diary_of_justice01

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Diary of Justice.

Prologue: Reckoning

The crystal-blue eyes shone down on Michael Harmon. Hands bound, breath shallow, he could only watch and wait.

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered, voice trembling.

The woman smiled. “But it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Something you couldn’t take from your wife. You

needed

this. And I know.”

“Yes,” he breathed, as the knife hovered above his chest.

“You know, Michael, your name was given to an angel. A protector of children. God’s children.” She traced the blade down his sternum. “How far you’ve fallen.” She stepped back, vanishing into the shadows. “You wonder what I’ll do. You’re curious. Aroused, maybe. But this isn’t desire. It’s judgment.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “When you rape children, Michael, God sends an avenging angel to smite you.”

The knife caught the light from the streetlamp. A heartbeat later, that same steel gleamed red.

Chapter One - Disclosure

His thought process filled with the images of what precipitated such slaughter, David Monk leant against the solid wooden doorframe leading into the basement where two bodies had been discovered several hours earlier. It was gruesome, as were the images he now saw in his mind’s eye. Anyone that could commit such savagery had surely to be male – something he instantly attempted to dismiss, but how could he?

Monk had seen much in a ten-year career with Surrey’s police force, but this was about to be the most colourful, if that were the right description, case he had undertaken. He closed his eyes, the images still vivid – a knife, blood, gore, sex. Had that been the motivation? It was hard to tell, the bodies were in the first stages of decomposition, not something he was unfamiliar with, yet never before had the deceased been victims of violence – only those poor souls who had faded into death without ceremony or anyone to even wonder at their fate.

Monk was a statuesque figure, taller than most, standing over 6′ 5″ he dwarfed his colleagues, although a poor posture had rounded his broad shoulders over the years, a receding hairline, leaving a broad fore head bare – his brown hair a little too long at the back, sat on the collar of his deep grey jacket. It was the first thing he’d put his hands on in the cupboard as he’d scampered from his house forty-five minutes earlier. He and his colleague, Peter Willis, a somewhat smaller character by comparison, had arrived at the scene in a hurry. It wasn’t often they were summoned to such a crime – it wasn’t often a crime of this nature was perpetrated on their patch.

The walk through, brief as it was, considering the size of the townhouse; hadn’t indicated any signs of a struggle. Monk wasn’t given to drawing conclusions too

quickly, yet to him it seemed as if the killer or killers had had all the time in the world to perpetrate the crime.

It was too tidy, too well ordered – meticulously clean.

“Dave, you okay?” Willis asked, as he passed the man and descended the stairs, pausing and regarding his colleague, waiting for an answer. “Dave?” he prompted when none was forthcoming.

Monk stared at him for a moment before absorbing the question.

“Yeah, fine. It’s just a little early for my stomach to deal with this.” Monk smiled; a weak attempt at reassuring his colleague. “I don’t think anyone turned the lights up here yet either,” he added, tapping his forehead.

Willis nodded thoughtfully. “I know that feeling, had a large breakfast this morning,” he commented. “So, ready for the second round?”

Monk followed the man into the basement, the two bodies, propped against a far firewall were barely recognisable as human.

“Difficult to tell how they died,” Monk stated, breathing through his mouth tentatively. The stench so strong that it seemed to cling to his taste buds.

From here:

Terry Norton stood near the old coal chute, arms folded, eyes scanning the scene. “They weren’t killed here,” he said flatly. “And one thing’s for sure—they didn’t do it to themselves.”

Monk arched a brow. “And you know this how?” The edge in his voice was automatic—he was never quite in sync with Norton’s bullish delivery.

“The scene’s too clean. Look close enough and you’ll see they’re missing internal organs. But maybe leave that part to the experts, Dave. I know how delicate you boys can be.”

“Charming,” Monk muttered, turning back to the bodies. “How can you tell?” “That would be my

training

,” Norton replied, visibly pleased with himself. “And a closer look than I’d recommend for someone with a sensitive constitution.”

Willis, grateful for a shift in focus, spoke up. “So, where were they killed?”

“Too early to say for sure,” Norton replied, “but if I had to guess—it’s the master bedroom. Found some blood traces. Scrubbed pretty well. Bleach. Our killer’s not sloppy. Watches the same gory American dramas I do, apparently.”

“Yeah, I’m guilty of a few of those myself,” Monk said with a wry smile. “We calling in Grissom?”

Norton chuckled softly—he liked to think of himself that way, minus the fancy kit. “There’s truth in those scripts. Thus far we’ve got two male victims, approximate age unknown until post. Plastic sheeting on the bed. No linens. I’ll keep you posted.”

He glanced meaningfully at the detectives. “If you're done browsing, I’d like to let my team do the real work.”

Monk gave the bodies one last lingering look. “Identities would help,” he said. “Give us a place to start. Doesn’t feel like burglary was the motive.”

Norton frowned. “It’s clean—but that doesn’t mean nothing was taken.” His tone carried a rebuke. “Whoever did this... you might not

want

to know why.” “You’re a bloody pessimist, Norton,” Willis chimed in. “You

know you’re working with Surrey’s finest, right?”

Norton barely cracked a grin. “And I think they’ve just met their match.”

Monk's cool detachment isn’t apathy—it’s armor. He’s built it over years of watching quiet tragedies pile up like forgotten paperwork. But this case—

this

—is slipping past the defenses. The clinical part of him starts analyzing, while the human part begins to ache or recoil. We could show that breach subtly:

He didn’t flinch at the gore. Not anymore. But something about the positioning—like someone had taken care, had paused to watch—sent a muscle twitching along his jaw. That was new.

What if this case doesn’t just disturb Monk but brushes up against something he's buried? A past failure, or a victim he couldn’t save. It needn’t be spelled out yet, but you could add a line or two that hints:

He'd been here before. Not this basement, but this kind of silence—the kind that lingered after innocence had been carved up and cleaned away.

To stay grounded, Monk might rely on strict rituals—mental routines, internal rules, the same takeaway order after every major scene. If those start to break down as the case goes on, it signals a deeper unravelling.

He’d usually light a cigarette after a scene like this. Not for the smoke—for the motion. But today he couldn’t even find the lighter in his pocket.

Monk’s career has been shaped by procedure, by the hope that facts and evidence lead to answers. But the cleanliness of this scene, the precision—it forces him to wonder if this killer isn’t just deranged, but purposeful. If there’s a logic at work. That makes him uneasy.

There was too much order in the chaos. Not rage. Not panic. Intention. And that bothered him more than blood ever could.

Would you like me to rewrite the next scene with these inner layers surfacing in the narration? Or we could create an internal monologue passage where Monk stands alone, grappling with what this case is starting to awaken in him. Let’s crack his shell, just enough for the reader to get hooked.

