There were very few moments that Tseng had to himself, and the early morning was the time he appreciated the most. Everything else was measured in minutes and seconds stolen here and there - in the elevator, a stairwell, leaning his head against the wall of a restroom in the hopes that the cool metal walls of a toilet stall might even briefly relieve the tension headache that had made its home in his skull and rarely abated during the past several months. Ever since the SOLDIER and Administrative Research departments had created an alliance to depose, and execute, the former President of Shinra and most of the board in one single day of joint bloodshed.
The previous heads of the pseudo government that was the Shinra Corporation should really have given more thought about the consequences of misusing the most dangerous people in their employ. Zack Fair was beloved of nearly everyone in SOLDIER, and the report that he had been killed in action had been taken rather badly - and then the good Professor Hojo had casually ordered Tseng to clean up the mess his 'perfect specimen' had made of the town of Nibelheim without first making certain that no one who had enjoyed Fair's company would come across the new experimental subjects and react poorly because of it. He'd also not done well in hiding what he'd done to one of the best and brightest of the Turks some twenty-eight years previously, and had not only left a damning paper trail but a mangled but still breathing body behind as well.
All of this had led to the near-collapse of the entire company, and it all teetered on the edge of anarchy but for the quick and efficient efforts of the Turks and a few of the more brilliant minds in the SOLDIER program. Albrecht Kunsel was the go between for the two departments, and Tseng was considering naming him the Director of SOLDIER at this point - many wanted to offer the position to Fair, but Tseng had suffered through the younger man's mission and budget reports enough times that he was loathe to risk it. He didn't think Fair would want to be tethered to a desk for nearly half the time he'd be required to, regardless of the fact that he had the confidence of every one of the men who would be his subordinates. Kunsel, on the other hand, would do excellently at it, and Tseng resolved to make it happen by the end of the week.
Muffling a groan, he turned over in bed, stared at the still dark window and contemplated, as he did every morning, whether he could get away with sleeping even a half an hour longer. He settled for sitting up and tucking his pillow behind him as he opened his PHS and began to check his texts. He flicked on the news as he did so, letting the five-am weather report wash over him in soothing tones. Sunny and cold, precipitation on the horizon that would bring in the winter rainy season.
Reno and Rude reported that their charge, Rufus Shinra, was behaving himself. The heir to the throne, as it were, was only so on paper. He hadn't particularly endeared himself to anyone, although he was highly preferable to his father and some of the younger Turks enjoyed his company - but camaraderie wasn't enough for real trust just yet.
Cissnei sent him medical reports for Fair, Valentine, and the Strife boy - the latter of which was showing little change from the weeks before. Fair was doing well, and Valentine surprisingly well. Cissnei herself was recovering from the bullet wound that had come too close to her heart for comfort, and was itching to get out of the hospital and onto the trail of her would-be murderer. Hojo had managed to slither out of the trap they'd set, killing two of his assistants who might have had the most valuable information before disappearing into tunnels no one had been able to scout beneath the mansion he'd set up shop in.
Emma, having returned to the fold once the President's death was confirmed, was slowly accumulating evidence for every laboratory the former head of the Science department had hidden away. Tseng would have much preferred that the money Hojo had siphoned away was into private entertainment accounts and not into inhumane research that the former board had approved of. At least Palmer had been embezzling for purely capitalistic selfishness. That was understandable, and publicly prosecutable. Hidden laboratories and mass graves of experimental subjects were greatly contributing to Tseng's never ending headaches.
"Breaking news from the Undercity," an urgent voice announced to a dramatic sting of music, and Tseng looked up wearily as lurid red and blue lights flashed on the screen of the television sitting on his dresser, "another body has been found in the slums, this time just outside of the Wall Market in Sector Seven. Lucian Byron is on the scene, what can you tell us about the incident this morning?"
The smaller image in the corner expanded to fill the screen, showing an alley already brightly lit by the sun lamps attached beneath the plate. A white sheet was draped over a prone figure, the pale tips of the body's fingers visible just beneath one edge before a security officer stepped in between the news reporter and the scene beyond.
"The Slums-Slasher has struck again, leaving another poor victim behind without a single witness coming forward."
Tseng rolled out of bed and turned the television off, any further moments of quiet reflection relegated to the shower and the careful grooming ritual that settled him firmly into the proper headspace he needed to make it through the day. Migraine tablets had been the only addition to his routine since the coup, and they were hidden from view in an inaccessible spot - he couldn't afford even the smallest visible weakness. The makeup dabbed beneath his eyes to cover the dark circles and eye drops to hide redness had been necessary since long before he'd become the leader of the Turks.
Clean, dressed, and groomed within an inch of his life, he knelt in front of the tiny altar that he kept in a recess beneath his bed during the day. He held the small pot of black cream between his palms, made from the ashes of a feather from the Phoenix incarnate, summoned by a priestess and given freely. He settled into a breathing exercise, putting the stress of the day out of his mind for one-hundred and eight heartbeats.
