“Speak English!” said the Eaglet.
“I don’t know the meaning of half those long words,
and, what’s more, I don’t believe you do either!”
It’s in the middle of the night, the room is dark, and apart from the faint traffic noises from outside, the only sound in the room is Vegas’ frantic breathing. He’s sitting in bed, shivering all over, trying to catch his breath and shake off the last dark whispers of the nightmare he’s just woken up from. The specifics of the dream elude him, which is probably good. All that he’s left with is an overwhelming sense of dread. He’s covered in cold sweat, the t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his clammy skin. Everything’s quiet, too quiet. It grates on his already frayed nerves. He’s so tired but wide awake at the same time. Rolling over and trying to go back to sleep does not sound like an option right now.
Vegas turns on the light. For the first time in his life he’s no longer feeling safe in his own apartment and it sucks big time. This won’t do. He climbs out of bed and heads straight for the cupboard with the gun safe. As soon as he has the Glock in his hands he feels better.
Then he proceeds to systematically check his apartment for possible intruders. Of course there are none, but he needs to do this for his own peace of mind. He double-checks that the front door is locked. After a brief moment of hesitation he goes into the living room and gets two chairs, placing them against the door—just to give himself a bit of a head start should someone try to force their way into his home.
He feels like an idiot for doing this. But better stupid than dead, and therefore he also makes a mental note to get new locks, better locks, more locks. Then he goes to take a quick shower because all that cold sweat feels disgusting. And while he’s in the shower, he feels resentment bubbling up inside of him. He shouldn’t be alone right now, so where the hell is Pete? Does he have no sense of empathy for what Vegas is going through after the big reveal? Then again, knowing Pete, he’s probably doing this on purpose. But damn… seriously? How can he just calmly tell Vegas he’s going to end up as the final victim of a serial killer, and then leave him alone with that knowledge?
It’s driving him insane; he’s getting whiplash from the emotional rollercoaster he’s being put through by this man. One moment Pete is warm and compassionate, and the next he’s distant and seems completely oblivious to what Vegas needs. It’s baffling, and Vegas resents him for that. Unfortunately that doesn’t stop him from being wildly in love with Pete. They’re such a mess. Tem is right—whatever that thing is between them, it’s rather toxic.
After the shower, he pours himself a drink, double-checks the front door again and then goes back to bed. This time, he puts the Glock underneath his pillow, within easy reach. Sleep doesn’t come for the longest time; he’s simply too hyper-alert. Is this how his nights are going to be from now on? This sucks.
----------------------------------------
The next morning Vegas is tired and grumpy. Not a good combination for someone with anger issues. He calls the locksmith, arranges for better locks to be installed and then goes on a long run to blow off some steam before work.
And yes, he’s surprised that Tem is already sitting by his computer when he arrives.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Vegas stifles a yawn before heading over to his desk to turn on his computer. He tries to avoid looking at the murder board; knowing that he might end up as one of the photos on it is rather unsettling.
“Sleep is overrated,” Tem mutters and shrugs. Vegas walks over to him to check what he’s working on, but Tem actives the monitor sleep mode before he has a chance to take a look. Oh, well.
“Did you have coffee yet, Vegas? Or should I rather ask, how much coffee did you have already? Want some more?”
“No thanks, I think there is more coffee in my veins than blood. I should probably avoid coffee for the rest of the day if I want to be able to sleep within the next week. So… what do you want to work on today?” Vegas assumes that Tem might have more questions about what they discussed yesterday.
“Arm called, he’s on his way with the autopsy results.”
Aww, hell…
“Great, what a lovely way to start the day.” Sarcasm is the only way Vegas can deal with this right now. “I’m not getting paid enough for this shit…”
“Me neither,” Tem agrees wholeheartedly, and they settle down to wait for the ME.
When Arm arrives, he does so in the company of Pete. They seem awfully chummy—Vegas didn’t think they knew each other that well, and it makes him frown. Then the frown deepens; Pete is wearing a shirt with an atrocious fish print. His fashion sense seems to be non-existent, or rather, it’s in sync with his equally cringeworthy interior decoration preferences. Vegas sighs inwardly. Pete’s a lost cause.
