Butterfly Assassin Page 3

  “Yeah. Peters arrived about ten minutes before you, actually.”

  “Jesus, that was fast.” Dr Clive Peters was a forensic pathologist. He’d worked the other two murders and, in Michael’s opinion, was one of the best they’d worked with. People tended to move quickly when a shifter was involved. “Any idea on time of death? Or an ID?”

  “According to his driving licence, the deceased was Charles Crossford, age twenty-five.” Miller turned and lifted the tape, so Michael followed. “Peters had just started examining the body when you got here.” They stopped on the other side of the tape, well away from where Miller’s men still worked the crime scene. Behind them, Frank got out his notepad and began to sketch.

  Michael glanced around the alley. Two industrial-sized bins sat on either side of it, with rubbish scattered about on the ground. Evidence from here would be a nightmare. At least it hadn’t rained overnight. Dr Peters was crouched next to a body splayed out in front of one of the bins. Even from where they stood, Michael could see blood splatter up the side of the bin. Turning to Miller, he asked, “He was killed here?”

  Miller nodded. “Looks that way.”

  Michael pointed at the bin. “I’m assuming that’s his blood on there.”

  “That’s not all.” Miller grimaced, and Michael knew what was coming next. “There’s other reasons to suggest he was killed here.” He passed out plastic shoe covers and gloves. “They’ve already cleared a path through the scene. Come take a look for yourself.”

  Michael donned the protective gear. Taking great care to stay within the markers, he followed Miller towards the body and Peters. “Morning, Clive,” Michael offered when they were within earshot. “Anything for us yet?”

  Peters huffed out a laugh. “Impatient as ever, Detective.”

  Michael shrugged even though Peters wasn’t looking at him. “Just want to catch the bastard.”

  Peters stood and faced them. “I’ll be doing a post-mortem examination, but I’m prepared to go out on a limb and say cause of death was loss of blood. Looks like both carotids were severed.” He glanced down at the body, and so did Michael.

  Charles Crossford lay face up on the ground, lifeless eyes staring out at nothing, with his legs and arms splayed as though he’d collapsed to the floor and died in that exact spot. Which he probably had. His throat, or what was left of it, had been torn open, leaving a mangled mess behind. Blood stained the ground underneath him, and Michael tried hard not to focus on the bits of flesh smeared over Crossford’s shirt. It almost looked as though— “Did the killer wipe something off on his shirt?”

  Peters sighed. “I suspect so.”

  His fucking claws. Because looking at that injury, there was no doubt in Michael’s mind, Crossford had been killed by a shifter.

  Peters waved a hand at Crossford’s shirt. “We’ll collect it all and have it sent to the lab, of course.”

  Michael nodded. “When can you do the autopsy?” Maybe the killer left something behind for them this time.

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing.” Peters gestured to the body. “But I can tell you now, he died within the last eight hours—rigor’s not fully set in yet. Might be able to narrow it down more after I get a look inside him.”

  Suppressing a shudder at Peter’s almost cheery tone, Michael turned to Miller. “We’d like to be present at the autopsy.”

  Miller raised an eyebrow. Technically, as SIO, Miller was in charge until this was confirmed as being carried out by a shifter, but the fact Crossford had his throat ripped out was pretty damning. Still, Michael didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, and since Miller already had things under control, he was more than happy to let him take charge for now.

  “Of course.” Miller nodded. “And I’ll have all the evidence collected here sent to your labs too. I think you’ll agree there’s little doubt that it’s going to end up as your case.”

  “Thanks.”

  Michael glanced around them. “Did he have anything else on him apart from his driving licence?” This area of London wasn’t known for its nightlife. The surrounding buildings were mainly office blocks, some of them empty, awaiting renovation. What the hell was Crossford doing in an alley here in the early hours of the morning?

  “We found a backpack wedged under the bin,” Miller replied.

  “Crossford’s?” Michael perked up. The last two bodies had been found with nothing but their wallets.