Willis stepped out into the daylight, a heavy sigh. “He got out of bed the wrong side this morning,” he complained.

“Do you blame him,” Monk replied, cautiously negotiating the steep stone steps that led back down to the pavement. “I’d be in a piss if I had that to wake up to at 5am!” “So what do you think?” Willis continued, moving around the front of the car to the driver’s side. “Are we dealing with a crime of passion or perversion?”

Monk chuckled. “Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked, slipping into the passenger seat.

“It is kind of odd though,” Willis noted, starting the engine and then pulling his seat belt around, pushing the tooth into the clasp. “How long does it take to get a body into that condition?”

“Never seen anything like it,” Monk responded honestly. “I have no idea! One thing’s for sure, we’d better check the database and see if this is something that’s only just starting, or if we’re dealing with a migrating killer.”

The sun was just climbing into the sky, 7:30am Eastern Standard time, as Barry Kominski emptied the contents of the brown envelope onto the kitchen table, snacking on some lightly toasted bread.

He sorted through the files, looking for the photographs he knew would explain the contents far quicker than reading the reports would. His eyes widened slightly as he stared at the images, sitting now, pulling the chair closer to the table.

He was over 2000 miles away from the scene of the crimes, his coffee cup lifted ever so slowly toward his lips. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, the cup brought back down onto the table with such force its contents thrown onto the file, burning Kominski’s hand. He winced, making a fist, his eyes still focused on the images before him. “Sadistic!” he whispered.

In the yard he could hear his children shrieking, the dog barking loudly, he spun around shuddering. “Amy, I’ve got to go over to England,” he said, his attention still on the kids, they were fine – just high-spirited and teasing that damn dog, who was tearing around them. “You wouldn’t think she was ten years old, would you?” he added.

“Kathy is nine, Barry,” Kominski’s wife replied. She raised her eyebrows, which disappeared into her long blonde fringe. “Pass the sugar?” she remarked.

“Hah?”

“Hon, how can you just come out…” her voice trailed off, looking at her husband’s eyes, “Barry, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head; the vacant stare he offered her was almost chilling. “This,” he said, his eyes filled with dread. “This is a monster.”

The fearful tone that laced his voice lent itself even more to the sinister comment. “I’ve got to go Amy.”

As the Boeing 747 departed O’Hare International Airport, Kominski opened his laptop; staring at the blank page… a picture began forming in his mind, reading the file had afforded him a canvas on which he began slowly to see a picture.

A penthouse in West London, art décor, long hall white and black tiled, like a chessboard, clean, amazingly clean. Silver, maybe pewter framed images of naked women, some dressed in black leather bondage gear. Still clear, still just an apartment, until you reached the door at the end of this hallway.

Within the bedroom the carnage revealed itself, the dried blood and internal organs of the victim appeared to have been thrown against the white and pastel walls,

staining the purity with unabashed carnage – some the smaller organs had stuck where they had been thrown, others had spattered the wall and slid down, leaving a trail of blood. Entrails separated from their source with no precision, messy yet so incredibly orchestrated – there was a statement, a defined statement in the intent of the killer – calm calculated chaos!

Kominski closed his eyes for a moment, forming the picture perfectly in his mind. “Damn, this was

organised,” he sighed. The woman who sat beside him turned her head and regarded him – Kominski was not aware of her attention, instead he saw a killer.

No finger prints, no rigor, of course not – it wasn’t found early enough, the blood was dry, the organs were dry, there was nothing moist – perhaps two, maybe three days of drying. The body was approximately 80% fluid, 80% had become zero quickly – why? The heating had been turned to the extreme – even in summer, the killer had to ensure that the time of death was difficult to ascertain – organised – yet again that word screamed arbitrarily into his mind.

“This is way too organised.” He closed the file and allowed the description, the facts and the evidence to flood his mind. A male, possibly – cannot rule out a female, but so much carnage was generally indicative of a predator of the male gender. Yet there was no sign of struggle, no immediate indication that the killer had to work too hard to overcome the prey. Clearly this was something he’d need to give careful consideration to – after all – he had worked serial killers many times – signature killers … far more descriptive, far more in keeping with what these creatures were.

“Sir, would you like a drink?” the attendant asked, a short fair haired woman, full in face and a smile that looked etched carefully into her features and cast in stone. She was ordered, maybe like the killer – aware of her role and never straying from it. He half-smiled, that was far too easy, killers of this magnitude were never so.

Kominski nodded. “I’m not fussy, whatever,” he responded. He looked down at the file.

“Wine, spirits?” she persisted.

Kominski almost smiled again – but it was inappropriate. He wasn’t given to smiling, not when he was on a trail. “Wine – white, wet and wonderful,” he retorted, his features becoming suddenly curious. “If you were going to disembowel someone,” he continued, almost absent minded. “Would you leave the heating up, or down?”

The woman stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Thank you!” Kominski said, taking the wine out of her hand as she stared at him non-plus. “Laymen don’t know things, not unless they study … does that make them studied, or cautious?” He did smile, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter … I’m thinking out loud, and you need to continue … right?”

She nodded. “You bet!” she responded, still shocked at the line of questioning from the dark haired passenger with an intense blue-eyed gaze.

Kominski looked finally at the startled woman sitting beside him. “It’s okay ma’am,” he announced in his rounded southern accent. “I’m one of the good guys!”

The woman stared at him.

It ends; or it begins;

The magnolia coloured walls of the interview room were showing their age, as Jacqueline Harvey was led inside; her deep blue eyes confidently swept the small room instantly noting some graffiti had been scrawled on a section of the plaster, attempts to scrub it off had faded but not eradicated its presence, she couldn’t understand why, at that moment it fixated in her mind, something as menial as graffiti would hardly have raised one of her elegantly arched eyebrows in the past.

Perhaps it could be explained by her familiarity with this place – if not the role of the interrogated, but then again, she had always been so focused on her job before – now she even noticed the flaking section of paint and plaster close to the right hand corner. A smile, albeit fleeting, crossed her lips as her mind echoed a word she’d used repeatedly in the past; observations.

“When do the little sods get time to write?” she wondered aloud, so caught up at that moment in these new discoveries.

“Huh?” Detective Sergeant Barry Reynolds responded.

Another smile, Jacqueline shook her head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter, just me thinking out loud. It’s amazing the things you notice when there’s no one here to see!”

He smiled good-naturedly and pulled out his chair, urging the woman to sit. “Can I get you a coffee?” he asked, once she appeared comfortable even if he wasn’t entirely sure he was.

Jacqueline regarded him for a moment, nodding slowly. “That would be nice. A cigarette too if you have one,” she replied, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “I seem to have run out, or I just forgot to bring mine.” Her eyes met his, the hint of smile forming on her lips. “Being arrested can really throw all your plans off for the day!”

