Idiot.
Ray glowered over his bacon butty at the boss's office. Chandler drank his soup as gingerly as he would tea but didn't finish it. He was either distracted by the stacks of files Sanders brought up or not hungry due to his not-cold.
It wasn't clear what his DI was looking for, but he recognized the "eureka" moment, as he and the others have taken to calling it. There was a brightness in Chandler's eyes not due to the fever that did not exist. For it to exist would mean there was, in fact, a cold, and the idiot was blind to his own sniffling and raspy voice.
"Ray." Meg wheeled her chair closer to him, her eyes fixed on the office, too.
"I know, I know," Ray murmured. He watched Chandler sort the paperwork into three piles, then four, then one. Oh well, he supposed it was better than colored pins. He was getting tired of pretending not to see the plaster on Chandler's fingers where he accidentally pricked himself while counting those blasted things.
"What is he looking for?"
"Hell I know." Ray gnawed a chunk out of his sandwich. He barely tasted the saltiness of the bacon. His Judy makes a better one. When she lets him have one, that is.
"He's been reading those things the past thirty minutes." Not that Ray was keeping track.
"Maybe he's found a connection between the victims?"
"They don't work in the same job, they live miles apart, their ages are decades apart. The only thing they have in common is how they died." Appetite gone, Ray dropped the remainder of his sandwich in its wax wrapper. "None of the plots they were placed next to shared anything in common. Different jobs. Different neighborhoods. They didn't even die the same year." He watched Kent finished up Tommy's timeline, ruler straight. Christ, they were spaced perfectly apart too.
Meg pointed to her computer screen. "I don't know how this will help, but this is Tommy Carter's original police report." She tucked a graying lock of blond hair behind her ear.
"Tommy was found by a motorist wandering along the A13, just before the junction with the 406. The motorist rang 999 and told them Tommy was barefoot and crying about a box. Met couldn't get a name. The doctors found him to be severely dehydrated and malnourished. No head trauma, no signs of sexual assault. Just..." Meg shrugged helplessly. "After a week at Bart's, he was taken as John Smith to Brusk's for long term recovery." Her mouth turned down. "He's just a boy, Ray. He's only twenty-two."
Ray thought about Judy and the little sprog growing inside of her. In less than two months, their baby would be introduced to this world. His mouth went dry, and his gut squirmed helplessly.
What kind of world were they bringing this child into? How do they shore their defenses against the bloodthirsty wolves? How did he catch each monster before it darkened their door?
"He'll recover," Ray decided because any other option was unbearable to think about. "He survived before, he'll survive the after."
Meg patted his shoulder.
Chandler's door cracked open. Eyes most definitely bright with fever shone as Chandler leaned on his doorway.
"I need," he said breathlessly. "I need a map."
The room wavered up and down, but Joe found that so long as he sat on the edge of a desk, he was steady enough to continue. And by the time Kent and Sanders pinned up the map—Kent was arguing which way they should position it—Joe found he could look at everyone without flinching at the bright lights.
The map was tacked over the suspects' board, concealing how blank it was, how little they'd managed to place on it. Joe dotted the map with spots made with different-colored markers. It looked a mess. Joe chaffed at leaving it up in that state, but knowing they were finally one step closer to the killer helped the queasiness he felt looking at it.
Joe cautiously stood up from his perch. He clapped for everyone's attention.
"Joey Wester, our second victim, was charged with a drunk and disorderly Public Order offence on July 27, 2004, for an incident that occurred by the London Road." Joe tapped at the red circle on the A308. "Then another two months after that, for incidents here and... here." Joe's temporary pointer tapped out two other red spots further up on the road.
Joe's pointer moved to the blue marks now. "Frank Sage was given as ASBO for, um," Joe cleared his throat, "...urinating in a water fountain in March, 2003, two more for disturbing the peace several months after."
Joe looked expectantly at his team. Miles was studying the map with his mouth pursed, his hands shoved in his pockets. Kent was scribbling diligently into his notebook. Riley tapped a pen on her lower lip, deep in thought. Sanders had lowered his lunch (how long was he going to continue eating?). Mansell was squinting at the map, his head cocked and arms folded, even though he was only one row away.
"Don't you see it?" Joe asked, but while his team looked interested, their expressions were questioning. It was a far cry from when he first came on—scorn and skepticism for the fast track DI. It was still disheartening.
"Alexander Chambers. Picked up on one of the lanes in Bressenden Place for drunken behavior on May 8, 2008, then twice more months later. And Tommy Carter..." Joe held up Tommy's record in his hands. "He was given an ASBO for indecent exposure in High Street on August 3, 2009, and twice later on in the year." Joe gave them a dismayed look. "Don't you see the pattern?"
Mansell snapped his fingers. "They were all arrested three times."
Riley leaned over her desk and smacked the back of his head.
