Dark Justice

The smell caught in the back of my throat. It always did. No matter how many times I went to scenes like this, stood in rooms, parking lots and back alleys where some unfortunate had coughed out their last breath, I had to fight not to hurl up my coffee and add to the cloying stench of blood and who knows what other fluids were sprayed up the walls.

I never ate breakfast before one of these calls. As a rookie, two weeks into the job, I’d barfed at the scene. I still occasionally caught grief for that, nearly twenty years later. Breakfast had been a little thin on the ground these last few weeks, if this guy kept it up, I’d be in danger of fitting suits I hadn’t worn for a decade.

There were three this time. Or at least it looked like there were three, Amelia at the city morgue would have her work cut out putting the pieces of these puzzles back together.

Stood to one side of the team dressed in white paper coveralls was Dave Whitehead, he’d been my partner for the last six months ever since Becker… Well ever since Becker took the bullet that was meant for me. It’d started not long after. I had the booze under control, just enough to let me sleep, although that ‘enough’ was getting more each week, followed by coffee to keep me awake. Which, I suppose, is why I was turning up at the scene, unshaven, in clothes that looked like I’d slept in them, while my rookie partner was looking pressed and sharp, already filling the pages of his notebook.

I took another mouthful of coffee, trying to wash the taste of blood from my mouth. I’d been to so many of these lately the taste never seemed to leave me. I woke up with that awful coppery taste in my mouth most mornings now, memories of days spent at scenes like these.

“What’ve we got Dave?”

He glanced up, his eyes flicking up and down taking in my appearance. A look of disappointment flashed across his face. It was only there for a moment, but I caught it. I’d have to try harder tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Dave thumbed back a few pages in his book, “Neighbours called in a disturbance just after four. Uniform got here at four thirty-five—”

“Half an hour?”

“In this neighbourhood, at that time, they were lucky it was that fast. The door was locked when they arrived. After what’s been going on the last few weeks, they didn’t wait, kicked it in and found this.”

In between the white suits and camera flashes, I could see gold watches, chains and rings. A couple of plastic wrapped bricks were on the table, along with a stack of cash. “This wasn’t a robbery.” I nodded toward the table. “Must be a couple of grand there, not to mention those bricks.”

“No boss, sorry nothing that easy.” Dave pointed towards the window with his notebook. “Forensics closed that when they got here to preserve the scene, but there was a smear on the frame, same as the others.”

I swore under my breath. How did this guy do it? We’re on the fifth floor for God’s sake. These three, if there were three among these scattered arms and legs, made it twenty-seven so far. All hacked to pieces in their own homes, most of the dead guys had guns lying around, but no-one ever got a shot off. Other than a smear on the window frame, this killer left nothing. No hair, no fibres, no boot prints. There was never anything on the street outside, or the roof. This much blood had to leave a trace somewhere.

“It’s like he dives out the window and vanishes into thin air.”

Five weeks now and we were no closer to catching this guy. Although deep down I wasn’t sure I wanted to. There were no innocent victims here. Every one of these had brushed against the department in one way or another, guns, drugs, gambling, trafficking, but still out on the street while the wheels of justice slowly turned, or simply ground to a halt letting them walk free.

I knew back at the station the Chief was gonna’ chew me out for not catching this guy. Just the same as I’m sure the Commissioner was on the phone right now chewing him out. The press were all over this, the van’s already lining the street outside. They’d picked up the connections early on, calling him a vigilante for justice, named him ‘The Window Cleaner.’ What they didn’t know, and it was just a matter of time before someone leaked it, was that this sick guy took trophies.

A man in a white suit stepped out of the bloody room and into the relatively clean hallway. “Drew,” he said to me, pulling down his mask, “it’s the same as before, their hearts are gone. I don’t know what this guy does with them. He must have a freezer full by now. Hey maybe he eats them.”

“Urgh, John, don’t say that. The last thing I need is the press going off about a cannibal roaming the streets. Any idea who these three are yet?”

“Another couple of yours, well yours and Becker’s God rest his soul, Simon Whitford and James Francie, still waiting on an ID on the third.” John chuckled and grinned at me. “You sure it isn’t you doing this?”