The detective smiled back. “Give me a second, I’m pretty sure I can find some from somewhere,” he agreed.

“Barry?” Her voice was questioning. “Yeah?”

“How did you pull this?” she enquired, sitting back in the chair.

“I’m not sure? I guess because it’s part of one of the cases I’ve been working on. But if you mean why is it me questioning you?” he responded, scratching his head nonchalantly. “Maybe because I happened to be on shift when they pulled the warrant?”

Jacqueline nodded. “Or David Daniels didn’t fancy it?” she ventured, a wry smile crossing her features.

Reynolds met her amusement at the statement. “Oh yeah, that would probably sum it up, the short straw!”

Jacqueline mused for a moment on the experiences she’d had in the past with David Daniels, he wasn’t a great believer in psychology and giving him a stern rebuke on the subject after he had attempted to intimidate one of her charges hadn’t endeared her to him at all.

“Go ahead,” she urged, realising Reynolds was awaiting a reply. “I really need that cigarette!”

He acknowledged the request with a mock salute. “I’ll be right back,” he added.

Jacqueline looked at the female officer who stood close to the door, tall for a woman, probably 5’10 although maybe smaller, being lithely built added to the height perception. Anxious brown eyes, a little too small for her generous features, darted around in their sockets indicating her unease and inability to make eye contact of any kind.

She was new, had to be, this was certainly not someone Jacqueline had seen before. Compounding the psychologist’s analysis she nervously shifted her weight from left to right.

Jacqueline enjoyed analysing body language, did so with ease, this new police officer was intimidated, it was understandable such a big case and here she was right in the middle of it.

This small interrogation room, number 3, was a venue where she had conducted many interviews herself.

Never had it seemed prison like to her, but now as she waited for the questions that would ultimately lead to a certain conviction, it seemed so claustrophobic that it was almost intimidating. Still, she was confident in the knowledge that perhaps, even with a life behind bars she had made a difference and she didn’t regret it, not for a second – although the apprehension she felt for the process was making her a little light- headed, or perhaps that was due to finally being able to account for something she felt was important enough to risk her liberty for.

“You’re new,” she observed, breaking the uneasy silence - eye contact deliberately established with the female officer – she needed a distraction from her own overpowering mental process, playing with an unsuspecting mind might at least offer that.

“Just through Hendon,” the uncomfortable brunette replied, shifting her weight self- consciously once more.

“I figured as much,” Jacqueline responded. It sounded almost dismissive which wasn’t entirely intentioned, yet the psychologist couldn’t exactly take this female, with no experience seriously, she was just a uniform, a woman who wasn’t there for anything other than the token politically correct presence as required by law.

She continued to observe the woman, her unimpressive presence and those drab features would be instantly forgettable. She posed no threat, probably didn’t even have the first clue about how an interview was conducted in the real world. Snot

nosed kid! Jacqueline took a deep breath. She felt suddenly disgusted at her thoughts – she after all had started on that same rung.

“Don’t worry,” she offered, her voice softer now, the businesslike tone she had earlier employed discarded. “I’m not exactly a common criminal. I’m sure the interview will be an interesting career starter for you.”

The woman nodded. “I am a little intrigued,” she agreed. “Maybe, I’m even surprised.”

Jacqueline smiled; it was almost as if something the woman had said brought back a fond memory. “I really can’t remember how many new officers I’ve trained,” she remarked. “The luck of the draw I guess!”

Detective Sergeant Reynolds reappearance curtailed any further conversation, he handed the psychologist a packet of menthol cigarettes and a small gas lighter. “Thanks Barry!” She beamed a genuine show of gratitude in yet another relaxed, if disarming smile. “One of my better habits,” she added pointedly, watching the man’s reaction. It was something she couldn’t prevent herself from doing naturally, the slightest alteration in body posture or movement of facial muscles gave her an indication of how intense the communication between she, and her subject was.

”Shall we get started?” Reynolds asked, unbuttoning his black polyester jacket, it looked cheap, probably because it was and seemed to reflect the persona of the man, he was basic, a no nonsense nuts and bolts guy who relied upon good instincts and solid police work to get his job done.

“I guess,” Jacqueline responded, taking one of the menthol cigarettes from the pack and lighting it. “Forget the coffee?” she added, noting the man’s uncomfortable regard and delighting in it.

Barry Reynolds features contorted, a slight nod of the head to acknowledge a shortcoming perhaps, or maybe it was simply the fact that he had been so intent on beginning he’d put everything else on hold in his mind. Either way, she had definitely succeeded in disarming his businesslike demeanour once more.

“Got me!” he sighed; he turned and faced the female officer behind him. “Jessica, you couldn’t get us all something wet and warm could you?”

The WPC nodded. “Sure Sarge,” she replied.

“Leave the door open,” Reynolds advised. “Don’t want any impropriety right at the beginning.”

Jacqueline raised her eyebrows leisurely, he was rattled – even attempting to hide it had only succeeded in placing the proverbial neon sign on his forehead.

She almost smiled at the image that thought conjured in her mind; maybe though since she’d consented to this interview she should go a little easy on him, resolving to do so instantly.

“How are the kids?” she asked, making the kind of polite conversation she knew would disarm the man still further – yet hoping it wasn’t apparent, did it matter? She wondered.

Reynolds fidgeted awkwardly. “They’re fine, Karen’s good,” he replied, his weather beaten features contorting with the discomfort of familiarity. “I guess this isn’t as difficult for you as it is me, right.”

Jacqueline shook her head. “No,” she confessed. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Difficult to get all bent out of shape when you know it’s coming.”

She took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling plumes of smoke that rose in circular patterns toward the dingy ceiling.

“I’m making you nervous, Barry,” she told him then.

Reynolds almost conceded that point, the second he looked at her he could see the confidence in those frosty blue eyes, staring back with such inner calm that it sent a shiver down his spine.

“No, yes … maybe,” he admitted, his hand lifted to a dark brown mop of hair that sat over his head like it had been thrown there. “I’m nervous that you’re sitting here about to tell me everything and you don’t want a solicitor to watch your back. And,” he added, finally able to look her in the eyes. “Truth? I’m more than a little worried about what I’m going to hear!”

Jacqueline took two further puffs from the cigarette before putting it carefully into the ashtray; her hands placed one on top of the other on the table between them. “What would I want with a solicitor?” she asked, the tone of her question seemed to border on amusement, although no signs of that were indicated on her pale elfin like features.

Reynolds shook his head. “Whether you sit there and confess to every single murder or not, I’d still feel a lot happier with someone defending you,” he admitted. “We go back a long way – and whatever my personal feelings on what you’ve done, I’d still like to see you walk away from this.”

The matter of fact way in which the psychologist raised her eyebrows and lowered her gaze seemed to indicate she wasn’t at all disturbed by the consequences, collecting the cigarette from the ashtray with long delicate fingers she sat back in her chair.