  “Possibly. There’s a wad of bloodied tape inside it along with a towel and a bottle of water.” He shot a pointed look at Michael. They both knew what that probably meant. Illegal fighting. Otherwise that tape would’ve ended up in a bin somewhere, not shoved in someone’s bag to avoid leaving evidence behind. “We’ll know for certain when it’s been to the lab for analysis.”

  Maybe this’d give them the break they needed. “I’ll ask them to put a rush on those when we get back. Can you do the same when you drop it off?”

  “Yeah. I want to catch this bastard as much as you do.”

  They left Peters to do his thing and walked back over to join Frank at the edge of the crime scene.

  “Anything interesting?” Frank asked, slipping his notebook back into his coat.

  Michael filled him in on what they’d discussed with Peters while Miller moved away for a moment to talk with some of his men.

  Frank hummed as he listened, glancing at the road behind them. “You know,” he said when Michael finished, “there’s at least two buildings within a ten-minute walk of here that are empty at the moment, one awaiting renovation, one in the middle of it.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “They both have underground car parks. Either one would do for the sort of thing Smith likes to organise.”

  The SCTF, the met, and the City police were all aware of the illegal fights that took place in and around the city. They even knew who was behind them—Daryl White, also known as Mr Smith.

  But they had no proof.

  Or any witnesses.

  Would this time be any different?

  Smith had a long reach, and so far they’d found no one willing to come forward.

  Miller joined them again, and Michael addressed him. “Any witnesses other than Ms Wells?”

  “No. Not yet anyway.” He waved at the buildings on either side. “No one hangs around here at night. Well, no one who wants to talk to the police, anyway.”

  “So no one saw anything. Typical.”

  “According to Ms Wells, she left here at six last night, and the alley was empty. Bins aren’t collected for another two days. She was probably the first one here this morning.”

  “What was Crossford doing here then?”

  Miller consulted his notebook. “There was a receipt in his wallet from McDonald’s at Liverpool Street. Makes no sense for him to come back this way. He lives in the opposite direction, so why not get on the tube there and head home?”

  “You reckon he was meeting someone?”

  “Maybe.” Miller gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “Pretty suspicious place to meet. Nothing legal was happening in that alley.”

  Michael refrained from stating the obvious. He glanced up at the sides of the buildings. “Any CCTV in the area?”

  “Nothing helpful.”

  “Hopefully we’ll get something off that bloodied tape.”

  Miller grunted. “And let’s hope it leads us to someone willing to talk.”

  MICHAEL LET his head fall back against the seat. They’d left Miller to his crime scene and were now fighting their way through London traffic headed back to their office. They couldn’t do much until all the evidence had been collected anyway. There’d been a lot of refuse littering the ground around Crossford’s body. Who knew what was relevant to their investigation and what wasn’t? But that backpack… Michael had a feeling the information that held would be a game changer.

  Frank tapped on the steering wheel as they sat at traffic lights. “You think this all leads back to Smith?”

  “Fu
ck knows.” Michael scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “We know the first victim worked for him.”

  Victim number one had been a bartender from one of Smith’s legitimate clubs. He’d turned up dead outside the back entrance to the club, after hours—throat ripped out. Five puncture marks at the edges of the wound, coupled with the level of damage caused, all pointed to the slash of a shifter’s claws. They’d found hairs on his clothes, ones that didn’t belong to the victim and didn’t match anyone from their databases either. They also belonged to a human male, not a shifter. And considering he’d been working in the club all night, they could’ve belonged to anybody.

  “The second one though…”

  Frank indicated and pulled into one of the few parking bays for their building. Their offices were located inside the City police limits and parking was scarce. “He did have what looked like betting receipts in his pocket.”

  “You think he might have been at one of Smith’s fights?” He’d been found roughly half a mile from victim number three. It’d make sense for Smith to rotate the venues of his fights.