"Oi!"
"They were all male?" Sanders piped up behind the massive napkin he used to wipe clean his mouth.
"They were all drunk," Miles spoke up. His eyes flicked over to Joe's office before zipping back to the map. "They were picked up for being drunk."
Joe shot Miles a grateful look; for the answer and for other things they'd never mentioned again.
"So the killer..." Kent said slowly, "hates drunks?"
"Funny way of showing it," Mansell muttered. "Stick them in a box, throw dirt on top of them, and wait 'til they die."
"But Tommy Carter is still alive," Riley pointed out. She indicated towards the map with her pen. "Unless he doesn't fit the pattern?"
"I believe Tommy was the killer's first try," Joe said. He shook his head—oh, not a good idea—and made his way to Tommy's board. He avoided looking at Tommy's ID photo from his employment's HR. Tommy, while he didn't smile, looked back at the camera calmly, eyes bright with reasoning. "The killer tried with Tommy over and over before Tommy was let go."
"Or escaped," Miles interjected. "Doubt the bastard let Tommy go out of the goodness of his heart."
"That probably pissed him off," Mansell commented. "Probably why he started grabbing more." He leaned back into his chair. It squeaked as he rocked. "So the sick bastard hates drunks, picks them up and put them in their very own drunk tank."
"The victims got drunk, frequently it looks like," Miles thought out loud. "They be easy pickings for the killer. He could just wait for them to stagger out and pluck them off the street without a fuss."
"But where?" Riley asked. She shot Mansell a narrowed look as his chair began to squeek like a demented squirrel. "The victims, they're from all over."
"All these roads Met picked them up from," Joe swept a palm over the dots, across the map before stopping. "Cross here, here and here. All residential, but one." He tapped on a spot. "Just on the edge of Whitechapel."
"Bassell street?" Kent read.
Joe nodded. "I think the victims met their killer there. Perhaps the killer even shared a drink with them. He may have lulled his victims into a false sense of safety as he watched and waited for the perfect opportunity."
"So we go to Bassell street, show their photos around and we got him!" Mansell punched a fist into his other palm.
Joe ticked off a smile. "I doubt it will ever be that easy, Mansell."
Mansell scoffed as he shrugged into his coat, his face flushed with the call of the hunt. "It's just one street. How many bars could there be?"
There were twelve.
Bassell was a noisy, dark yet crowded winding street saturated with people staggering out of pubs and spilling into the cobblestone road. No one paid mind to the three official cars with their sirens twirling blue on top.
Ray felt the others turn to glare at Mansell.
Finley raised his hands. "I didn't know! Honest!"
Ray spied Chandler slipping a hand in his coat pocket where he knew the glass jar was kept.
"Alright," Chandler said at last. "We split into pairs and take four each. No one goes into any of the bars alone. Is that clear?" After the collective mumbling, Joe sighed.
"I know this is a lot and we're all frustrated. We're close though. The closest we ever been. Keep hold of the victims' photos. We're sure to find some witnesses." He paused as one lady in a glittery gold tube top tittered by like a wobbly giraffe. She wiggled her fingers at Sanders and hiccupped "Buy me a drink, boys?"
"Hopefully sober ones," Chandler added weakly. Kent begrudgingly followed Mansell, who made a show of dropping his wedding ring in his pocket. He rolled up his sleeves and stalked towards the first pub almost bow-legged, Kent trailing behind him with slouched shoulders, all the enthusiasm of a condemned man.
Riley appeared torn between heading off with Sanders and trying to save Mansell from himself. Finally, she rolled her eyes and shot Ray a rueful look before trotting after Sanders.
Ray glanced over to Chandler. The almost nostril burning scent of Tiger Balm wafted over as Chandler used the cover of shadows to massage circles on his temples.
Ray's eyes moved to their section. Cross Tavern looked nothing like its namesake suggested: all glass and concrete. The sound emanating included fiddles and... rock music? Next to it, Crow's Nest was nearly silent and looked old-fashioned in comparison. The wood and stone structure had faint strains of canned music coming from it, which was almost drowned out by the heavy metal of Bar and Maiden across the street and the blaring Elton John from Pub Shock at the corner.
"Ready?" Ray asked. He winced at the idea of venturing into them, shouting to be heard, maneuvering through masses of kids who didn't appreciate a good head on a stout.
Chandler, smudges under his eyes, coughed into the back of a hand and wearily nodded.
"Let's try Crow's Nest first," Ray suggested. "I don't want to lose my hearing right away."
Chandler studied the subdued pub with a furrowed brow. He dragged his scrutiny over to Ray and the furrows carved deeper. Bugger, he shouldn't have been so quick to suggest something.
Jaw set, Chandler steered for Cross Tavern.
Swearing under his breath, Ray followed. He squashed down the temptation to pelt the idiot with the cherry red lozenges Sanders had slipped him.