“You know something?” she offered, the smoke drifting away from her lips as she spoke. “The only thing I regret is getting caught.”

“Then get a brief!” Reynolds urged.

“Why? You didn’t ask did you?” she pressed, leaning forward once more with that engaging gaze resting on his face.

“Why what? Why you regret getting caught?” he enquired. “I think I know that.”

The lopsided smile she now favoured him with suggested that perhaps she doubted it. “Care to venture you’re wrong?” she boasted her tone even and unabashed.

“Prison!” Reynolds stated. “For someone like you it’s got to be the worst of all the options.”

“No Barry,” she retorted, the smile swept from her features instantly. “I regret not being able to take them all out! I regret that from now on in they’ll be free to carry out their perversions without justice!”

Reynolds looked surprised and disgusted at the same time, his haggard face showing signs of frustration. “Is that what you call what you did?” he asked immediately.

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Jacqueline answered, stubbing the cigarette out. “Walk a mile in their shoes and tell me you wouldn’t feel the same way?” she challenged.

Reynolds shook his head. “Doesn’t mean they deserve to die!” he stated without even considering the point.

Jacqueline sat back once more; calmly she regarded him, those icy blue eyes filled with contempt. “An eye for an eye!” she commented glibly.

“They’re still alive Jackie, which is more than can be said for those poor bastards you tortured!” Reynolds spat, he sighed heavily sitting back in his chair.

“A life sentence, Barry, demands that the perpetrator pay with the same,” she replied, the conviction in her voice emanating through that strong and confident gaze. “That’s what they got! They committed the kind of crime you can never atone for!”

“Oh come on!” Reynolds scoffed. “That’s bullshit!”

Jacqueline smiled, softly shaking her head. “No, that’s justice!” she replied, her gaze turned away from him as the WPC entered with two plastic cups, filled with the luke- warm coffee she’d been despatched to retrieve.

“This is off the record, Jackie,” Reynolds stated clearly. “As much as I hate those sickos’, I couldn’t justify killing them.”

Jacqueline raised her elegant eyebrows once more. “Well, I’m a humanitarian!” she retorted.

“What?” Reynolds exclaimed.

The psychologist regarded him for a moment. “You refer to them as sick, yes?” “That’s what I said,” Reynolds confirmed, agitated now.

“Consider me a surgeon. I cut out the cancer for good!”

Reynolds stared at her; she could see the disbelief in his eyes. “You’re joking right?” he asked finally.

“No joke and I think it’s time to switch on the tape recorder, Barry!” she urged, aware that his indignation might colour his questioning if she teased him further. “Or we might get into a debate on the right to life. I’d win by the way!”

Reynolds sighed, placing one of the cups down in front of her. “Yeah, I’ll say it again though; I still wish you had a brief!”

She waved her hand dismissively at him. “We all wish for something,” she remarked curtly.

Reynolds checked his watch. “Interview with Jacqueline Harvey commencing at 07:42 on Monday 4

March 2002 – Miss Harvey is not represented by counsel, she has been read her rights and has chosen to proceed with this interview of her own accord, please confirm that statement Miss Harvey.”

“I am Jacqueline Athena Harvey, and I understand my rights as read to me by Detective Sergeant Reynolds,” she responded, looking at the man quizzically for a moment. “You might want to inform, for the record the parties present?”

Reynolds groaned inwardly, whether or not she had chosen to give the statement of her own accord, he had a feeling the ride was going to be a bumpy one. “For the record those present are myself, Detective Sergeant Barry Reynolds, WPC Jessica James and the suspect, Jacqueline Harvey.” The smug look on the features of the psychologist clearly made him feel uneasy again. “Okay, lets start with the dates of the deceased victims,” he continued, his voice raised slightly to allow for clear recording. “September 12

, 1981, Sebastian Groves was...”

“He was a barrister,” Jacqueline said immediately, interrupting Reynolds in mid speech. She recalled the man’s surly features instantly. “Rather an arrogant bastard if I remember rightly, he was at Mahoney’s bar, it’s a wine bar. I knew he’d be there, I’d watched him for almost three weeks.”

There was something detached and chilling about the way she answered Reynolds. The man moved in his seat uncomfortable with what he was about to hear, still he couldn’t understand her motivation. Watching a woman he had known for over twenty years finally reveal herself left him feeling cold.

The wine bar was fashionable in that part of London, most of the clientele were either lawyers or accountants, some even came from the bigger stock brokers and banks whose head offices were clear across town.

The red wine she sipped was her favourite, Chianti, the soft velvet liquid sliding down her throat as she waited for the man to enter, it was a little after 21:35 on the 11

of September, still warm enough to wear the small cocktail dress, trimmed with the right jewellery, and the statuesque body of a woman standing 5’11” in her bare feet, with the stiletto heels she favoured that body looked startling.

That’s what she wanted; even if she felt a little nervous she’d made up her mind, so many broken hearts, broken souls, in the wake of those who never seemed to pay. That’s what had brought her here, a broken heart, scarred, and the blood that had been spilt as that devastation had taken hold.

She saw him come in, sipping the wine thoughtfully – he would notice her; she’d decided to ensure he would. A student of human behaviour had a very real advantage over her quarry, she understood what he wanted and she would be the perfect foil for what drove him.

The seat, a bar stool had been chosen from those extremely laborious studies she’d undertaken, and even if the nerves were twitching just a little – that wasn’t going to prevent her from seeing it through.

He walked in a little after 21:41 a smile at the bartender, a white wine ordered and then he’d began peering into the crowd, his eyes scanning the females, and then they were scanning her. Jacqueline lowered her eyes, time to go into character, be coy, innocent. Time to die!

“You picked him up?” Reynolds enquired, crashing into the photographic memory of the psychologist.

Jacqueline lit another cigarette leisurely. “Of course I did,” she replied. “There was no other way, I wore the dress he liked, did the female thing, you know what that is right?”

Reynolds exhaled heavily. “You put it out there,” he remarked bitterly, closing his eyes the instant he’d said it. “I’m sorry, please continue,” he urged, realising his technique, a technique he’d honed over many years of questioning was failing him in the face of her confidence, of her passion, that resonated both in her eyes and in her voice. She stalked them and it plagued him, maybe it rattled him that she’d so freely used her sexuality to exploit the victims, and maybe, just possibly he was slightly jealous.

“He was obvious,” she said at length, enjoying the feeling of the smoke in her throat, it felt hot and cold all at the same time. It felt good to disarm Reynolds so obviously, to disarm them all. “It didn’t take him more than five minutes to make his move!”

“His move?” Reynolds asked, incredulity masking his features. “You make it sound like he was stalking, wasn’t that you?”

