A Killing Mind

He arranged the cards carefully and neatly before retrieving two more small freezer bags from inside the plastic box and placed them side by side on the table. Again he took a deep breath to steady himself before emptying the first bag, which was marked with a number 1 in permanent marker. The nails and teeth slid out in front of him – the teeth rattling on the table like dice, whereas the nails sounded like tinkling raindrops. He picked up a few of the nails and dropped them into the palm of his other hand. They were still coated with cheap red nail varnish that blended perfectly with the traces of her blood. He hoped they would never fade. It may be necessary to repaint them if it did.

As he held the nails he could picture them as they had been when they were attached to the young woman’s slim fingers. They’d possibly been her best feature. That and her crystal blue eyes that were yet to be destroyed by whatever drug she was addicted to. He remembered her eyes staring into his in disbelief as she realized he had come to end her existence. He sighed almost happily at the memory before delicately spilling the nails from his palm back on to the table.

Next he picked up the teeth one by one and dropped them into the palm of his hand. Molars with gold fillings and other lesser teeth that showed little decay or staining. As young teeth should, despite her lifestyle. He pinched one of the molars from his palm and held it up to the light as if he were examining a diamond – slightly twisting and rotating it as he took in every detail of the tooth – every curve and peak – every scratch on the enamel. Finally he held it under his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply – each trace of its dead owner bringing exquisite memories of pulling them from her jaw flooding back. How he wished she’d been fully alive and conscious when he’d gone to work on her, but it would have been all but impossible to perform the extractions on a struggling victim.

Satisfied with the relics of his first victim’s death, he ritually placed all the items on top of the clip-seal bag and put them to one side. His back straightened as he took hold of the other bag – glancing at the photographs of the living William Dalton before sliding the seal open and allowing the odour of its contents to rush at him. To the uninitiated, the scents were barely detectable, but to him they were as vivid and raw as the smell of a zoo – animalistic and pungent.

He carefully tipped the contents on to the table and shifted them about with the tips of his fingers – ensuring each itemhad its own space to shine before picking up one of the larger fingernails that he assumed must be a thumbnail. It, like all the others, was in poor condition. The dark dried blood, mixed with the dirt that had built up over months of not being able to clean himself properly, had left the nails looking much older than they were. They looked as if they’d been taken from a body that had been buried for years – brittle, broken and jagged at the tips. But they were no less precious to him. He’d enjoyed killing the prostitute more, but the homeless man was still an experience beyond most people’s stunted and dull imagination. In any case, it was important that his second victim was a man so the police and media would know he wasn’t some perverted sex offender. They needed to understand he was much, much more than that.

He swapped the nail for a clean-looking molar, although the root was stained with the victim’s blood – the sight of it ignited images of the nearly dead homeless man lying on his back and gurgling on his own blood as it slipped down his throat. The memory pleased him and made his muscles tense as he remembered the power he’d felt as he crouched over the dying man. It was as if he was absorbing the victim’s energy, becoming more powerful with each new kill.

Without knowing why, he was suddenly overcome with the urge to taste the tooth, to engulf it in his tongue and roll it around his mouth. Wary of sucking the blood and odour away, he made do instead with delicately placing the tip of the tooth against the point of his tongue and holding it there – his eyes closing with the pleasure of it as his entire body became aroused. Removing the tooth, he cursed his body’s physical reaction and knew that otherswould use it as evidence that his actions were driven by sexual needs. But he knew they were not. Yes, he’d ejaculated inside the dying prostitute and done things to the dying homeless man, but they were not sexual acts. His body had simply become so electrified by the power he felt that it was overwhelmed with every sensation – as if he was feeling every emotion and physical feeling a person could ever have, only he was feeling it all at the same time. It was too much for any person to control – even one as strong as he was. Ejaculating in and on his victims had merely been an emergency release – to allow him to regain control of his own growing power. Still, he knew he needed to do better in the future and suppress his body’s crude needs when in a heightened state of stimulation. It was either that or risk forever being branded as a sexually motivated killer, which would undermine everything he was trying to achieve.

Using a breathing exercise he’d picked up from a yoga video, he tried to calm his tense body and relax. The killings had left him feeling invincible, but it was gratifying to know he remained in complete control of his own body.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence, he picked up the photographs and mementoes, placing them neatly in their bags before packing them tenderly into the plastic box that he returned to the freezer compartment of his fridge. As he closed the door he was already debating what type of person he should choose next.

3 (#u1874dcf4-f5f4-5e4c-b502-07a120d0e604)

Sean pulled up close to the police cordon in Mint Street, Southwark – the area of London south of the Thames from the City. Some of that wealth had spilled across the river, but the financial institutions clung to the bankside like limpets, leaving the south side of the river dominated by sprawling housing estates. It was an area he knew well.

