Infiltrate

Pride is not only one of the deadly sins; it is the ringleader of sin itself.

The residents of Skerritt, population 10,789 – soon to be adjusted downwards – were the definition of comfortably mundane; they woke, they dressed, they ate, they travelled, they worked, they slept, repeat.

But on this particular day, something changed.

A widower in his late 40’s was found lying in a swimming pool of blood. There was a slit to each wrist and a hand-written suicide note alongside a bloodied butcher’s knife. Case closed thought the local authorities.

However, this deduction was short-lived when two days later a second victim was discovered; similar age, similar circumstances and both male. The local authorities began to suspect a pattern was developing and something sinister was stirring in this sleepy town.

“The victim is 42 year old Michael Angus Lane,” junior Detective, Teddy Foster explained. “He died from a stab wound to the chest and bled out in the bathtub. A suicide note was left next to a butcher’s knife covered in blood.”

Detective Joseph Wilcox, his senior officer, looked over the grisly scene as the evidence was processed.

“Slit wrists in a pool, stabbed in a bathtub. Doesn’t quite sound textbook to me.”

***

Photos were taken, locations were marked and the trail went cold for a month. The fear of a mysterious killer diminished.

However, when a woman was discovered with a very neat slit across her throat and none other than a suicide note and dripping butcher’s knife beside her, public confidence collapsed.

The town criticised the police department and demanded action. In this moment it appeared to be the random carnage of a lunatic.

Foster sat in his office chair as the news played quietly in the background. He tapped his pen irritably as the journalist continued to denigrate his department. Though he was the junior detective on the case, any failure would follow his career with what was turning out to be the worst kind of criminal spree this town had experienced.

“So will the police get into the mind of this killer in time? Or will we soon report another victim?”

Foster paused on the journalist’s question. He decided to call an old colleague; not a police officer but a civilian. They had worked together some time ago and had developed a close bond since lost.

***

A striking woman entered the station dressed in fitted business attire, red nails and ruby lipstick. Vanessa Volkov was a forensic psychiatrist with a finely tuned knowledge of how the criminal mind ticks.

She knocked on the office door.

“Vanessa?”

“Theodore,” smiled Vanessa as she entered the office. Foster was struck as ever by her presence. Her perfume triggered a faded memory of two people entwined as one from long before.

“Volkov?” Wilcox interrupted abruptly; the sexual tension in the room was quickly extinguished by the sight of Wilcox pulling up his trousers hanging loosely under his belly.

“Russian is it?” he asked as Vanessa agreed politely. Confidently, Wilcox began to summarise the case but was interrupted mid-stride.

“Thank you, but I think I will look for myself with fresh eyes.”

Wilcox removed his glasses, “fine. It’s all here. Just let us know when you’re done.”

The detectives left the office as Foster nervously and awkwardly wished Vanessa luck.

She made her way to the desk placing her laptop, two pens, a highlighter and a little black book neatly on top. Inside the black book she wrote the date and the case number. The notes of previous investigations, insights and secrets lived in the pages before, all of which were disturbing beyond belief - some it would turn out, worse than others.

After analysing the notes, photographs and making some phone calls, she opened the door and walked over to Wilcox, handing him the hand-written note.

Male

38-43 years old.

St James Priory

2,9,2,11,3,14,3,17.

Pride

Wilcox held the note. “That’s it? This is all you got? Professional?” he scoffed as he slammed the paper into a startled Foster’s chest.

“And what are the numbers? Your pay instalments?!”

She smiled as she explained,

“A graduation glass was in each crime scene photo. The emblem matches St James Priory; a prestigious school approximately fifteen kilometres from this township. I made some calls and between the years of 1988 and 1993, the three victims were students there. The forceful front-on attack determined in the forensics report indicated a male as the likely assailant. Given the victim’s ages, he will also be between 38-43 years old. Now, the numbers are a number sequence. The first murder was on the 9th day of the 2nd month, the second murder was the 11th day also of the second month. The third murder wasn’t until the 14th day of the 3rd month,” she paused with a sigh as she looked at the two perplexed faces.

“To put it simply, he has killed twice in the second month, which means he will likely kill three times in the third month. February being the second month saw two added to the first murder to come to 11, and March being the third month saw three added to that 11 to come to the 14th. So, following this pattern, the next murder will be on the 17th. Tomorrow.”

The two detectives sat silently stunned.

“Finally,” she continued, “Pride; he is a narcissist. The longer he remains unknown, the more likely he will infiltrate the investigation. It won’t be obvious though, so you best pay attention.”

The detectives said nothing.

“Hopefully this helps, good day detectives,” Vanessa smiled as she turned and left the floor.

Wilcox scoffed frustratingly as Foster watched Vanessa walk away.

***

Though Wilcox dismissed her theory, the police pursued it. They identified six adults in the township who attended St James Priory from 1988-1993. Each resident was phoned to arrange a meeting regarding a current investigation, and Wilcox felt confident that this ‘professional’ was mistaken as the day went on with no victims reported, until...

“Male victim, aged 39 stabbed in his femoral artery resulting in immediate blood loss. He would have been dead for four hours I’d say,” explained the forensics officer as the detectives looked over the scene.