In contrast, Arm’s t-shirt of the day states ‘Wisdom has been chasing you, but you’ve always been faster’. Vegas guffaws; yet another relatable quote—he loves it. What he doesn’t love is the enthusiastic interaction between Arm and Pete; jealousy leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Vegas knows that Arm isn’t interested in Pete in that way, but the easy way Pete jokes with the ME still rankles. Mine, Vegas wants to yell at Arm. Mine mine mine. Don’t even look at him. Gah! He’s turning into a cave man, how idiotic! This needs to stop. He decides to give Pete the cold shoulder for now.
“Vegas, you’re going to love this…” Arm starts enthusiastically.
No, Vegas is sure he’s not going to love whatever Arm is about to tell him. He offers the ME a seat, nods politely in greeting to Pete, and prepares to take notes.
“All right, what do you have, Arm? Did you find anything that will help us catch the killer? Some DNA? Fingerprints? Anything like that?” There’s always hope, and Vegas hopes fervently that they will catch the killer before he himself becomes a victim.
“No.” Of course he didn’t. But Arm is entirely too cheerful about this failure, if you ask Vegas. “No fingerprints. No DNA. But how about seed pods?” He seems thrilled, and starts typing on his ever-present tablet, then turns it around to show Vegas, Tem and Pete a photo of something brownish that looks look like a deformed, dried flower bud.
“I’ll have to take your word for it that this is a seed thing,” Vegas says sceptically. “It looks more like something that got accidentally deep fried. Where did you find it? At the crime scene?”
“Seed pod, Vegas, not seed thing. And yeah, you could say I found it at the crime scene. Or rather, it was placed dead centre, in a way.”
Tem frowns. “Placed? Not accidentally left behind? What makes you so sure about that?”
“Because I doubt our victim voluntarily swallowed these pods.” Arm rolls his eyes at Tem. “Be quiet and let me speak. Now where was I? Ah yes… I recovered several seed pods like this from the otherwise empty stomach of the victim. They were a bit damaged by stomach acid, but salvageable.”
“Can they be used as some sort of herbal medicine?” Tem wonders, totally forgetting that he was supposed to shut up.
“Or maybe they’re some form of drug, something similar to magic mushrooms perhaps?” Vegas speculates; the guy was a drug dealer after all.
Pete remains silent, just listening to Arm with fascination written all over his face. Vegas hates it. He hates hates hates it. Stop looking at Arm, Pete, I don’t like it.
All those theories are met with Arm’s raised eyebrows. He makes Vegas feel as if he’s back in school with the teacher glaring at him because he has just sprouted some nonsense.
“As I was saying…” Arm gives them a stern look once more, a warning for them not to interrupt him again. “I have some contacts at international universities, so I sent them an email with more detailed photos. The first results were mailed to me this morning, and you’ll be delighted to know that these are seed pods of Asiatic Lilium hybrids—in short, someone stuffed lily seeds down our victim’s throat.”
“Oh fuck.” Both Vegas and Tem groan simultaneously, looking at each other. There is their missing link.
“Fascinating,” Pete mumbles. “Two out of three now.” He glances at Vegas who pointedly avoids to meet his eyes, instead looking down to doodle in his notebook. “You two will need to go over the first crime scene again to find the lily connection there.” He turns back towards Arm. “We should have lunch together some day, I have some great contacts at international Universities, maybe I can make some introductions. It is always good to have a broad contact network in your field of work, I suppose.”
“Sure, it would be my pleasure,” Arm nods eagerly. “Let’s do this sooner rather than later. I had the most fascinating response from the international community with regards to the Blood Eagle. I think I might have to write a paper on it; everyone is thrilled and intrigued. I even had some history departments contact me about it already. Word travels fast in academia.”
Vegas is fuming internally. Cold shoulder, he reminds himself. It’s stupid to get jealous. Focus on work. Screw you, Pete. If you have a lunch date with Arm, I’m going to blow a fuse. And we really need to sit down to have a talk about us.
“All right, I guess Tem and I know what we have to work on today then. Anything else of interest, Arm?”
