Murder One; Deep Heat Chapter 5 of 7

5.

“Let us go back to the basics.” I looked at my team. I knew it sounded respectful but I have a mixture of experienced officers there. They did patronize my call; perhaps it was my wounded presence that elicits their sympathy.

“Is the City …. Fuck it. Is the killer …. I am being singular for now. Who is he? Why do we call the killer a serial killer?” I looked at the team. “Because we attributed several victims to his name. Or the Press did it and we preserve the nickname?”

“How many murder cases do we have in the city? It’s there in the statistics.” I saw the look of ‘why are we doing it’ expression. “But how many are unreported? Missing persons that never turned up. Or any other bodies not found. Or mistaken to other Sections? Or cities?”

“Inspector, I think you are misinformed.” I trust James to correct me. I directed my question to the Section.

“Maybe the killer had not only six victims but more? Have we searched way back say ten years? Or twenty?” I raised the doubt towards them. “Maybe the killer was now young like we assumed.”

“And the mutilation? Why? Why the breasts?” I was self-conscious of mine. Tabitha was ‘c’ cup. I knew for I had seen her bra. Okay, I lied. I saw her at the showers one time. “Was it a punishment? It looked that way but why?”

“Was it sexual the insemination? Why the force and tear?” I looked at Grant. The later was looking at his crotch. I doubt he was a stud but I was expecting him to ask questions. He was older than James and yet he remained silent.

“Grant, you worked Vice before. Why act? Was it revenge?” I knew Grant had handled some boy’s violation cases before. He looked at me with his daft expression.

“Find more and come back to me.” I gave the command. I stopped Tabitha from leaving. I have my other question for her.

“I checked and no Cheryl was working there.”

It looked like I have another case to handle. Tabitha then told me a new clue.

“Uniform found a broken half baseball with blood-stained near the club. Its examined by Forensics.” The murderer may be in haste with the last killing. The result soon came back.

It was not my blood but the last victim. Her name was Cheryl Smith from the other side of town. Later, I found out she was in the Ram that night but I did not see her. The victim was dressed in a red blouse and matching pants.

I asked the Records to give me her profile. She was working as a Junior at Cohen, Adam, and Associates. On Fifth Street.

The face that stared back was not my bitch.

I took my bike out for the late day ride. I was speeding on the freeway. I needed the breather but I got then were breathing bikers. There were five of them and their machines were equally nasty. There was one bike with a pillion rider who had his right hand bandaged. I have not my phone with me. I left it in the car.

I throttled the bike to reach two hundred and with the wind blowing into my helmet face I was taking the straight. I wanted to distance myself but the other bikers were equally good or defiant. It was getting the hour before the evening rush and it was then the heavier and slower loaders took to the route to avoid being held up. I turned off and took the adjacent route where the loaders will on. I was taking a risk but it was worth it than being gang-raped. I throttled and braked while I zig-zag the traffic. I saw the other bikers were doing the same and we were all down to the hundred and fifty speed. It was still fast but the skills were to avoid the loaders. 

I saw two of the bikers were dropping back but the other three were catching up. I looked at the traffic and gauged my riding strategy. I got it mapped out and then dropped the speed to a hundred and forty. I could feel the nearest biker on my rear. I timed it well, with the throttle open. The biker caught on and we were doing to a hundred and eighty. I timed it to slice between the loader and the caravan. It was tight and I felt the fenders close to my bike frame. I made it through and the pursuing biker followed me through. What the biker did not expect as I pulled off to the left and rode for the turn-off. The biker was alerted to my change of lanes and did not stop in time before the biker slammed into the car in the front. The biker was flung over the car and landed on the road before the loader rolled over the body.

By then I was on the other road and headed into the village nearby. My pursuers were down to two including the pillion rider on the bike. I throttled hard on the country road with my body frame leaning forward. The two bikers raced with me to the speed of two hundred and ten. The country road was narrow and had some turns to contend with. I have ridden here many times in my moments of need. I knew most of the curves and potholes. 

I rode hard and fast and took my turnings with my knee scraping the surface. It came to the one essential turn which I normally slowed down but not then. I throttled on and took it and ended up towards the small narrow bridge. Thankfully it was not with a farmer truck on it. I zoomed over and my wheels left the surface to land ahead. I knew the raised bump and had prepared for it. The two bikers were not and one crashed into the bridge and the other skidded on landing. That was the one with the pillion rider. I did not look back and rode on.

I got a traffic accident report later. The first biker died on the freeway. The two that crashed on the country road; one died and the two in coma including the pillion rider will not ride anymore. One was named Henry Selby.

I was there for the funeral. I had my camera out and was watching the grieving crowd. I saw Nigel Selby there.  There was Ian Darren with the Station Commander. And my dad was there too.

“My bloody ass,” I muttered. I felt my buttocks constricted on the sight of my father talking to Nigel. What made it worse no new victim appeared for over the week.

Fuck my coached theory for we were all out of sync. Either my killer had gone soft, or died. In my line of works, a dead trail was as good as no trail. That was why I appeared at the funeral.

I hate to lose my commendation for a successful case which if it’s true on the above may remain unsolved. It’s like having to expose your ass and no one wants to fuck it.

“Son, I won't tell you who you can mix so don’t come and tell me who I can’t.” I heard my father. I was back at the church back yard. I looked at the old man picking the weeds on the ground.

“You knew my business and Nigel Selby is one of my …. Partners.” I disliked being his daughter then. If I was his son, I could have killed him and take over the business. I was to walk off when I thought of a trivial query.

“Sidney, do you know Cohen, Adam, and Associates. On Fifth Street?”

“Yeah, they are my Accountants.” I thought then my ass was on the block but it was not. There I have someone’s ass to fuck with.