It was the most vulnerable he ever allowed himself to become, focusing everything on the brief ritual that he clung to even after the rest of his family had long since given it up. The Ninja may have surpassed and replaced the Jinyiwei nearly a century ago in Wutai, but the exiled members of that class did not forget, nor did they forgive. He had joined the Turks to keep that part of his history alive, when most other descendants chose to leave it behind and create new lives. Tseng forgave them, although his grandfather had said he himself was incapable of it. It was a hard life, and one not meant for most - a life dedicated to the brief existences of those who followed the Phoenix, swiftly burning out and kindling again in their next incarnation.
He dipped the end of the sandalwood stick into the small pot, leaving another indentation amongst the marks of thousands of days, and gently placed the tilak between his brows. A mark of service and a hope for peace - whatever peace there was available to a Turk, at least. Packing everything away and sliding the altar back into place, he rose and tweaked the sleeves of his suit jacket, adjusting his tie just so before pulling on his gloves.
Two handguns were nestled in the holsters beneath his ribs, just accessible through the lapels of his jacket. Four throwing knives, two hi-potions, a tuft of phoenix down that was as much charm as medicine, all found their places in various pockets and the dagger sheaths on his forearms - arranged just so to avoid leaving a tell-tale line on his jacket or pants. After a moment's thought, he tucked two pairs of medical gloves and a disposable face mask into a pocket as well. The morgue that serviced half the slums Sectors beneath the plate was always understaffed and underserved as far as protective equipment went, and he'd rather not examine a corpse with substandard material protecting him from vectors for disease.
The narrow roads of the slums required Tseng to travel on foot from the train station to the hospital that serviced the undercity Sectors of Seven through Eight. People didn't quite cringe away from Tseng's presence, but they kept a respectful distance all the same. The trash that accumulated along the sides of the street and clogged the gutters was a problem he would need to bring up to Tuesti, who was the sole remaining member of the board that hadn't been expeditiously replaced. The man was relieved to have the opportunity to do that job he'd been promoted for in the first place, and Tseng would enable that as well as he could.
The sun lamps that illuminated the slums made it far warmer than it was above the Plate, making the smell of rotting refuse even more unpleasant. The transition from the sweltering outside and the chilly interior of the hospital was even more pronounced. The fetid smell was replaced by that of sickness and bleach, and that was likewise replaced by the scent of formaldehyde as he passed from the first floor of the building and down the stairs to the morgue beneath it. The elevator had a perpetual 'out of order' sign, and the only way to traverse the different floors with patients was through the means of a freight elevator that had never been intended for such egress.
His footsteps had a hollow echo as he made his way down the hallway. The fluorescent lighting was dim, the bulbs old and occasionally wont to flicker as he passed them. The walls were a uniform green, the exposed pipes faded beige and repaired in places with poorly painted over water stains beneath them. Still, the hospital was functional and almost entirely free, at least for routine visits. All paid for by rich socialites on the Plate who wanted to be seen supporting the impoverished - with glossy magazine articles and television advertisements of ragged children and hollow eyed adults being simpered over by benefactors wearing shoes that were worth more than their donations of course.
Tseng's calm composure cracked the slightest bit as he stepped into the room with the body of the newest victim. The pale skin and long brown hair were concerningly familiar. The rest of the body, covered modestly in a white sheet, was clearly lean and slender, and Tseng forced his expression to smoothen as he took measured steps forward to examine the woman's face. Relief took the tension from his shoulders and he released the automatic grip of his fists to smooth his hands down the front of his suit jacket.
The victim did look remarkably similar to Aerith, and one could not spend over half their life looking after someone without becoming attached. He brought up the images of the four other victims in his mind's eye and wondered how he hadn't made the connection before. The killer had a 'type', as many such individuals did, and it did nothing to help him to make a profile. An uncountable number of women in the slums were pale skinned and brown haired, and a good portion of them would have light colored eyes of blue or green.
"It's a mess under the sheet," the doctor Tseng had yet to acknowledge said, snapping on a pair of clean gloves and adjusting them. His face was covered with a thin plastic shield and Tseng could see some sort of balm smeared shiny beneath his nose. "We've still got the last body, a Jane Doe with nobody coming forward to claim her - but down here sometimes people do that to avoid having to pay the cremation fees so we might not ever get an ID."
"And this one?" Tseng asked, following suit and replacing leather gloves with the medical ones from his pocket. The face mask did nothing to alleviate the sickly smell of decay that lingered in the morgue despite the air filters and disinfectant. It did at least cover the grimace he allowed himself as the sheet was pulled down though.
"Sheila Moore, age twenty-two. Like the others, the victim has been cut open with a Y incision and her organs removed and then put back before getting stitched up postmortem."
It was clear that their killer, unimaginatively named the 'Slums-Slasher', had some kind of medical background. It could mean anything from a veterinarian to a doctor practicing in this very hospital, which only barely narrowed down any possible suspects. The dark bruises around the body's wrists and ankles showed how she'd been restrained, and the inner curves of her arms were a mess of track marks from needles.
