This chapter was inspired by the song 'If Love is a Crime' by Anastacia, although it is certainly a different take on the lyrics.

If Love is a Crime

Gilbert sighed, leaning forward on his elbows and running his hands through his hair. He stared at the photograph in front of him. His eyebrow twitched.

He had spent seven years on the force as a police officer; fifteen years as an investigator, and he had never seen anything like it:

An attractive 'mug shot'.

He was a young man, caught somewhere between adolescence and adulthood with rounded cheeks and broad shoulders. He looked a little vacant in the photograph. His eyes were wide and haunted. Captivating.

The photograph was printed in shades of grey but the file listed his eye colour as 'purple'. Odd.

His curls licked at his ears and brushed his collarbone. There was the lightest smattering of freckles across his nose, scarcely visible. His mouth was barely open, his lips slightly parted.

But it was his eyes, really. He was drawn to his eyes, over and over again. He had been staring at the photograph for almost half an hour.

"So… He killed someone, then?"

The detective across from him snorted and snubbed his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Try thirteen. We've pinned thirteen murders on this one; twelve men and one dame. And man, was she gorgeous. Terrible shame, that."

Gilbert flipped through the file in front of him, passing the burnt remains of the victims and landing on a newspaper clipping. The woman in the clipping was beautiful, in a cloche hat and ribbon. She had big eyes, long eyelashes, and a gentle smile.

"His… Wife?"

"Fiancée."

"Hmm…" Gilbert scanned the article but it was a society piece; littered with name dropping and fundraisers. There was nothing of importance. "Now, why'd he go and do a thing like that?"

The detective shrugged.

"Search me. He refused counsel. That's why we called you in. We've been working him over for days and zip! Nadda! He's fibbing 'bout something, I just know it."

Gilbert glanced up.

"I trust he hasn't been harmed."

"Ah, just a little. He didn't even squeak."

He snapped the folder closed and stood up, pushing the chair in behind him. Cretins. He gestured down the corridor.

"I'll take it from here. Interrogation room five, right?"

"Yeah, that's the…"

The detective trailed off. Gilbert was already gone, stomping past the coffee pot and a dozen startled officers.

"Well, you've certainly found yourself in a fine mess, Mr. Williams."

The blonde sat back in his chair and looked up at him. He was handcuffed to the thin wooden table in front of him, as if that would do anything; he was easily six feet tall. Taller, even.

"I don't believe we've met, officer."

Gilbert paused in the doorframe, stunned by his unexpected politeness, and gazed into his eyes. Oh man. 'Purple' did not even begin to cover it. They were violet, and brighter than he would have thought possible.

Matthew Williams stared back, calm and patient.

"Not an officer," he cleared his throat and closed the door. "Not anymore. Investigator. Do you know why they called me in?"

Matthew smiled, but it was a little tight around the corners.

"Oh dear. I've upset them, haven't I?"

Gilbert chuckled and set a stack of file folders on the table. He crouched down beside Matthew and unlocked his handcuffs.

"That's putting it mildly." Gilbert sank into the chair across from him and kicked his feet up. He threaded his fingers together and settled his hands on his stomach. "But I don't care, really."

Matthew massaged his wrists and studied him.

"Alright…"

"Why'd you do it, Matthew? Thirteen murders. You don't seem the type."

"Twelve," he interrupted him.

"What?"

"Twelve murders. I killed twelve men."

Gilbert reached forward and flicked open the first folder. He scanned the contents.

"So, what, you're just not counting… Miss Yekaterina Braginski? Oh, that's a mouthful."

"No, because I did not kill her."

"But you killed these other men?"

"Yes."

"… Just like that?"

"Yes."

Gilbert frowned.

"You're looking at back-to-back to sentences, here. Where's your solicitor?"

"I refused counsel."

"But your rights clearly state that…"

"I know my rights, Mr…"

"Beilschmidt."