“Oh yes,” Jacqueline responded, the smoke easing from her lips once more without being exhaled. “He just thought he was the predator, men can be predictable that way,” she added pointedly.

Sebastian was taller somehow this close than he’d seemed before, sat on the barstool, his dyed blonde hair groomed to perfection, along with the practised smile, slightly overweight, but his confidence didn’t appear to be at all daunted, he smiled, sending the bartender to her with the offer of a drink. She nodded, another coy smile, lowering those long lashes to cover her crystal blue eyes.

He saw the acceptance of the drink as an invitation and was on his feet almost immediately, the expensive and impeccable suit moving nicely over his body. Another confident and engaging smile as he sat beside her, throwing his keys on the bar, the Ferrari key-tag deliberately brandished.

“Thanks,” she said, noting the bulge in his breast pocket. It was the kind of square that indicated he smoked; she put her handbag on her lap, taking her cigarettes from inside and coolly lighting up. “You smoke?” she asked, already knowing the answer

pushing the cigarettes, a menthol brand, easily recognisable from the green coloured box.

‘Allow me, menthol doesn’t really do anything for me,” he responded, the dark brown eyes oval, almost deer like in their gaze, further confirming that the blonde hair was simply image, not real, exactly like the monster inside this clean cut, successful man.

‘That’s why I smoke them,” she responded, smiling at the man, it was again manufactured, deep down she could already feel the handcuffs chaffing his wrists as he struggled against the inevitability of death.

“How long?” Reynolds probed.

“How long?” she echoed, it was almost reflective. “Until we left the bar?”

“Yes, clearly you had premeditated the entire seduction, would that be the right thing to assume?”

Jacqueline exhaled the smoke across the small table toward the man. “It was easy,” she replied. “Predictably, boringly easy. Probably about an hour.”

WPC James coughed, unable to prevent the choking smoke the suspect exhaled from entering her nostrils.

Reynolds looked over his shoulder, shaking his head. The interruption not something he welcomed and the expression on his weather-beaten features indicated as much.

“You intended to kill him? The whole time, that was your intent?” he continued, undoing the tie he had so quickly put on that morning, when he’d learned they now had solid evidence to arrest her.

“All the time,” she replied, her voice slightly louder. “I didn’t spend weeks watching him to just get off!”

There was something sinister about that response, Reynolds couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it disturbed him just the same.

“That’s what he wanted detective,” she continued, another long and leisurely draw on the cigarette. “He wanted to get off, I wanted to get him off … we just didn’t quite share the same idea of what that word meant. Can I get another coffee?” she asked, instantly drawing the man away from the severity of the phrasing.

“Sure, interview suspended at 09:21am,” Reynolds stated, looking across at the woman with dismay. “You’re digging your own grave, Jackie!”

“My grave?” she noted with amusement. “It wasn’t mine, Barry; it was theirs’ all of them!”

“Jessica, would you do the honours?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Harvey.

The WPC didn’t respond; she simply opened the door, intentionally leaving it open as she left.

“You look a little tired, Barry,” Jacqueline observed, stubbing out the cigarette. “Kids not giving you any peace?”

“Karen’s ill, I’ve got the kids driving me crazy!” Reynolds admitted, struggling to get the images of this formidable woman, and her victim from his mind, he stared at her for a moment disengaging his thoughts. “Did the cell offer you much by the way of sleep?”

“I don’t sleep much,” she responded, leaning on the table coming close to encroaching on his space to underline her remark. “I never sleep!”

“Something haunting you?” he asked, perhaps alluding to the many victims, although he hadn’t intended it to sound quite the way it did, almost goading.

Her eyes narrowed the vaguest hint of sorrow now discernable on those elfin features. “The dark haunts me,” she confessed. “Like it haunts them, sleep isn’t something that brings me much peace.”

“Look!” his tone was severe suddenly. “I know what ever drove you to this is probably how you manage to make peace with yourself for what you did, but come on, Jackie, when do you stop with this act? Tell me you’re not scared of what’s going on here?”

“Would it make you feel better?” Jacqueline enquired; her features betrayed nothing, still the same ice-cold reaction.

“What would make me feel better,” he admitted, glancing around to ensure that they were still alone. “Is for you to take some damn responsibility for your interests and get yourself a brief!”

“I don’t need one,” she responded, her long blonde hair once more cascading across her face, thrown back. “What’s the point to a brief, Barry?” she paused at that question, watching his features twitch uncomfortably as he sought the right words to respond. “You don’t know do you?”

“What? That you don’t give a fuck what happens to you?” he charged, shaking his head.

She smiled then, accentuating the high cheekbones that appeared to have been chiselled from marble. “You really don’t get it do you?” she challenged. “That’s what makes you uncomfortable, Barry, not the fact that I don’t want representation!”

“I don’t understand this no!” Reynolds replied. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing, not to me,” she told him. “That’s if I could just switch off, switch off the way they say you should when you’re gazing into shattered innocence.”

“Don’t give me that psychology bollocks!” he snapped, sitting back in his chair the force of which made the feet drag along the floor.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Her eyes were steely, never leaving his for a second. “I’m speaking in plain English, Barry; you just don’t want to understand.”

“No!” he retorted, the anger her attitude aroused in him flashing in his brown eyes almost instantly. “I don’t understand. I don’t get the need to do,” he caught himself

then before launching off into rhetoric. “I don’t know why, I don’t understand the need to torture the way you did. Tell me something that makes it right?”

“You’re right, you can’t understand,” she remarked, coolly taking yet another cigarette from the pack and lighting it. “Walk a mile in my shoes – it’s a cliché isn’t it? But it’s the best cure I can offer for what ails you.”

“What ails me is someone behaving like a psychotic animal,” he scolded, obviously whatever he felt for her was shattered, but still the loyalty lived on, forcing him to feel compassion, even if it was tinged with doubt, he felt it. “It bothers me that ‘the someone’ is the one person who has done more to help us in the past fifteen years than most.”

She toyed nonchalantly with the cigarette box before once more engaging him. “You know what the real irony is?”

Reynolds closed his eyes for a second; drawing in breath that might help him prepare for whatever bombshell she was about to drop. “There are a few Jackie, which one specifically?” Attentively regarding her, trying to see behind the wall she’d erected to prevent just that.

She put her hands on the table once more, pulled her chair closer to the table, crowding him deliberately. “You brought me in on this case,” she told him softly, a smile slowly forming in her eyes, descending down until her lips parted in the amusement that so obviously coursed through her mind. “To find me,” she said finally. “Isn’t that ironic?”

Reynolds exhaled heavily. “It’s amusing you?” he questioned, despondent at her lack of remorse for anything she’d done, or anyone she had used to perpetrate her crimes.

She laughed, her head thrown back looking up at the dingy ceiling. “Oh come on,” she goaded, her eyes once more falling onto his. “Where’s your sense of humour?”