“As you could see at the crime scene, there were first instar larvae present. I’m taking an educated guess that the death occurred around 36 to 48 hours before the body was found. Closer to 36 hours I’d say, from the size of the instar larvae. The victim was alive and conscious until the murderer started to remove the skin, underlying tissue and muscles of the back, which caused moderate haemorrhaging. He had a bad heart—the pain was most likely unbearable, and he went into shock, which triggered heart failure. He died relatively quickly at that point.”
“Lucky him.” Vegas shudders. The way these people die is bad enough, but now with the very real prospect of him suffering through a similar fate… no wonder he’s having nightmares. I hope I die quickly as well, please spare me that suffering.
“Wouldn’t the killer be frustrated if the victim dies before the ‘artwork’ is complete?” Tem wonders.
A valid point, and suddenly Pete has three pairs of eyes on him. He blinks with surprise at the sudden attention, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks.
“Uhm… that depends? If the goal is to keep the victim alive as long as possible to inflict maximum suffering, then yes. But as far as I can recall we haven’t seen signs of a violent outbursts at either crime scene; I would expect there to be some sort of evidence for that, if the early death really triggers frustration. So I guess it doesn’t matter when they die.”
Arm’s phone plings. “Sorry, gotta go. No rest for the wicked, more bodies to collect,” he announces cheerfully, then taps a few buttons on his tablet. “There you go, I forwarded all of you the autopsy report. Enjoy.” And he heads for the door. Just before leaving, he turns around once more. “Call me when you have time for lunch,” he reminds Pete and then he’s gone.
You call him without talking to me first and I’ll make you regret it, Vegas thinks darkly.
There’s a long moment of silence in the office as everyone mulls over the new information. Then Vegas remembers he forgot to do something important this morning. With a few clicks, he prints out something, then grimly pins a photo of the Swiss national flag on one of the empty walls.
“Switzerland,” he very sternly reminds both Pete and Tem. “Both of you better behave from now on; I want no fights, no arguments, no teasing in here. This office is neutral fucking Switzerland, and if you can’t deal with that, there is the door. Am I making myself crystal clear?” And then as an afterthought, he gives both of them a big and obviously fake smile. “Now both of you say ‘Yes, Vegas, I will abide by your rules’. ”
A wide, genuine grin spreads over Pete’s face. “Yes, Vegas, I will abide by your rules.”
Tem is taken aback by Vegas’ vehemence in the matter. “Err… sure. Yes, Vegas, I will abide by your rules too.”
“Splendid. Now can we get some work done?”
“Fine. Would you two like to hear my initial thoughts on the killer then?” Pete asks.
“Not really, no. But let’s hear them anyway. I suppose it’s good to know more about the person who will try to kill me.” With a sigh, Vegas makes himself comfortable in his seat. He’s sure that this will only lead to even more nightmares.
Pete frowns at him. “Still not funny, Vegas.” Then he seats himself by his computer and pulls up his files. “All right… I apologise in advance for getting overly technical or explaining too much. I just want to make it easier for you two to understand.” He pauses, glances at his notes. “As both of you are probably aware of, serial murders are very rare, despite what various TV shows portray. A serial murder case involves multiple victims and the series may span days, months or even years. The victims can be spread out all over a country and even over several countries. The killer’s behaviour is sometimes not consistent across cases, and there may not even be an obvious connection between the killer and the victims; in short, serial murder cases are very difficult to spot and investigate for average law enforcement personnel.”
“Over the years, different classification systems have been developed to link certain personality types or behavioural patterns with different series of murder. I won’t bore you with the details—let’s just say it’s difficult to come up with a good classification system. They’re all flawed in one way or the other. In addition to that, you have the problem of popular myths about serial murders messing up the investigations, those myths being fed mostly by movies, books, and television.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard those myths before: all serial killers are white males who are evil geniuses, and travel around the country killing multiple victims for sexual gratification. Deep down they all want to get caught by the police. They were raised in dysfunctional or abusive families and they’re loners, incapable of maintaining long term relationships. The violence they inflict gets worse the more people they kill, and once a killer starts murdering, he can never stop. And if there is a stop, the killer was either in prison, joined the military or was admitted to a mental health facility. Sounds familiar?”