"I know my rights, Mr. Beilschmidt, but I also know 'right' from 'wrong'. What I did was 'wrong'. I accept that."

"But they've got you pinned on thirteen murders, not twelve. Doesn't that matter?"

"Not to her. She's already dead." Matthew placed his hands on the table, palms up. "And I have nothing to hide."

"They'll nail you to the wall." Gilbert cocked an eyebrow, intrigued.

"I'm counting on it."

"So you're not sorry, then? No excuses? Regrets?"

"I'm not sorry I did it; they deserved it. For what they did to her…" He trailed off and his eyes darkened. Suddenly, he seemed the type. "For what they did, they deserved to die. I'm not even sorry I was caught. You've obviously read my file; I set the house on fire and waited twenty minutes before ringing the fire brigade. And then I waited for the police to arrive. I turned myself in."

"After you hacked them into itty, bitty pieces."

"Yes."

Gilbert scratched the back of his head.

"I don't get you, Mr. Williams," he huffed. "I really don't. You'll be hanged for this, y'know."

Matthew lowered his gaze to his open hands. He clenched his fingers and formed a fist before deliberately loosening his grip again. He repeated the process a couple of times.

"… Have you ever been in love, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

He blinked.

"Uhm, no, I've never had the pleasure."

Matthew smiled thinly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Pity. It would look good on you," Matthew supposed under his breath. Gilbert flushed. "But if you've never fallen in love… Well, I'm not sure I can explain it to you. What I did was horrible, but I did it out of love. I did it for Katyusha. It would break her heart if she knew what I did, but I did it for her. And I will never regret that."

Gilbert tucked the folder under his arm and sat up. He leaned forward.

He understood why they had called him in; Matthew said the most unreasonable things in such a reasonable tone of voice. He had outlined every grisly detail, every gruesome step with a certain sincere, composed grace. He had spooked the other detectives.

It was not that he had refused to talk; it was the fact that what he had said seemed so fanciful, so implausible. An honest murderer? They had refused to believe him.

But after meeting Matthew... After speaking with him…

Gilbert believed him.

"You're going to have to come with me."

"I thought you'd never ask. I've been here for days."

"I'm taking you to prison."

"That is the sort of place murderers end up, yes."

"… It's not too late to request a solicitor."

"Thank you, but no."

Gilbert pushed back his chair. For the first time in twenty two years, he felt conflicted. He had always believed in justice, in the law, but he had read the autopsy report. He knew what had happened to Yekaterina Braginski. He had nearly thrown up. And if those men were responsible… Well…

Perhaps they had deserved it.

"You'll stay there until your trial is over, which could take months, maybe years. Even if you plead guilty. And then you'll be hanged."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Gilbert bit his lip. He liked Matthew; he really, really liked him. There was something about his eyes, his mannerisms, his inflection... Under different circumstances, they could have been friends.

"You're a very interesting man."

Matthew extended his hands with a low chuckle, baring his wrists. Gilbert clicked the handcuffs closed, an inch above the previous red welts. He slipped his finger underneath to guarantee circulation.

"I know."

He helped him up, ducking his head and holding out an arm. Matthew settled his left hand on his forearm, tender and warm. He brushed his fingers over his jacket.

"… I'll visit!" Gilbert blurted out, tripping over his own tongue as the words slipped past his lips. He knew that he should take it back, that it was a recipe for disaster, but he felt compelled. Charmed. "I'll visit you in prison."

Matthew gaped, astonished. Then he smiled.

His heart skipped a beat.

"I'd like that."

Author's Notes:

This was fun to write. I love writing stories like this. Can you imagine if your first love was a convicted mass murderer? It happens, I guess. Love can find you at any time in your life, under any circumstances. It can find you more than once, too.

I suppose that this is set in the 1920's or 1930's, depending, and in North America somewhere. It's a little gruesome, maybe. I actually prefer to write Canada as the 'bad guy' when I have the chance; I just think that he'd be better at it. He'd certainly be more disconcerting, anyway.