He was about to climb from the car when his phone rang. Cursing under his breath, he struggled to free the phone from his jacket and looked at the caller ID. It was Dr Anna Ravenni-Ceron. His heart skipped a beat and his stomach tightened. It had been a good few months since he’d spoken to the psychiatrist. He’d hoped distance and time would fade his feelings towards her – remove the temptation she always seemed to represent when they were close. Now another murder investigation appeared to be bringing them back together. He cleared his throat and slid his finger across the screen to answer.

‘Anna,’ was all he said.

‘Sean,’ was all she replied.

They allowed a few seconds of silence between them before Anna spoke first. ‘How have you been?’

‘OK,’ he answered, shrugging as if she could see him. ‘Busy with other people’s problems.’

‘I heard,’ she told him. ‘How’s Kate? How are your kids?’

‘Good,’ he replied. ‘And you?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Though finding life dull, compared to being part of an SIU investigation.’

‘And now you are again,’ he reminded her.

‘Only if I want to be,’ she explained. ‘And only if you want me to be.’ He didn’t answer – her question making his mind swirl too much to be able to speak. Did he want to be close to her again? Every day. ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis wants me on the investigation.’

‘Featherstone told me.’

‘Right,’ she replied.

‘I assume Addis wants the same as always?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t met him yet,’ she explained, ‘but I’m assuming so.’

‘Keep an eye on me while pretending to be helping profile the killer,’ Sean spelt it out, ‘and report back to him on whether I can be … trusted.’

‘I would imagine,’ Anna agreed, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, our arrangement stands.’

Sean thought hard for a while. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘If Addis ever found out you were feeding everything back to me, he could make things very difficult for you.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she reassured him. ‘I’m not a police officer. There’s a limit to what he can do to me – whereas you …’

‘I’m an asset,’ he reminded her. ‘It buys me some leeway, even with Addis.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked him bluntly.

He chewed his bottom lip for a few seconds. ‘Meet him,’ he found himself saying, although in his mind he was urging her to walk away from him, from Addis and the Special Investigations Unit and never come back. ‘Find out what he wants and if it’s the same as always, agree to do it. At least that way if he decides to come after me I’ll have a heads-up.’

‘OK,’ she agreed solemnly.

He sensed her unhappiness, how confused her feelings were. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have to do this for me.’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I want to.’

‘OK,’ he agreed, then tried to move things on: ‘I could use you anyway. This new one,’ he explained, ‘feels … complicated. Anything you can tell me about him will help.’

‘No doubt Addis will give me a copy of the file,’ she went along with him. ‘Once I’ve read it, I’ll give you my thoughts.’

‘Good,’ he told her, then struggled with what to say next. ‘It’ll be nice to see you again,’ he managed, immediately wincing at his own words.

‘It’ll be nice to see you too,’ she answered.

He touched the screen to end the call and stared at the phone for a while before sliding it back into his jacket pocket. Climbing from the unmarked car, he made a beeline for the two uniformed officers who were guarding the tape that marked the cordon. He spoke to the tall female constable who was clutching the crime scene log. Sean held up his warrant card so they could both see.

‘DI Corrigan – Special Investigations Unit. This is officially my scene now,’ he told them.

The constables looked at each other, confused. The woman spoke for both of them. ‘Sorry, sir. The DCI from the MIT is inside with forensics. DCI …’ she looked down at the log, ‘DCI Vaughan.’

‘Like I said,’ he reminded her, ‘it’s my scene now.’ He pulled a business card from his warrant card and handed it to her. ‘No one in or out without my permission,’ he insisted. ‘You call me before letting anyone in. I don’t care if it’s the Commissioner – you call me first. Understand?’

The female constable gave a shrug of resignation before answering. ‘Whatever you say … sir.’

Sean awkwardly covered his shoes with a pair of forensic foot protectors he’d pulled from his pocket and ducked under the tape before heading to the garage some forty metres away where he could see figures in blue forensic suits working under the spotlights that lit the scene. As he drew nearer he noticed a figure standing in the dark observing the activities. The man wasn’t wearing a forensic suit, but stood in a long dark coat, his back to Sean, although his feet too were covered with protectors. Once Sean was within a few feet of the man, he turned to face him. His face appeared tanned, despite the depths of winter; he was in his early fifties, but handsome, his physique stocky and powerful. Sean noticed some of the grey strands of his hair reflecting the streetlights.

‘DCI Vaughan?’ Sean asked, holding up his warrant card.

‘Yes,’ Vaughan answered in a London accent – his demeanour immediately telling Sean he was dealing with another career detective and not someone racing through the ranks on accelerated promotion. ‘And who might you be?’

‘DI Sean Corrigan,’ he told him. ‘Special Investigations Unit.’

‘DI Corrigan,’ Vaughan smiled knowingly. ‘I’ve heard so much about you I feel I already know you. So what’s SIU doing here?’

Sean felt uneasy, knowing that he’d been talked about by people he didn’t know. He preferred to be anonymous. ‘This murder’s linked to another,’ he explained. ‘That makes it SIU’s.’