“I think I left it two doors back,” he retorted, a sense of disappointment sweeping through him, he stared at her, into those steely blue eyes. “You really don’t give a damn do you?”

“Why would I?” she asked, almost cat-like in her regard, ready to pounce on anything he said and twist it to make him more self-conscious.

“You killed 18 men for god’s sake!” Reynolds exclaimed, sitting back in his chair, his heavily scarred hands lifted to his head and swept immediately through his hair to further underline his frustration.

“I’d say closer to 38, actually, and who said it was all men.” Jacqueline responded; a callous expression crept onto her features. “If you want to condemn me at least get the numbers and the gender straight!”

Reynolds eyes widened, the look of total horror that swept across his aging face seemed to render him speechless for a moment. “Excuse me?” he gasped, staring perplexed and disbelieving at the woman’s demure features.

She took another cigarette from the pack, the last. “Think someone can get me some more of these?” she enquired, crushing the empty pack in her right hand and tossing it onto the table. “I seem to be chain smoking!”

Reynolds stared at her in disbelief, the comment about the cigarettes going completely over his head as his mind struggled to come to terms with the admission.

“38 murdered?” he sighed. “Are you prepared to help us with the missing 20?”

Jacqueline exhaled plumes of smoke toward the detective. “Barry, what the hell do you think?”

For a moment their eyes were locked together – Reynolds horror-stricken expression fading as he studied her looking for an ounce of compassion.

“Stay there!” Reynolds said, standing, the chair pushed back once more scrapping across the floor. “Jessica?” he yelled, half inside the interrogation room.

The WPC appeared around the corner almost instantly, carrying another coffee. “Sarge?”

“Stay with Miss Harvey, I’ll be back soon,” he ordered.

The expression on his face drew a quizzical look from the woman. “You alright Sarge?” she enquired. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I’m fine, just … stay there,” he replied, his right arm gesturing wildly at the interrogation room number 3.

Officer James placed the coffee on the table. “Thanks,” Jacqueline said, exhaling more plumes of smoke into an already uncomfortable atmosphere. “So, you like being a police woman?” she asked, regarding the constable with interest.

“So far,” Jessica responded, unsure if she should engage in conversation.

“It’s okay,” Jacqueline advised. “We can make small talk; it’s called pacifying the offender!”

James nodded. “You’re a psychologist,” she pointed out. “You would know I guess.”

“I would,” Jacqueline responded, sitting back in her seat and crossing her long legs. “It comes with the package.”

“You’ve known Sergeant Reynolds a while?” Jessica enquired, still unsure if she should be conversing with the prisoner.

“Yeah, I’ve known him for about twenty years I guess,” she answered. “He’s the salt of the Earth, great guy, a good copper.”

“He seemed pretty agitated,” Jessica observed, moving a fraction to her right closer to the open door.

“He probably needed a little air, which actually isn’t a bad idea!” Jacqueline suggested. “I’d like to go out in the cage, get some fresh air myself. Better check with the custody Sergeant though, and you’ll need the key.”

James shook her head. “I can’t leave you alone,” she said, she looked suddenly uncomfortable, indecisive. “If someone comes by…”

“Tony Prater on duty?” Jacqueline enquired, the cigarette clutched in her long perfectly manicured fingers. “Just holler, he’ll send someone down.”

James bit the side of her mouth, considering the merits of yelling at a duty sergeant. “I’ll wait,” she advised.

Jacqueline smiled. “Those uniforms have you intimidated, Jessica,” she said, her brow furrowing slightly. “Is it okay for me to call you by your first name?”

“I’m not … sure, that’s okay,” WPC James confirmed, she lent more to her right and glanced outside the door, looking up and down the hallway, no one was in sight. The duty sergeant was at his desk, she could hear him, but was unable to see around the door jam to attempt to get his attention.

“I’m making you a little uneasy,” Jacqueline observed, the cigarette discarded once more into the brimming ashtray, she folded her arms. “That’s interesting.”

”Not uneasy,” Jessica replied, making a conscious decision not to be intimidated, but all the same, being in the room with a psychologist accused of multiple murders was making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Yes, I am, you’re fidgeting, you’re not comfortable talking to me, let alone standing in a room alone!”

Jessica stood straight, looking back at the calm and confident woman. “It’s my first interview,” she admitted.

“Oh,” Jacqueline’s breathy reply brought a sharp look of intrigue from the WPC. “Daunting hah?”

“A little,” she responded. “You don’t seem at all bothered.”

“No I don’t do I,” the psychologist agreed. “Must be all those years of training, of knowing the system. I can tell you what will happen, how, when, why, all the little foibles of the men you work with. I find it fascinating,” she concluded, her eyes dancing with that notion.

Tony Prater emerged from behind the counter that served as his place of work 7 days a week. He’d kept an eye on James, the cameras allowing him to see down the hallway. But, she was new, and he felt compelled to ensure she was doing exactly as she should be, and not discussing the crimes with the suspect.

He remembered how easily he’d been sucked in, in his rookie years. If anyone could force a technicality it would definitely be a woman who knew the law better than anyone of them.

Jacqueline Harvey was one of the smartest women he’d ever worked with, she had the ability to reach the offenders, to get inside their minds and understand them. As long as he could remember she’d worked alongside, often with the police to bring offenders to trial. Her considered expert testimony had prevented more than one dangerous criminal from being set free, only twice had she ever gone against the police, and both times the offender was freed.

“All okay in here?” he enquired, putting his head around the door.

“Tony, I’d like some exercise, I think I’ve managed to smoke the room out!” Jacqueline replied, a warm smile greeting him.

“I’ll have to see what Barry says first,” Sergeant Prater told her. “If the interview isn’t finished… you know the rules!”

“I have a feeling he’s knee deep in old unsolved murders right now,” Jacqueline remarked, those long lashes that crested her blue eyes unashamedly utilised to keep the man’s attention. “So a break in the fresh air wouldn’t exactly be a rule breaker per se!”

“Let me make a quick phone call, make sure,” Prater said, running his hand self- consciously over a poorly shaven chin. “If it’s agreeable, then I don’t see why not. Handle that James?” he enquired then, his attention almost grudgingly turned to the WPC, and away from his own sudden feeling of inadequacy.

“Yes Sarge, no problem!” she responded.

Prater was on his way back to the duty desk when Barry Reynolds came through the security door that led into the police station.

“What’s up?” Prater enquired.

“This is bigger than we thought,” Reynolds told him. “She claims to have done in something like 38 and not all of them were men!”

Prater’s expression became vexed. “Fucking ‘ell,” he exclaimed. “38?”

“That’s what she said; I need the DI here, if there are more bodies…” Reynolds sighed.