I knew their names, and they deserved prison, maybe they deserved to die, but this, no one deserved this. I shook my head, “Yeah right, it’d be nice to think I could disappear out of a fifth-floor window and leave no trace at the scene. But I don’t think I’m that good. But seriously we’re looking into the possibility that it’s someone who has access to department files. Every one of these is someone who’s managed to slip through the net.”

John whistled, “You think it’s a cop?”

“I didn’t say that. And don’t you go saying I said that. It could be a hacker, could be the lady who empties my trash. Hell, it could even be the actual window cleaner. All I know is we’ve got no leads and now another three bodies on my tally.” I sighed and scratched the couple of day’s growth I kept failing to scrape off in the morning. “Are you guys gonna be much longer?”

“At least another couple of hours. I’ll call you when we’re done?”

I nodded and headed for the door, trailing my neat, well pressed, but ever so green, partner behind me.

***

I slumped into the battered chair at my kitchen table. Bottle of Jack in one hand, a half-finished glass in the other. It was my third, or maybe my fourth. They tended to blend together these days, pouring more before the first was finished. It was easier to count in bottles. This was definitely the first bottle of Jack, this evening, and it was two thirds full. I glanced down at the bottle, make that one third.

I didn’t bother with the lights anymore, the darkness in the house complimenting the darkness of my thoughts. Did I really care if these people died? I knew each and every one of them, their crimes writ large in the case files. Clear enough for anyone to see. Except they were still walking around. Free to commit more crimes, to inflict more misery, while justice slowly crept forward. Or at least they had been walking around. This guy was doing me a favour, every time he took a life, I closed a case.

It’d been another drawn out day, two steps forward, three steps backward. The knife, or should I say knives, it was like the guy was wearing Freddy Krueger gloves, were the same as every other scene. Definitely the same guy, the knives and the missing hearts were his calling card. Those two details kept tightly under wraps, for fear of copy cats. Only a handful of people in the department knew everything. But other than that, there had been nothing at the scene, not a shred left by our vigilante

John had finally finished processing the scene and called to deliver the bad news while we were eating lunch. Or rather while Dave was eating lunch, I still felt sick to my stomach and was mainlining yet more sludgy departmental coffee. Still trying to wash away the coppery taste the scene had left in my mouth. I wish I kept a toothbrush in my desk; it wasn’t just the taste I couldn’t get rid of I’d had bits of last night’s dinner stuck in my teeth all day. Although I can’t remember what I ate, in fact I can’t remember eating in weeks. I must have eaten something; a man can’t survive on nothing but Jack and coffee.

Right on cue my stomach rumbled, “Time to eat,” I said to the darkness as I pushed back from the table. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought groceries but there might be something in the fridge. Despite drinking most of a bottle of Jack, my hand steadied as I opened the fridge. It was empty. Empty save a single plate on the middle shelf. Blood had pooled and then congealed. It filled the plate almost to the rim, sitting like a moat around the human heart balanced upright in the middle.

I staggered back crashing against the table. The ‘Window Cleaner’ had been here, in my kitchen. Was this a message? Was I next? Did he know they were my cases? My suspects?

Then the smell hit me, the coppery sweet smell of blood. I felt my mouth begin to water. I ran to the sink, but the Jack stayed down. Instead, I felt hunger. Hunger like I couldn’t believe. It hit me like a physical blow, dragging me back to the fridge.

Looking at the heart the memories came crashing down. The heat of the blood. The smell of fear as I moved amongst them. The taste, my hands began to tremble at the memory of the taste. My skin growing darker, my nails longer. What the hell was happening to me? What was I?

I thought back to the list of victims, I flinched at that word, murdering scum more like. Victims are what those people left in their wake, or at least they used to. First to die had been those who’d shot Becker. Then everyone else who’d got away from us over the years. There were still more names on that list. I smiled and reached out, lifting the heart from the plate. The smell was stronger now, saliva dripped down my chin. I sniffed it once, remembering the feeling as I ripped it, still beating, from his chest. The change was taking me now. Hands, claws, teeth. I no longer pushed it back, I welcomed it.

I bit down hard, savouring the taste as the darkness overtook me.

Time for justice.