizzy mess. "…Come to think of it, she wasn't moving much when I found her."
Paralysis. Price takes a mental note as he hears Archer scribble frantically in his notepad. "What did you do?"
Silence. Price glances over at Archer, who's busy writing.
"I just. Sat there. Holding her." The witness shakes his head. "I didn't know what else to do." He looks up. "Is it? My fault?"
Price looks down at MacTavish's feet, clad in cheap shoes given to him by the uniformed officers who took his clothes as evidence. The description he'd provided sounds like paralysis and asphyxia, and if such a thing had happened, there was nothing he could've done to save her. Time would've been of the essence—and judging from the circumstances of her death, the victim had run out of time before MacTavish even arrived on the scene. All he could've done was call 999 and wait for the inevitable—which, if he was telling the truth, was exactly what MacTavish had done.
Explaining that—and understanding that, accepting that, from MacTavish's point of view—would be impossible. There are always millions of "what-ifs" and "should-have-dones" surrounding every death. Whatever guilt MacTavish feels won't vanish just because Price told him there was nothing he could've done. Who's to say the man would even believe him?
Price looks up.
He has a job to do.
"You didn't do anything other than hold her, even as she died?"
MacTavish nods wordlessly. Price draws a deep breath, clasping his hands tighter in his lap.
"I don't remember how long it was until the police arrived. I just sat there with her. Waiting."
"Right."
"Then the police came, and…God, everything's a blur."
MacTavish's head drops again as he draws a gasping breath, his shoulders heaving as a second wave of despair overtakes him. The stab of pity in Price's gut grows, twists, at the sight of him, a grown man, struggling to hold himself together in the confines of the orange-walled soft interview room. For a brief moment any suspicion Price holds towards the witness melts away as he's reminded of the sheer horror of witnessing death so intimately, the unthinkable horror of watching life violently slip away—
August 1988.
They were near the market ten minutes down the road from their home in Abbey Wood, coming back from sneaking out to spend their allowance on crisps and candy. John's mother and aunt were still at home, unaware of exactly where the boys were; they were likely still sitting in front of the telly, exchanging stories and discussing their days over tea.
Andrew was with him, running down the street with John shouting after him to watch himself. His shoes splash into puddles, fed by rain, that had gathered on the sidewalk, throwing up cold water and drenching his pant legs. John tries to shield himself from the rain by holding his jacket over his head with one hand, the other clutching a paper bag close to his chest.
They approach the crosswalk. The light changes, and there's a screech of tires.
He was thirteen.
Price's mind snaps to the present as MacTavish slowly lifts his head. His eyes are red and glistening, almost pleading, but the cheeks below them are dry.
"Can I go now?"
It's late, very late, by the time Price can even think about returning home.
They release MacTavish at half past midnight after taking his fingerprints and a DNA sample, letting him go into the late January night. The rain had let up by then, though an icy wetness still permeated the air when Price was finally allowed to leave the office and head home. The drive back to his flat in Fortis Green was a long one—an accident along his usual route meant he had to sit in traffic, then give up and take the long way home—and by the time he drags himself past the threshold into his third-floor flat, it's nearing two in the morning.
His alarm is set to go off at five.
Price doesn't bother to throw something in the microwave or even grab a light snack, instead making a beeline for his bedroom. Kicking off his shoes at the foot of his bed is an afterthought and he drops on top of the comforter with little ceremony, letting out a long sigh as he buries his face into one of his pillows.
The neighborhood is quiet, as quiet as one could be in London. Price can hear the distinct sounds of traffic in the distance, and he can just barely make out the sounds of one of his neighbor's movies playing through the thin walls separating their flats, but it's quiet. Still lying facedown on the bed, Price starts to wrestle his sweater off his body before he decides it's not worth the effort and lies limp against the mattress, suddenly aware of how desperately every fiber of his being cries for rest.
His eyes are like lead, but sleep hesitates to take him.
The body, lying sprawled on the carpet floor in the office in Mile End. Her bright grey eyes staring at the ceiling, glassy and dead, her remains poked and prodded by CSIs gathering evidence. The green jacket draped over her body from which everything—her wallet, her hair, her clothes, her dignity, her life—had been stolen.
Price pulls the comforter over himself. It's hot, but he still doesn't bother with his clothes.
The gashes in her chest, three on each side, forming a V from her collarbones down to her navel. Her wrists, her face. The stench of vomit and defecation that hung in the room, the stench of someone who was dying, someone who had died. The blood, her cut hair forming a halo around her pale grey head.
His mouth is dry. Part of him wants to get a drink, but his limbs remain rooted to the bed.
Lee McCubbin. Ivy Hope. Stephen Blythe. Donald Cowles.
Slowly, Price rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. A cobweb catches his eye and waves at him from the corner above his bed.
Monkshood.
AN: Hi everyone!
I know this isn't Call of Honor, BUT with the CODATHON event that started last year, I couldn't pass up the chance to take a quick break from CoH to pursue writing about a subject matter I've been wanting to write about for some time now!
I have 20 chapters planned, but that number may change depending on how much time needs to be spent on certain events within the plot and whether I add, remove, or adjust anything in the future chapters.
Thank you for reading!