Vegas nods, and so does Tem. He has to admit, so far this sounds interesting. Let’s see what his baby shrink has come up with; maybe he’s actually good at his job. One thing is for sure—the way he speaks confidently about this matter is sexy as hell
“Okay, I want you to forget about all these myths again because they’re bullshit, they’re causing more harm than you can imagine. They can actually hinder an investigation completely. Just forget about everything you’ve ever heard about serial killers on TV or at the academy.”
“The definition of a serial murder we’ll be using for this is ‘a single offender who killed at least two victims in separate events at different times’. I believe we can put a checkmark on that, because we can now definitely link the three cases that we are aware of.”
“Wait a moment, are you saying there might be more cases that we’re not aware of yet?” Can this get any worse? Apparently it can. Well, shit. Why didn’t Vegas think about this earlier? Maybe because he’s been too busy ogling his therapist instead of focusing on his work.
“Yes. I don’t think that what you consider to be the first case in this series is actually the first time he killed.” Even Pete seems to be unhappy about that. “The MO is simply too advanced for a first kill. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t anything you want to hear.”
“Well, shit.” Tem sighs deeply. “I suppose we need to do a deep dive into the database and see if we can find any additional weird cases in the whole country, and not just Bangkok. What time frame do you suggest for the search?” he asks Pete, taking notes.
“Go back at least 10 years. 15 to be safe.”
Both Vegas and Tem look up from taking notes and glare collectively at Pete. “You’re joking, right? Do you have any idea how much work that will be?” Tem complains heatedly.
“Maybe we can request additional manpower for this?” suggests Pete, the eternal optimist. The other two men snort with amusement at the naivety he displays.
“Dream on, Pete, dream on. You got a lot to learn about the realities of being a cop in this city. Tem and I will try to manage as best we can. More overtime, just great.” Vegas ponders if he should bring a sleeping bag to work, since he will be spending a lot of long days here in the near future. Maybe this isn’t even a bad idea, he would most certainly be a lot safer here than at home, so maybe he could even sleep without any nightmares? “Go ahead, continue please.”
“Uhm…” Poor Pete seems confused by their cynical reactions. “Err… so let’s try to figure out the motivation of the killer first.” He looks like a befuddled professor. So damn cute. No, wait, cold shoulder.
Pete continues, “We have five categories when it comes to the killer’s motivation. Let’s start with ‘Profit’. I think we can all agree we can discount that one, right?” He waits for them to nod before he continues. “The next one is ‘Anger’. That means the victims are killed because the killer projects his hostility towards another person or group onto them. Jealousy and revenge fall under this category as well. I’m fairly sure we can discount this as well, but—” and here he stops to look directly at Vegas, “—there is a minute chance that the killer bears a personal grudge against the Theerapanyakul family, represented by you. So we can’t discount this completely.”
“Just one more reason to despise my family.” Vegas sighs deeply. “What’s next?”
“‘Mental illness’. Self explanatory. The killer has a psychiatric malady and that mental illness is a significant contributing factor to the murders.”
Tem interrupts Pete. “Well, obviously our killer is mentally ill. I mean, what normal person would do things like this to other people?”
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Pete replies thoughtfully. “It depends on what psychiatric condition we are talking about. It definitely isn’t psychosis or schizophrenia I think. Perhaps sociopathy or psychopathy though. These all fall under ASPD, Antisocial Personality Disorder. But I doubt that a medical condition is the explanation for why he’s killing people. There must be more to it.”
Competent Pete is hot, Vegas muses as he listens closely. The sparkling eyes, the way he speaks and gestures to make additional points—hot as hell. Very distracting, too. Vegas wants some alone time with this Pete; he can think of a couple of things he would like to do to him.
“Vegas…?”
“Huh?” Vegas feels his face getting warm. “I am sorry, I was spacing out, what did you say, Pete?” He feels himself flushing even more as Pete arches an amused eyebrow at him, as if he’s aware in what directions Vegas’ thoughts have been wandering. Caught. Oops.
Pete repeats himself. “I was asking you if you agree with my assessment.” Smiling at him—oh dear, dimple alert.
“Err… sure. I agree.” Damn, this is embarrassing. “Once again sorry, please continue.”