Prater’s nod signalled his own surprise. “What’s going on with her?” he remarked. “All that time and she’s killing these guys? Why?”

“I’m still not really clear on that,” Reynolds admitted. “She’s running rings round me in there; I think I need an outsider in there, a detective she doesn’t know.”

“This is our patch, Baz,” Prater protested. “You know what the damn rivalry thing is like at the best of times – we want to hand them this case?”

“I don’t want to do anything,” Reynolds stated, he looked tired, obviously shaken by what he was dealing with. “I just don’t think I’m ready to hear what she’s got to say!”

Jacqueline lifted the coffee cup, wrapping her hands about the polystyrene shell. “It’s a little cold in here,” she told the watching WPC. “I guess you’re not exactly feeling it with that sweater on.”

Jessica sighed heavily. “I wish I knew what the hell was keeping the Sarge,” she said. “He’s been gone for ages.”

“Hmm,” Jacqueline mused. “He’s probably getting someone else to sit in on this, someone from the forensics team.”

“Why?”

The psychologist pondered it, a wry smile crossing her face. “Possibly because he wasn’t completely clear on all the facts, might have been something I said!”

The consternation crossing the woman police officers face brought an almost gratifying expression to Jacqueline’s regard of her. “I bother you!” she remarked basking in the reflection of the unease she’d created.

“It’s not my place to say,” Jessica responded, looking away from her and out along that empty hallway.

“Yes it is,” Jacqueline pushed; she stood up, that action she noticed immediately made the WPC startle “You’re very jumpy,” she added, a feeling of power coursing through her mind. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t, it was the noise,” Jessica remarked. “A little quiet here today! Unusually quiet.”

Jacqueline nodded, yawning; she placed her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, didn’t sleep much last night! And, yes you’re right, usually knee deep in offenders by now, shoplifters, car thieves, the odd junkie, a few drunks sleeping it off.” She went to look at her watch, remembering it had been taken like the rest of her possessions and placed in one of those familiar plastic sacks, tied tightly with a tag and stuffed in a locker.

“So do I get some fresh air?” she concluded.

Jessica shrugged. “I can’t do anything until one of the…”

“Sure, I forgot, you’re a rookie,” Jacqueline commented laboriously. “Fine, then at least see if someone can get me some more smokes. Anything to relieve the boredom of waiting!” She lifted the crushed cigarette box from the table and discarded them onto the floor to make the point.

“What’s really going on here, Baz?” Prater asked, as the man followed him behind the desk. “Nothing usually fazes you!”

Reynolds shook his head, genuinely bothered by something that again he was unable to put his finger on. “I just thought I knew her,” he lamented. “Now she’s coming out

with all this … being a damn multi-murderer? It’s just not something I want to deal with!”

Prater nodded, he understood exactly what the man must be feeling, having worked beside the psychologist for the last five years himself, he could hardly have believed it when she was delivered into custody. How many times he’d brought offenders from their cells to be analysed, the suicidal ones, the constant youth offenders, booking in what was considered one of their own and for such heinous crimes was like a body blow.

“Listen; take a break – maybe you ought to consider getting someone from serious crimes in?” Prater advised sympathetically.

“I think we need another bloody psychologist!” Reynolds remarked. “I’m not sure she’s not hiding something else.”

Prater’s eyebrows shot up, intrigued immediately at the thought of there being yet another twist in the tale. “Oh yeah?” he probed. “Like what?”

Reynolds shook his head, pulling his wallet out from inside his cheap, now heavily creased jacket. “Send someone out to get her some smokes will you? Menthol, anything long, make it sixty, we’re probably gonna be doing this for a long while!”

Prater smiled, taking the twenty-pound note from the man. “You’re a soft touch, you know that?”

“Tell me you wouldn’t be, and I’ll call you a liar!” Reynolds chided playfully. “I’ll be in with Jac, just let me know when the cavalry arrives!”

WPC James appeared relieved to see the Sergeant back she half smiled at him. “Prisoner wants to go into the exercise yard Sarge,” she told him.

Reynolds looked across at the woman he seemed a little pale, a lot paler than when he’d left.

Jacqueline nodded. “That I do,” she stated. “Care to come, not much on scenery but neither is this place!”

“Sure, I sent out for some more smokes … and…”

“You’ve asked for a psychologist or someone from the serious crimes squad to attend.” She completed the sentence for him, watching the smile rise slowly in his eyes as he nodded.

“Yeah, I keep forgetting you know procedure,” he replied.

“And thanks for the cigarettes,” Jacqueline told him. “I appreciate it, one of the only habits I have!”

Reynolds led her to the small, thoroughly enclosed exercise yard – it was cramped, approximately 15 feet long and only 5 feet wide, the sides were bricked, as smooth as they could be, and the roof was covered with steel cage mesh, only partially open to the elements.

Remnants of cigarettes smoked by the ever-changing inhabitants of the custody block in oddly collected piles located at points up and down the length of the ‘cage’.

“So, getting nervous?” the man enquired, leaning against the wall and taking his own cigarettes from his pocket.

“Why would I be?” Jacqueline asked, a wry smile as he offered her a cigarette. “Not my usual brand, but hell, they all kill you in the end.”

“Still not understanding this, Jac?” Reynolds said, as he lit the cigarette for her, and handed it across.

“That I’m a murderer?” she ventured, raising her eyebrows to dramatise the word more. “I guess some things just aren’t always that obvious.”

Reynolds almost smiled, but there was little to smile about. If he was honest, he had probably considered what being with her was like, although consideration was as far as it had gone – a wife and three kids was a precious thing to play around with, that and she’d never indicated having anything but a working respect for him.

He’d often put the feelers out, she kept things very private, none of his colleagues seemed to have gotten anywhere hitting on her, probably had some highly paid psychologist boyfriend tucked away somewhere.

“Why are you staring?” she asked, breaking his concentration.

Reynolds looked self-conscious again, inhaling on the cigarette he’d hardly touched since lighting it. “Just thinking, sorry I didn’t mean to … you know,” he offered weakly.

“I know a lot, but what you’re thinking? I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess,” she responded, the eye contact she held with unflinching ability seemed to cause him to look away. “Trying to figure out why I’d do it?”

“Actually, er, no!” he said. “I was thinking about why I’d never tried to seduce you.”

She chuckled aloud. “Oh god, men! Why ever would I think they’d stray too far from the comfort stick?”

“What?” he spluttered, choking on the cigarette smoke that he was attempting to exhale. “The comfort stick?”

“Yeah, you know – sex is good, when you’re a little boy you tug on it – it’s comforting, it’s also a really good place to hide when you can’t deal with whatever you see in front of you, especially if it’s a woman!” Jacqueline told him.

“Yeah, maybe! First time I’ve heard it called that,” he grinned. “But it’s pretty harmless – as descriptions go.”

