Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

“Do you have any thoughts on the sequence of events?” asked Tony.

“Thoughts, young man. I don’t have thoughts. I give out facts based on my forty-two years experience” she cut back at him abruptly.

Despite the tone of her answer Tony Bullars quite liked being called young man, notwithstanding he was twenty-eight years old. Though he guessed to her he must appear quite young and fresh faced. Professor McCormack must be at least retirement age, he thought to himself, and his face creased into a smile.

“Before you arrived gentlemen I carefully removed her clothing. Her blouse had several buttons missing; torn off, and was open to the navel. Her bra had been lifted above her breasts and these would have been exposed. Her jeans were still on and fastened and she was also still wearing her panties. With that in mind and the nature of her injuries it leads me to believe that she was punched first in the nose and jaw area. Her clothing was either disturbed during this, but more than likely after the assault, which, in my opinion would have been violent enough to render her unconscious for a short time. She then came to and struggled, during which time she was stabbed repeatedly. Remember I told you she had defence injuries; like so.” The Professor proceeded to raise both her arms and shield her upper body and face. “The angulations of the incisions, and stab wounds, leave me to believe he was above her at the time. More than likely sat astride her. Many of these wounds would not have caused immediate death. What would have killed her without doubt was the stabbing to either of her eyes, or the slicing through of the chest wall to get to the heart, and or the strangulation. At this stage I do not know which was first, and which was final, though I am inclined to think that the removal of the heart was more a defiling act after she was dead.”

“How long had she been buried Professor?” Mike Sampson asked, as he tugged the zip of his white forensic suit down over his well-fed stomach.

“There are still quite a few tests to do on that front, but my experience tells me she has lain there for some considerable time. Best guess, ten to fifteen years.”

“Anything else I can take back for the briefing Professor?” enquired Tony.

“What I am fairly certain about from my examination of both this body and that of Rebecca Morris is that you are now dealing with two murders and one killer.”

DAY NINE: 14th July.

Bright morning sunshine filtered through the blinds, bathing Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw in a soft warm light. Leaning over the computer keyboard on his desk he entered his password and hit the return key. Then clasping his hands behind his head he leant back in his seat and stared at the screen. Forty-three messages and only two days had lapsed since he had last logged on. He scanned down the list and saw that the majority was In-Force spam, but he knew a few had to be opened up and responded to before his next Command Team briefing.

This was another one of those bugbears that had crept into the job. Though everyone knew the computer highway was a very effective vehicle for today’s modern police service, much of the system had been abused and was filled with dross that encroached on time that could be spent better elsewhere. His mind drifted back to his early days when they had relied on the ‘yellow message’ system for briefings, which were carefully sifted and scrutinized by the morning sergeant before they even came across his desk for actioning. He only wished the computer had its own similar ‘gatekeeper’ to save him time and energy. He sighed and stretched his well-muscled shoulders. Despite his forty-six years he had still managed to maintain his fifteen stone physique from his rugby playing days.

The previous evening he had spent a restless night fighting the adrenaline rush from the news that the latest discovery of the mummified body, murdered more than ten years ago, was now linked to the murder of Rebecca Morris. The identical marks gouged into each of the body’s stomach had confirmed it. No one had come back yet with answers as to what the marks meant. Especially puzzling had been the placing of the playing card on Rebecca’s chest. What had been the significance of that he had asked himself time and time again. He currently had officers combing the site around the latest body-find to see if a card had been left there as well.

He had poured himself a large glass of whisky before retiring to bed, but he had still fidgeted, mulling over the fact that he mustn’t allow the latest finding to overshadow Rebecca’s slaying, but run the two murder enquiries in tandem. Finally after fighting sleeplessness and seeing the dawn light creep through the fabric of the bedroom curtains he rose early, showered quickly, and drove the eight miles to work hardly noticing what the car radio was playing.

Closing the computer down, he scoured the handwritten sheets he had scribed late last night. They contained detailed notes on each of the murders, featuring all the relevant discoveries from the enquiries already carried out together with a list of fresh tasks that required working on today. There was a lot of work to do and he had to be very focused as he scribbled down further notes for the forthcoming briefing. He glanced up for a moment, and stared at some of his old personal photographs on the wall, particularly at the class photograph of his younger self, standing proudly in the middle row at Detective Training School at Wakefield.

Those had been amongst some of the best days of his career. How he wished he could turn the clock back and be more hands on. He found it so difficult not to get personally involved in a case and accept that his role was no longer operational. He now ‘flew a desk’. It was his job to sift and sort the evidence; to identify new leads; pick out suspects, or break down alibis. The greatest personal satisfaction he could hope for was picking out that crucial bit of information from an action or statement through his meticulous reading and careful observation, that others had missed and which would initiate that first step to catching their killer.

Placing the cap back on his Waterman fountain pen he picked up his notes, pushed himself up from his desk and walked out of his office and down the corridor. He could hear the familiar voices of some of his HOLMES team beginning their preparations for the day, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee teased his nostrils. Entering the MIT office he spotted the new incident white boards that had been erected. There were timelines for each of the victims. The latest one displayed the rotted face of Jane Doe. He knew the immediate task was identifying the unidentified, placing a name to that gruesome form, which had once been a young girl. Without that how could they uncover her lifestyle; her habits; where she hung out and whom she associated with? That valuable information was the crux of the matter right now. He knew how important it was that Jane Doe became a somebody whom he could give back to her family.

He quickly reviewed photos of the scene, looked at the dental x-rays and combed through the post mortem report. He knew behind the scenes that attempts would be being made to obtain finger prints from the corpse, and also that one of the detective’s would have the sole task of making the numerous phone calls to track down the orthodontist who did her dental work. At the same time forensic would be working with the clothing and other articles found on the body.

His mind was finalising the day’s assignments as members of the team filtered into the briefing room. He fixed his gaze on a few of them and acknowledged their arrival with a firm smile.

Morning briefing began at eight am. He satisfied himself that all who should be here were here, glanced at his watch, and cleared his throat.