  Again, no witnesses.

  “It’s one possibility.” Frank shrugged as he switched off the engine and turned to face Michael. “One that we have absolutely no proof for, though.”

  “Fuck, I know.” Michael growled in frustration. “And the killer’s a shifter. Surely one of the alphas must have an idea if a member of their pack’s doing this? Whoever it is must end up covered in blood. Shifters have crazy-good senses; someone must have smelt it. No?” He glanced at Frank for confirmation.

  “You’d think. Maybe they’ve just closed ranks?”

  Michael grumbled as they entered the station and headed to their offices on the first floor. After the pack wars, things had changed significantly with the forming of the alpha council. The council liaised with the police far more than shifters had before then. Michael wouldn’t go as far as saying they had a great working relationship, but they did communicate better these days.

  On the whole, the packs followed human laws—none of them wanted to end up in Krillick Hall, the shifter prison. Michael had been there a few times, and the place gave him the creeps. He could only imagine what it was like for shifters. But he wouldn’t hesitate to send someone there if they broke the law.

  He had nothing against shifters per se, but they had a huge advantage over the rest of them. If they chose to exploit that, then Michael would do his damnedest to bring them to justice. And tearing someone’s throat out qualified. There was no case for self-defence—the victims had all appeared unarmed. With a shifter’s superior speed and strength, it would’ve been easy enough for one of them to subdue a human and then call the police to take over. Brutally murdering them went far beyond that.

  They’d been silenced.

  His and Frank’s desks sat at the back corner of the room, and Michael sank into his chair as soon as they reached them. The rest of the office was empty, the other detectives out and about. The SCTF was relatively small, but Michael liked it that way. They reported directly to Detective Chief Inspector Max Arlington, who, in turn, reported to his boss, and that was it. The chain of command was short.

  Pulling out a folder from his desk drawer, Michael opened it and spread the photos out on the surface of his desk. The crime scene photos of the first two murders stared back at him. He tapped on the first and snagged the accompanying autopsy report. “According to Peters, the first victim had his throat torn out from left-to-right—so the killer was right-handed.”

  Frank sighed. This wasn’t the first time they’d been over this. “And the second victim was killed by someone left-handed. We know this, what’s your point?”

  Michael tossed the report back onto his desk and leaned back. “Fuck, I don’t know.” He ran both hands through his hair, idly thinking it was probably time for a haircut. While he liked his hair a little longer on top, Arlington gave him the stink eye whenever it got beyond what he considered a reasonable length. Swivelling in his chair, Aaron faced Frank. “Does that sort of thing even matter with a shifter?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When they half-shift and use their claws.” Michael made slashing gestures with both hands. “Is one hand more dominant than the other? Or can they be ambidextrous?” He frowned. “I mean it’s not the same as if they were holding a knife, is it?”

  Frank stared at him, mouth opening and then closing again. “We need to ask someone about that because I have no fucking idea.”

  “No, me neither.” The thought had only occurred to him on the way home. Surprisingly, it wasn’t something they’d had to consider before. “The other theory, of course, is that there are two different killers out there.”

  “Hmm.”

  Michael clasped his hands behind his head. “That would mean two shifters are involved in this. And if Smith is ultimately behind it all, can you see him having two of them on his payroll? I mean, if he had that kind of muscle, wouldn’t Miller and the others have heard about it? They’ve been watching him for months.”

  Frank tapped a pencil against the edge of his desk. “Yeah. Even if no one wants to point the finger, things like that have a way of leaking out. And besides, it doesn’t feel like there’s two, does it?” He pointed at a photo of the second victim. “No weapon found on him, no defensive wounds…”

  “You think they knew their killer?”

  Do I?

  They’d discussed this already, but Michael still couldn’t make his mind up. “Either that or the sight of a shifter coming at them—claws and teeth out—paralysed them with fear.” He couldn’t stop the shudder. Michael was fortunate, he’d only experienced a shifter in half-shift once in his time at the SCTF, but it wasn’t something he’d ever forget.

