J. Ellison - The Cold Room

“Smetta di muoversi!” Folarni was yelling. Stop moving.

The man, Taylor didn’t know if it was Gavin or Tommaso, turned slowly, miming putting his hands up. He still held the skillet. Taylor could see it was glowing red-hot, a formidable weapon should they try to get close without disabling him. With Folarni and the other cops shouting at him, he slowly turned from the fire, bent at the waist, then put the skillet facedown on the rough tile floor.

He looked at her then, right into her eyes, and kept eye contact as he slammed both his hands down onto the burning flat of the skillet. He screamed, bloodcurdling, but never looked away. She could tell he was going to faint, there was no way anyone could withstand that kind of pain. His face red and sweating, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. The skillet still smoked with burning flesh; when he landed he was very close to it and his shirt caught on fire.

“Aqua, aqua,” Folarni was yelling, but Memphis had already grabbed an open bottle of wine and dumped it on the man’s shirt. It splashed out the fire, spread across the white fabric like a bloodstain, growing until it dribbled off the edges.

“What in the hell are they doing?” Memphis asked.

Baldwin holstered his weapon, leaned back against the cracked plaster wall.

“Christ. They were burning off their fingerprints so we won’t be able to tell them apart.”

Forlarni was cursing, rummaging through the bundle of rags that held the dead girl. He opened the wrapping, whispered a prayer over her body and crossed himself.

The brothers had collapsed against the far wall, unconscious, though one of them was beginning to stir. Taylor resisted the urge to kick him in the groin. The smell in the room was terrible, the sour reek of fear coupled with urine and burnt meat, the underlying note of decomposition. The girl had been dead for some time, one of Folarni’s men estimated that she was at least a few days gone. They were doing their best to find out who she was.

The brother who was stirring opened his eyes. It was the one who was already burned and unconscious when they arrived. He took in the scene, looking at them under hooded eyes.

His hands were mangled. Skin dangled from the edges like leaves falling from a winter dead tree. He was white-faced, obviously in great pain. He looked at Taylor, swiveled his head to the right and saw his brother passed out next to him, his shirt red from the wine.

He turned back to Taylor and stared at her.

Then he started to laugh.

The scene was starting to wrap up, the Italians efficient and capable. They’d transported the brothers, dealt with the dead body, and were conducting a thorough forensics search throughout the house and the surrounding grounds. Tommaso’s car had been located; a veritable treasure trove of evidence. Taylor watched the carabinieri officers, wishing there was more that she could do to help, then contented herself with making some notes for her report. She couldn’t help but smile to herself; they’d just scored a massive coup. Two serial killers, two continents, four jurisdictions, countless lives affected. If this didn’t put her back into the good graces of her administration, she didn’t know what would.

Memphis and Baldwin were off in a corner, talking about something. Memphis glanced over at her. His blue eyes were dark and dangerous, and she felt that crazy pull in her gut. She wondered what they were talking about, but dismissed it. There were more important things to worry about, like getting this investigation closed. Capturing their suspects was going to be just the beginning.

Baldwin and Memphis finished their discussion. Baldwin shot a glance her way then went outside. Memphis casually walked over to her. She nodded at him, not wanting to encourage him too much. For once, Memphis had something else on his mind.

“Good job, Miss Jackson,” he said softly. “We wouldn’t have caught them without your insights.”

She accepted the compliment gracefully. “It was a team effort. We all played a part.”

“Well said. Unfortunately, it looks like our time here is drawing to a close. I’ve been called back to London. I’m supposed to leave late tonight, but I’m stalling for more time.”

“Oh. Well, we can handle the rest of this, no problem. The investigation is just starting, really. There’s so much to do, especially with the extradition. We’re going to be up to our ears for a while.”

“I am well aware of that,” he said, eyes flashing in anger.

“Hey, don’t get pissed at me. It’s not my fault.”

“I’m not pissed at you. I have several open cases that need attention. The powers that be want briefings.” He touched her arm briefly, made her meet his eyes. “And I think it might be a good idea to go home.”

She understood exactly what he was talking about.

“Yes. I think so, too.” She cleared her throat. “We can funnel information to you as it comes. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you. I believe I’m in need of some fresh air,” Memphis said. He left the cottage; the void was palpable and left her wondering what she really felt toward him.

She needed to get Memphis out of her head. She needed to focus on this case, on getting back home, getting her career back on track, on getting married. And the best way she knew to do that, was work.

I t seemed unreal that they’d been in Italy for just two days. Taylor felt like she’d been here for at least a month.

At least she had one worry out of her hair. With Memphis being called back to New Scotland Yard, the tension level would dip dramatically. The Macellaio case complete for the time being, his superiors weren’t willing to continue footing the bill, not when he had other cases to wrap up. She didn’t mind taking on the extra work. Distance from Highsmythe would be a blessed thing.

The brothers had been transported to the hospital of Santa Maria Nouva, were being treated for second-degree burns on their fingers and palms. It was a crude attempt to erase their identities, but not enough for a permanent solution. The burns were severe, but they would heal without grafts. A third-degree burn might have worked, but the only real way to completely abrade their fingertips would be concentrated acid or plastic surgery. And even then, the result would leave them with a unique impression that could be identified from here on out.

Taylor knew what they were trying to do. It made a sick kind of sense. The police couldn’t tell the twins apart from their DNA, but they would have easily been able to discern who was who from their fingerprints. No fingerprints, no way to tell the two apart, and no way the governments of either country could separate them until they discovered who was who.

Thankfully, the police were smarter than the twins.

She and Baldwin were congregated in the hallway outside the brothers’ room. The carabinieri had seen no reason why the brothers shouldn’t be housed together; space was at a premium in this hospital, and they were handcuffed to the railings of their beds. Their doctor, an elegantly coiffed ebony-haired woman with a Sicilian accent, gave her assessment in crisp English.

“Their fingertips will heal eventually. The burning is severe, but only what we call second degree. There will be extensive scarring, but they have not permanently eradicated their fingerprints. Patient A is the worse of the two. It looks like his hands were held on the skillet for a longer period of time than Patient B. His burns are slightly more severe, and as such we’ve scheduled him for a debridement in the morning to remove the remainder of the dead flesh. Patient B does not require quite this level of treatment.”

“How long will it be until they are healed enough for us to try?” Baldwin asked.