Jacqueline leant against the wall opposite him. “Did you want an answer?” she enquired then, watching him cringe openly. “Or did you prefer the mystery?”

“I don’t think I need an answer, do I?” he replied, an almost wistful expression crossing his weathered features.

“Not sure you do,” she agreed, a sullen look momentarily crossed those crystal blue eyes. “I’ll take it as a compliment though.”

“I still don’t believe you’re capable of…”

“Because I’m a woman?” she interrupted. “Or because I know the meaning of right from wrong?” Her tone was intentionally condescending. “It really is the ultimate in dichotomy isn’t it?”

Reynolds looked away from her, choosing to ignore the reference. He found himself attempting to cling to the last bastion of reason that he could find inside the muddled thoughts that constricted his mind. “You’re enjoying this, Jac,” his voice almost a whisper. “That scares me. You’re treating it like a game.”

“Life and death is always a game, Barry,” she responded, dropping the cigarette to the floor and snuffing out the smouldering butt with her a twist of her delicate ankle. “We just think the odds are in our favour.”

“I’m going to take you back to the holding cell,” Reynolds stated, looking through the bars of the door that led back into the custody cells. “There are some things we need to…”

“How long?” she enquired, her eyes once more engaging his.

“I’m not sure,” he retorted, looking away. “Maybe until tomorrow.”

“Pulling all my files I expect,” she said. “You know you can’t open them without my permission, or a court order?”

“I know,” he muttered. “That’s why I’m getting one.”

The door to the ‘cage’ was opened, allowing the pair to walk through WPC James stood aside.

Jacqueline almost smiled, as she turned to face the man in the sterile corridor outside the holding cell. “I never said you needed one,” she told him as the door was opened by one of the civilian custody officers. “You can read anything you want, check up on all the cases. It’ll take longer, and you won’t find anything.”

Reynolds shook his head, leading her back to the cell. “Staff meeting,” he said. “I’ll send someone down for written authorisation, if you haven’t changed your mind by then.”

“No, I won’t change my mind, Barry, I never do!” she replied, watching his features as the cell door closed between them. “Barry?”

Reynolds opened the access hatch, peering inside. “Yeah?”

“Don’t give this away,” she said, her eager blue eyes appeared to have a slight twinkle.

“Going to make my career?” he remarked, his voice indicated no pleasure.

“I won’t talk to anyone else, they can sit in, they can stare – they can even ask questions that I might consider answering,” Jacqueline stated. “But, if you’re not there to lead that, then the silence will be deafening.”

Reynolds shook his head. “You like torturing me don’t you?” he observed, exhaling heavily. “Why?”

“Because you’re straight, you’re honest and I’ll play with the others way too much to amuse myself!”

The detective Sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Okay, I guess,” he agreed. “Try and get some sleep or something.” The steel hatch firmly closed.

Chapter Two: Enmity

Reynolds waited on the elevator, watching through the windows that led out into the yard as various officers came and went, fuelling their cars for another 12-hour shift.

He sighed heavily, something he’d found himself doing far too often since he’d been handed the investigation. It was straightforward then, if several murders months apart could ever be. Digging into cases over six years old, marked with every police officers nightmare seal of ‘unsolved’ had seemed like a monumental task. The chief super might be new, applying his own methods and ideals to his new area, but he intended to make his mark swiftly. He didn’t want unsolved in his in tray he wanted solved.

The elevator arrived; Reynolds preparing to step in as the doors opened. Mark Sheridan stood inside, the wily serious crime unit detective easily recognisable with that shock of red hair crowning his almost boyish features, he smiled.

“I was just coming down to get you,” he advised.

“Everyone upstairs?” Reynolds enquired, as the man stepped aside to allow him ingress.

“Yep, all the bigwigs and their sycophants,” Sheridan responded. “How’s Jac doing?”

Reynolds shook his head, a wry smile crossing his haggard features. “How do you think?”

“Knowing her, she’s running rings around you,” Sheridan chuckled.

Reynolds nodded. “Not sure she’s as calm as she’s making out though,” he remarked. “Did I hear right? 38?” Sheridan enquired as the doors opened on the third floor. “You heard right!”

Sheridan’s features became serious for a moment. “She’s some piece of work!” Reynolds didn’t respond to that observation, leading the man from the elevator along the empty hall.

Within the confines of the serious crimes unit offices, more than twenty detectives had gathered. Among them two psychologists, Peter Delaware, and Kathy Harmsworth.

Reynolds knew most of them by sight, worked with almost half of them during his long career.

Inspector Adrian Doors nodded at the man. “Barry, we’re all ears!” he urged. “Thank you, Sir,” Reynolds acknowledged, waiting for Sheridan to get comfortable. “It appears that we’re not looking at the 18 deaths we’ve already linked to this case.”

Surprised glances from some of the men in the room made Reynolds pause, not all of them knew Jacqueline Harvey the way he did. “She’s told me the true figure is closer to 38, which means we’ve got to spread the net a little wider, contact the Mets, and other forces adjacent to see if they have any unsolved murders specifically with some form of sexual mutilation, we know what we’re looking for!”

“Thirty-fucking-eight?” David Kelly exclaimed, drawing disapproving glances. “Jesus, is this Rambo?”

“Alright Dave,” Inspector Doors reprimanded. “Those of you that are not aware, Jacqueline Harvey is a member, albeit in her capacity as a forensic psychologist, of this unit, which means we keep this very much in house until we can fully authenticate her story.”

“Sir, she’s willing to confess and give details of all the victims,” Reynolds said. “But

… only to me.”

“Unacceptable!” Peter Delaware snapped. “She’s deliberately doing this; you’ve worked with her how many times? And including on this case I might add.” “You wish to make a point Peter?” Inspector Doors enquired.

Delaware looked across at the Inspector, puffing himself up for a statement, even if the man was built like a twig he had a sharp northern accent that made up for his diminutive appearance. “Jacqueline is one of the most difficult people I know…”

“Probably because she thinks you’re, a stuffed shirt, by the book asshole!” Detective Inspector Harry Timms commented, the burly looking head of serious crimes offering the psychologist a scowl. “If she wants to talk to Barry, I don’t have a problem with it.”

Reynolds nodded, he’d half-expected Delaware to object the man’s arrogance in believing he was the be-all and end-all of psychology never failed to amaze him. “I’d like to get as much information as I can, then we can look into the specific case files sir,” he advised, trying not to appear amused by his senior officers slap down of the arrogant ‘expert’.

“Get on with it, Baz, I’m as eager to get the ball rolling on this one as you are,” he confirmed, a look across to Inspector Doors. “I take it we can depend on as many uniform officers as needed?”

Doors shrugged. “If she’s as forth coming as Barry believes she’ll be, yes, I think I can swing a few.”