The colour of life

They started to call him the poet of death.

Five victims, five poems.

Detective Emily Furgeson sat on her desk; a pencil holding her curly blond hair in a makeshift bun. She stared at the wall covered with photos of the victims. Five pretty faces stared back at her. All female, blond and around their early twenties. Below each pretty face was the gruesome contrast of the evidence photos. The thing that stood out to anyone who looked at the photos, once they got past the horror, was that all the scenes looked almost identical.  

The victims were found completely drained of blood, suspended from a gyroscope frame by cables, spread eagled. They were surrounded by a ring of lights on the ground, shining up at them. Like they were being displayed as some piece of horrific art. Their pale skin, almost white in the bright lights were in a stark contrast to the new, raw tattoo across their abdomen. A centrepiece on a perfect canvas.

Accompanying each piece of art was a poem. The analysis of the poems was all the same. The paper was handmade, probably by the killer. The writing was by a righthanded individual, most likely male. He used calligraphy. The ink was probably the weirdest thing to her. It turns out that it was made from the victim’s blood. Not that he used their blood to write with, but he made an ink from their blood. All of this spoke of a very patient, very particular individual. Someone who spends ages to plan and to execute that plan precisely.

There was no sign of any bruising or scarring of the victims other than on the hands and feet from the cables. Postmortems suggest that they were tied this way while they were still alive. The only other mark was a small puncture wound on the side of the neck, where the blood had been drained. This was how they died.

The thing that kept nagging at her was that all the crimes had the same MO. They followed the same pattern, looked the same, fitted in the same timeframe. Everyone.

Now this letter, or poem rather, showed up on her desk three days ago. Materialising out of thin air for all she knew, as no one had a clue how it got there.

It did not fit.

It looked like it was the same style of handwriting, the same paper, the same hue of ink.

But it did not fit the pattern.

Did they miss something? Did the killer send his victims similar poems before he killed them? But they hadn’t found anything in any of the victims’ homes nor any mention of it from anybody that they interviewed.

Another more disturbing scenario was that this was the work of a copycat and that classified details of the case had leaked somehow.

More likely the killer was taunting them. Showing that he could get away with stealing into the police station and leaving a letter on the lead detective’s desk without being seen.

She re-read the poem for probably the hundredth time, hoping to gain some insight, some realisation that could break this case open. Some clue.

             Baby, it’s getting harder and harder,

             Harder to breath without you.

             I surround myself with pictures of you.

             All this love, wasted, misunderstood.

             It is choking me up.

             I need to feel you in my blood.

             All this lust, for just one touch.

             I’m scared to give up.

             I have covered myself in tattoos of you.

             My favourite colour,

             The colour of life.

With a gloved hand, Emily held the letter up to her nose and inhaled deeply. She shut her eyes, concentrating on the scent. Breathing out and then sniffing once more, she detected a familiar yet elusive memory. There was something there, almost as if…

“Excuse me, Detective.” It was a soft, yet determined voice, almost apologetic.

And it was gone.

She looked up at the woman standing in front of her. A tiny, pretty thing. Gosh was I ever that young? “Yes?” she uttered with an irritated sigh, both eyebrows arching high over her piercing blue eyes.

The constable’s eyes shot wide and then narrowed a bit, she swallowed and then presented her with an envelope. “Courier dropped this off. Sarge said that you have been waiting for it, so I should bring it to you right away.” There was fire in this one. She may just make it, if she keeps her head up.

“Thanks,” she said, feeling that she should apologise, but couldn’t really be bothered. Emily placed the letter back in the evidence bag before she took the envelope from the constable. She lifted her leg and pulled the knife from the top of her boot to open it. The Lab results.

Her eyes scanned over the report, everything matched, marking this as authentic. So, no copycat. At least she didn’t have to worry about the integrity of her colleagues. The next line was the DNA sample of the blood. There was a match…

The paper slipped out of her hand, she could not believe what she just read. It didn’t make any sense.

Her mind was rushing in a million different directions as she walked out into the hallway. She headed to the bathroom to go wash her face. She had to get away to try and calm herself, to take a breath, to make this fit.

As she came around the corner, she bumped into a maintenance worker who was coming the other way. He was carrying a red toolbox that bumped into her thigh right above the knee. She felt the jolt shoot through her leg, numbing it instantly.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” he asked, dropping the toolbox to try and help her. She pushed past him with some inaudible reassurance that she was fine, and half limped through the bathroom door. 

She looked up at her wet face in the mirror, not really registering what she was seeing. Where could he have gotten any of my blood to create the ink in the letter? How is this even possible?

The throbbing in her leg was getting worse. It felt like her leg was on fire, but cold at the same time. She undid her pants to look at her leg. Could it be fractured? There was a big red welt where the toolbox had slammed into her leg. What the heck?

In the middle of the red mark was a tiny darker red spot. She wiped it with her finger. Blood.

As the shock of seeing the blood and realising what it meant hit her, her whole lower body went limp as if in response. She fell to the floor, catching herself awkwardly as she sat down. The room slowly turned on its side. The last thing she saw was a red toolbox right in front of her on the floor.

“Hey, Frank. Have you seen Emily?”

“No, why?”

“I must speak with her urgently. She isn’t answering her phone. Can you go down to the parking lot and see if she’s there? I know the signal is a bit shoddy down there.”

“Sure. I’m just seeing this guy out and I’ll check.”

Frank held the door open as the maintenance guy pushed his trolly through. It was filled with his tools and the box the new toilet came in, now filled with the broken parts of the old one he replaced.

“Cheers,” he said as he handed Frank his visitor’s card back.

“Sure thing. Thanks for coming on such short notice. Can’t run this place without the crapper,” he said with a half chuckle.

“Happy to help. You take care now.” He walked leisurely out of the building, accompanied with a slight squeak, squeak of the trolly’s wheel.