Cross Tavern threw them out, the burly tattooed bartender shouting "Get out! We don't serve yer kind!" Joe thought it best to leave it to the uniforms before Miles started a row on principle.
"Excuse me," Joe shouted inside the Bar and Maiden at a bald man bobbing his head to the live band. "Excuse me. Sir!"
Turning around, the woman frowned. The disco lights gleamed off the ring piercing her left nostril. She had shaven off her eyebrows, too.
"Eh? You trying to be funny?"
People... weren't too cooperative after that.
"I don't think I've seen you here before."
Joe turned from the unhelpful bartender. Miles was still showing his photos to a small group of women behind him. Joe smiled faintly at the petite blonde leaning on the bar. She wore little make up, kept her hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail and, unlike others, wore her lingerie under her blue, graphic-less t-shirt.
"Actually, I'm here on official business. DI Chandler," he told her, showing her his warrant card before handing over the four photographs. "Have you seen any of these men before?"
An elegant brow arched as she accepted them. Blue eyes scanned each photo. She looked at Chandler, her brow creased.
"Are they trouble? Like rapists or something?"
"No," Chandler assured her. "Just wondering if you ever seen them before?"
The woman shook her head. "Maybe, but these bars, you meet so many people... No, sorry." She handed them back. "Sorry I couldn't be more help."
"It's alright." Chandler noted when she returned the photos, her nails were neatly trimmed short and modestly tinted with a light pink varnish.
"DI Chandler?" the woman said thoughtfully. "So that means you're a police officer? Do you carry handcuffs?"
Joe paused. "Well, yes, but I'm not here to arrest anyone."
The woman smiled at him. Puzzled, Joe smiled back.
"Pity," she suddenly purred before pressing her breasts onto his right arm. "Because I've been a naughty girl."
After Miles stopped sniggering, they went into Crow's Nest.
Joe watched Miles go around, picking out those who looked like potential witnesses. The others hadn't fared well and the euphoria he'd felt when he first clapped his eyes on the map was on its last embers.
A frothy pint was set down before him. Joe blinked at the golden glass, contents still fizzing, its sudsy top swelling to spill over the edge.
"You looked like you needed it." The bartender wiped the counter around the sweaty glass with broad sweeps of his rag. He grinned at Chandler, white teeth startlingly bright in the dark, nautical themed interior.
"First one's on the house but after the fourth one…" The bartender flexed his thick arms, "I may have to throw you out, mate."
Chuckling, Joe shook his head slightly and pushed the draft away with two fingers. "Thank you but no, I don't need a drink."
"You sure?" The bartender shrugged as he accepted the glass. He tipped its contents into the sink under the counter. "You look like a man who needs to drown his sorrows." He proceeded to clean the glass. Gray eyes examined it after he was done, inspecting for spots. "People usually only go to places like these to drink their troubles away."
"I'm not most people," Joe told him.
The bartender leaned closer, propped up by an elbow. It was impressive how he could manage to appear less towering with such a simple move.
"It's alright," the bartender coaxed. "I can keep a secret. I won't tell anyone."
Bemused, Joe arched an eyebrow. "I hope that's not true." He showed his warrant card.
The bartender raised his hands. "I check all IDs, honest," he protested, but his gray eyes were laughing.
Joe smiled in return. "I'm not here for that."
"Thank God, because I lied." The bartender winked. He sobered. "What can I do for you then?"
"Have you seen any of these men in your bar?"
The bartender picked up Joey Wester's picture, then Tommy Carter's. He paused over Alexander Chambers but shook his head over Frank Sage.
"I can't be sure. I think I might have tossed this bloke out before." The bartender tapped a finger on Joey Wester's photo. "Uh… Maybe last month? Two months ago?"
One month ago, Wester was being unearthed from Green Hills Cemetery.
Joe kept his smile on his face even as his stomach dropped. Disappointment soured in his throat.
The bartender looked at him. He brandished the cleaned glass.
"Now you really do look like you need a drink." The bartender's mouth crooked. "Guess I wasn't much help?" He looked at the photos again. He furrowed his brow and concentrated. He shook his head regretfully.
"No, nothing. Sorry. Look, I'll ask the staff around when they come in to cover me. Maybe they'll recognize them?"
This time, the smile was more genuine. Joe pulled out a business card. "Anything would help," he told the bartender. "You may call this number any time."
Gray eyes scanned the stiff white card. The bartender nodded.
"Right, I'll do that. If I find out anything, I'll let you know."
"Thank you," Joe said earnestly. "You would be a great help, Mister..."
The bartender flashed him a broad grin, pleased.
"Colbert. Alan Colbert. It would be an honor to help, DI Joseph Chandler
By the way, feedback is like cookies. I like cookies! LOL.