The woman's skin was cold through Tseng's gloves as he assisted the doctor in examining the body - he was no medical professional himself, but he was familiar with acts of physical violence and torture. If things hadn't been so imbalanced, this wasn't the sort of the leader of the Turks would be involved in. There were, however, no detectives worth the name in the undercity - there had been local police forces in the early days of the Plates being built, but they'd slowly trickled up to the cleaner and less desperate districts above. The local 'neighborhood watch' groups in the slums Sectors were good for monster eradication and petty crime, but this was far outside their wheelhouse. Doing nothing was not an option, and Tseng would do his duty in the absence of anyone more appropriate.
The doctor pointed out the pertinent details, and his own disturbed expression couldn't be hidden behind the translucent mask. "She was alive when the vivisection began," he said, "maybe even right up to when the heart was removed…" The woman's lower lip was reddened, her tongue and the inside of one cheek bruised and marked by teeth. "And also conscious, probably until going into shock.
"There's one good thing we have with this one that we didn't have before," the doctor continued as he pulled the sheet back up, this time covering the victim's face, "missing person's report says she's been gone for just about five days. Looking back at the one before last, she'd also been listed as a no show at her job five days before being dumped outside of the collapsed expressway in Sector Five."
Tseng nodded thoughtfully - it was a pattern, although one that might not be caught before the next victim disappeared. And there would be another one, likely in the next few weeks. The killings had begun six months ago, and each subsequent victim had been taken closer and closer together. The bodies had all been found redressed in the clothing they'd been abducted in with their wounds hastily stitched closed, all within walking distance from Wall Market.
Occasionally, Tseng regretted the exercises he'd spent so much time on to improve his memory. The 'method of loci' was an invaluable tool in gathering, categorizing, and recalling any information that he pressed indelibly into his memory. The permanency of it was the point, but there were times that he rather wished he could wipe some images and ideas away cleanly - and that definitely involved the images of mutilated women with an eerie resemblance to his decade and a half long charge. He put the images, the memories, aside - fitting them into medical charts on the doors of otherwise featureless clinical hallways in his memory palace.
He brought up a new set, information kept in neat folders on his desk that he rifled mental fingers through. The retired detective in Junon had been an invaluable resource, having spent a good few years of his career hunting more than one serial killer in the years before and after the Republic's defeat. The final one that had led to the detective's early retirement had taken advantage of the war. He got away with most of his crimes unnoticed by taking refugees and survivors of Shinra's overwhelming military might to stay beneath the radar. His crimes had also ramped up the more and more he evaded law enforcement, the thrill and satisfaction lasting less and less time between kills and eventually becoming sloppy enough to get himself caught. He'd been apprehended literally red-handed, standing over the body of his final victim.
Spending so much time integrating the different modus operandi of various killers into his memory, Tseng wasn't certain what it said about himself that he was concerned that there was not an apparent sexual motivation. Unless, that is, the killer's paraphilias were so extremely twisted that psychologists would spend the next twenty years unraveling them. It would have been helpful to narrow things down if they could cross reference criminal records for histories with sex crimes alongside violence, and the clear medical knowledge required for such devastating expertise in this unique sort of torture.
Still, he would use that as a parameter in ordering one of his people to put in the research - regardless of lack of evidence of a sexual component to the crimes, the victims were all conventionally attractive with similar features. The killer clearly had a 'type'. He allowed himself an inaudible sigh as he climbed the stairs. As horrifying as it would be, he almost wished that the killer would find his next victim above the plate - at least then the Sector police departments would be the ones responsible for cleaning up the mess.
Back out in the street, he flipped open his PHS and dialed a number he knew by heart - Tseng memorized all the contact numbers and email addresses he could possibly need, keeping his 'contact list' mentally pinned on the wall next to the ancient rotary phone in his childhood home. It was inappropriate in the extreme to have such information in a device that could be stolen if someone put in enough effort.
"Aerith," he spoke quietly as she answered, "stay away from Wall Market, I don't have the man-power to watch over you."
That was the most likely area that the killer was using as his hunting grounds - and it wasn't as though it weren't already a hot-bed of missing and endangered people, especially women. Not everyone who was forced into a life of sex work could be lucky enough to be snapped up by the Honeybee Inn, or brave enough to seek out Madame M whose employees peddled as much violence as sex. Most simply worked out of bars and on street corners, and so many of them vanished that it was impossible to keep up - particularly when most were never reported missing or were even recorded as having existed in the city at all.
He slipped his PHS into his pocket once his charge had promised, a little overly-cheerful, that she wouldn't go near the place until he said it was okay. She'd been, genuinely, more happy and relaxed since the coup - at least someone could be, he supposed, and he understood very well that it was a relief to her. Without the President or Professor Hojo to order her retrieval to the Tower her life had become much easier.
The burden of the possibility of receiving said orders; Tseng did admit, eased his mind as well. Hojo was a monster, but a deviously intelligent one. The professor might still be missing, but Midgar was indisputably the last place he would be turning up.