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“I’ll let SOCO capture the rest of the scene, then I’ll supervise the removal. Get him back to the mortuary and have a look for certain.”
Adam cranes his neck to see inside. “What’s your initial assessment?” he asks.
“Massive blood loss, compounded by a blow to the head. And he’s fresh, Bishop. Dead no longer than eight hours. Body’s still warm.” The doctor laughs darkly. “But you’ll see. Decide for yourself.”
Adam nods in acknowledgment, then heads into the small scrubby back garden where Jamie is standing.
“Watch out for the dog shit,” Jamie comments. Adam looks around the square of patchy lawn, covered in small brown mounds. “Neighbors called it in,” he continues. “Said the house was strangely quiet. Dog barks all hours, day and night, and there was nothing this morning. Looked out into the garden and the back door was open. When they came down to investigate, they noticed … that.” Jamie points inside, where Adam can see a mass of SOCOs in white suits, photographing the mess. “Wayne Oxford. Twenty-five. Single. In there.”
“Where’s the dog?” Adam asks.
Jamie’s eyes narrow above his mask. “Haven’t found it yet.” He points into the house. “Follow me.”
Adam does as he’s told, stepping over the threshold into the kitchen. He immediately stops. Inside is a massacre. Trails across the floor, a large pool in the middle, spatters up the walls.
The blood is everywhere.
The body sits in the center of the room, slumped on a kitchen chair. His arms hang loosely by his sides, hands completely encrusted in dried crimson. His face is pale, his lips white. A gruesome puddle surrounds him.
“Well, fuck,” Adam manages after a pause.
Jamie nods grimly.
“Where did all the blood come from?”
He crouches down carefully on the footplates next to the body, squinting at the drooping arms. Large gashes run the length of his forearms, gaping wounds, wet and bloody. Tendons and veins are clearly visible against the whitened flesh.
“This is unlike the others,” Adam comments. “Not restrained or a frenzied killing.”
“Nasty bash to his head, though,” Jamie says, and Adam can see it now. Hair matted, blood congealed around the wound and down the back of his neck, soaking the T-shirt.
“Enough to knock him out?”
“Possibly.”
“Bishop?” A shout from the other side of the kitchen attracts his attention, and the SOCO waves an arm. Adam heads across, then follows to where the gloved hand is pointing. On the dirty lino of the kitchen floor, half in a blood pool, is a large bottle of cheap supermarket vodka.
He raises an eyebrow. “Murder weapon?” he asks in astonishment.
“Let’s hope so. But that’s not all.”
Adam crouches down, looking closer. “Is that …?”
The SOCO nods. “Could be a fingerprint.”
Adam feels a surge of excitement. “Get that processed. And quick.”
He backs away, letting the man do his work. This could be it, he thinks. All they need is one good match, and they’ll haul this fucker in. Maybe there’s even DNA, and they can really nail this bastard to the wall.
He didn’t abduct this victim. He didn’t lose control and knife him dozens of times. He killed him here, in his own kitchen.
Bleeding out slowly. In a lake of his own blood.
I WATCH FROM AFAR as the police flood the house. I’m no more than a curious early morning commuter, parked, having a quiet coffee before I start my shift. I am used now to the horror after, the self-flagellating masochism of what I’ve done. How I killed him.
The man was alone. He was boring. There was nothing significant about him. He had brown hair and he was skinny; I could tell he wasn’t someone who went to the gym. He was wearing shapeless tracksuit bottoms and a cheap T-shirt he bought from Tesco. A three-pack: one blue, one black, one white. I hated him for that. He should have taken more pride.
Different from you, in every way.