Wilcox walked over to the answering machine in the house. The light was flashing as he played the message.

“Hello Mr White. This is detective Theodore Foster, I just wanted to call to arrange a visit regarding a current investigation. Give me a call on 712346 when you get this message.”

They paused in silence before looking at the bloodied note written on the wall.

Love, The Butcher.

“Well, your girlfriend’s right,” started Wilcox, “he’s entered the investigation alright.”

***

The following morning Foster walked into the office feeling both deflated and defeated. However, the self-pity was to be short-lived.

“Foster!” He looked up and saw a beaming Wilcox leaning over the rail.

“Get up here! We have a witness!”

A man in his early forties sat quietly in the interview room. He was tall and lanky, with bony fingers and a pointed nose. His unruly hair obscured his ears.

“Reggie Heinrich, this is detective Foster. Would you mind summarising what you told me earlier?”

“Of course. I was out for a walk, I’m a writer and when I get a mental block I like to clear my head.”

“Heinrich?” Interrupted Foster suddenly, “like the teacher?”

“Um, yes. My father was Richard Heinrich. He passed recently.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” apologised Foster. “He tutored English at the local schools. Nice guy.”

“To some,” Heinrich replied ambiguously. “Unfortunately I took after my mother; mathematics and science. My form of creativity was not what he had hoped for.” He smiled as he took a sip of coffee. “Anyway, I walked down that street, the one on the news. I walked by the victim’s house when I noticed a man leaving. He was in a black tracksuit which rather stood out in the middle of a sunny day.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Not only that” interrupted Wilcox, “Mr Heinrich knows him.”

“Yes,” added Heinrich, “it was Gordon Miller of ‘Miller and Sons’ butchers.”

***

In the heart of the town, the Miller boy was promptly arrested. He was one of the students at the Priory and even though the motive was unknown and he denied any involvement, in Wilcox’s eyes he was a perfect fit.

That night in true comradely tradition, the jubilant cops went to the ‘local’ to celebrate.

Foster sat in a booth; he had five missed calls and several messages from his wife demanding he return home. However, instead, he dialled another number.

“Vanessa?”

“Theodore, I see you made an arrest,” Vanessa replied.

“Yeah. Hey, did you want to come for a drink? Just a quiet one.”

Vanessa paused, “So, the butcher’s boy?”

“Yeah; like you said, he was pretty obvious.”

“On the contrary,” Vanessa interrupted, “I said it wouldn’t be obvious.”

Foster paused on the words and thought for a moment.

“Good night, Theodore,” Vanessa farewelled, knowingly leaving Foster to his own thoughts.

Who had introduced himself into the investigation? Foster questioned. Who pulled the strings to look towards another suspect and demonstrated a penchant for numbers?

It was three days since the last murder; if the pattern was correct, today was kill day.

He jumped from his seat and ran toward the station; pushing through the entrance doors and rushing to the counter.

“I need to see Miller!” He demanded.

“He has a visitor,” replied the charging officer, “his lawyer apparently.”

Foster’s face dropped as he turned and ran toward Miller’s cell. He opened the door-hatch and looked inside. Miller was sprawled against the wall as his alleged lawyer repeatedly stabbed him savagely in the abdomen.

“Get this door open!” he yelled as the guard stumbled to open the door.

“Put it down!” Foster demanded as the visitor dropped the knife.

Slowly, he turned. His face uncovered, his identity clear, his grin confirmation of his pride.

***

Vanessa enjoyed a glass of whiskey as she sat comfortably in her living room. An array of tools and apparatuses were laid neatly in a case on her coffee table. The little black book rested in her lap, opened to a page displaying the names of her past lovers with four already crossed off.

“In breaking news...” the television sounded, “Police have arrested Reginald Heinrich on suspicion of four murders and attempted murder of Gordon Miller in custody. Detective Joseph Wilcox has apologised to the Miller family, explaining that their star witness revealed as Heinrich, infiltrated the investigation to deliberately lead them astray. Sources say the motive was jealously stemming from his exclusion in the will of his late father, the author Richard Heinrich. Unexpectedly, twenty thousand dollars was left to six of his former pupils from St James Priory.”

Vanessa stepped into a waterproof forensics suit whilst the news continued in the background.

“You got it wrong the first time, how can you be sure you got it right this time around?” asked the journalist as Detective Wilcox stood confidently to reply.

“We have utilised highly qualified experts who offered an insight into our suspect,” explained Wilcox. “These insights assisted our investigation and led us to today’s arrest and this evening’s confession.” He breathed deeply and smiled, “this is why we have professionals; only they understand the real mind of a killer.”

Vanessa turned the TV off and walked to the record player. Edith Piaf’s signature song Non, je ne regrette rien began to play as she picked up the case of various instruments and walked over to a locked room. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Name number five on the list, Samuel Rothman, sat bloodied and bruised tied to a chair.

“Vanessa Please, I’m sorry ok. I’m sorry for how I treated you then!” he begged, “what are you going to do to me?"

She slowly closed the door and selected her first implement; “trust me,” she grinned, “I’m a professional.”