  Rationally he knew they were built differently to him. Under the skin, their DNA wasn’t fully human. But on the outside, they looked it. The moment he’d been confronted with the truth, in live-action format, not photos or TV—that was when it fully sank in that the criminals he pursued could kill him far more easily than he liked to think about.

  No weapons needed.

  Working for the SCTF required a total rethink of how they approached suspects. Keeping one’s distance was paramount. There was no rushing in and trying to overpower a shifter—not unless you wanted to risk a run-in with razor-sharp teeth and claws.

  All members of the Shifter Crimes Task Force were licenced to carry firearms—standard issue Glock 17 pistols.

  They also carried high-powered Tasers.

  Michael had used his Taser on numerous occasions. They worked surprisingly well in immobilising a shifter, but once deployed, the effects wore off quicker than with a human—you had to move quickly. Thankfully he’d never had to use his gun. Yet. He’d drawn it plenty of times, but so far the threat of a bullet had been enough to stop situations from escalating.

  “What now, then?” Frank’s voice startled him, and Michael sat up straight.

  Sighing, he stared at the photos covering his desk. He didn’t want to add any more photos to this file. “Wait and see what Peters finds at the post-mortem exam and wait for the results back on that blood-soaked tape.”

  “In the meantime, we should be getting Miller’s photos from this morning any time soon.” He powered up his laptop. “Let’s go through them and see if anything stands out.”

  HEADING IN to observe an autopsy was not how Michael had planned on spending his Sunday morning, but his plans rarely worked out these days. He picked up Frank at eight thirty, gratefully accepting the Starbucks coffee he handed over.

  “Thanks.”

  Frank grinned at him. “I assumed you’d need one this morning.”

  Yawning, Michael took a long drink before placing it in his cup holder. “You assumed right.”

  They reached the hospital in plenty of time, and Michael shook off the eerie feeling of the examination room as Dr Peters met them with a smile.

  “Detectives.”

  They kep
t their distance as he began the post-mortem examination, careful to keep out of his way.

  Trying to keep a certain detachment was critical in a job like theirs, but the sight of a dead body, laid out ready to be sliced and diced, still unnerved him. Michael wasn’t sure it was something he wanted to get used to.

  Peters pointed at the bruising on Crossford’s knuckles, then to the marks on his ribs and face. “All these injuries were received ante-mortem.”

  “Did he fight back?” He’d be the first who had.

  Peters shook his head. “No.” He lifted one of Crossford’s hands. “There’s no skin or hair under the fingernails. None of the nails are torn or broken. The injuries on his face had been cleaned. They weren’t caused at the time of death.” He pointed at the bruising on his body and the injuries to his hands. “All these are consistent with bare-knuckle fighting.”

  They watched in silence as Peters performed the rest of the examination. When he got to extracting and weighing the organs, Michael was extremely glad he’d skipped breakfast.

  As Peters examined the stomach, he paused and looked up. “Stomach’s still full.”

  “He had a receipt for McDonald’s in his wallet,” Michael offered. “Timestamp was 12.35 a.m.”

  “I’ll confirm in my final report, but I’d say, assuming he ate his food straightaway, that puts time of death approximately between 12.35 a.m. and 3.30 a.m.”

  Michael glanced at his partner. “Say he was involved in one of Smith’s fights…”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “So, the fight finishes, he goes to McDonald’s, eats—presumably at the restaurant—but how did he end up in that alley?”

  “Phone records didn’t show any calls or texts around that exact time,” Frank said. Checking with Crossford’s mobile phone operator was one of the first things they’d done yesterday. “But there were a lot made to one number earlier on Friday. Maybe we should start there.”

  Michael nodded. “Fine, let’s go.”

  Peters glanced up and met his gaze. “I’ll get my report to the coroner as quick as I can.”