Pete’s smile widens. “The next motivation to kill would be ‘Sexual’.”
Bloody hell. Vegas sinks deeper into his seat, wishing he could disappear. He feels like a teenager who has been caught reading a naughty magazine. Tem clears his throat loudly and frowns at both of them. Oops again.
“This is defined as a murder motivated by sex and includes any type of sexual interaction, no matter how subtle or diverse. I suppose we can’t discount this option completely either, until we have seen evidence that refutes it.”
“He did have sex with the first victim,” Tem reminds them.
“Yes, but there were no signs of sexual interaction with the other ones. Maybe the sex with the first victim had more to do with the method of the actual kill than it being the motivation behind the kill? Somehow I don’t see the killer doing this mainly to get off.” Vegas is sceptical.
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“All the victims so far are men…” Tem hesitates. “Does that mean the killer is gay?”
“If the motive is sexual gratification, then it stands to reason that the killer is gay or bisexual. Statistically, there are very few gay serial killers though,” Pete points out.
“What else is there?” Vegas would like to move on; thinking about sex and the killer in the same context is disturbing.
“Everything else falls under the ‘Other’ category.” Pete absently runs his fingers through his hair, deep in thoughts. “We clearly need to give this more thought; maybe it will become clearer when we have more facts or more victims. For now, let’s move on and look at the killer’s victim selection and approach.”
“In other words, what is the primary means the killer uses to approach and gain access to his victims? We have three categories here, the first one is ‘Ruse’, which means the killer uses a trick or a con to gain access to the victim. Then we have ‘Blitz’—an immediate physical attack, without any verbal interaction. And last we have ‘Surprise’, where the killer utilises stealth and situational circumstance to confront the victim.”
“The first victim was definitely ‘Ruse’.” Everyone agrees with Tem on this, and he continues: “Since the second victim was an experienced bodyguard, it must have been either a ‘Surprise’ or a ‘Blitz’ attack. I am leaning towards the ‘Blitz’ attack, since I’ve seen what the Theerapanyakul bodyguard training is like first hand.”
Yeah, Vegas knows that bodyguard training very well—he’s been subjected to it himself. Character building, his father called it. Vegas would have preferred to go and play football with his friends instead of learning how to shoot a weapon, or almost drowning in a pool while trying to get out of the ropes binding his feet. Character building, my foot. It was bloody child abuse, nothing else.
“And victim number three was probably ‘Ruse’ again. I’m guessing he was approached under the pretext of buying drugs, or perhaps with the lure of a larger drug deal.” Tem has a thoughtful expression on his face. “He’s damn smart, this killer. It’s rather scary, isn’t it?”
“Arm calls it ‘delightfully refreshing’…” Vegas points out with a smirk, which makes Pete chuckle.
Tem rolls his eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m not seeing any definite pattern here. What’s next?”
“We need to look at the relationship between the killer and the victim. The ‘Customer/client’ relationship we can discount right away; it doesn’t apply to our situation. Then we have the ‘Relative/familial’ category…” Pete glances at Vegas, who is suddenly all tense. “This includes blood relatives as well as blended family and extended family. Anything you wish to tell us, Vegas?”
“Leave it alone, Pete. This has nothing to do with my family.” It’s very clear that Vegas doesn’t want the talk to go in this direction.
“Sorry, can’t do that. This is the one time you must not avoid discussing your family dynamics, however difficult this must be for you. You think there’s even the slightest chance that someone from your family wants you dead, and is taking it out on substitutes for now, until they’ve worked up the courage to target you directly?”
“Go to hell, Pete,” Vegas growls in warning. “We might despise each other, but we do not kill each other. You can take my word for it.”
Wisely, Tem doesn’t get involved in this argument, he just watches Vegas closely, with something akin to sympathy in his eyes.
Pete, though, is completely unfazed. “Eventually you and I will need to discuss your family dynamics, otherwise we’ll never get to the root of your anger issues, but that’s for another day. I just have to take your word for it and hope you’re not omitting anything important again. Let’s move on for now…”
Fuck you, Pete. Vegas still has no intention to talk about his family, not now and not ever. And besides, they’re no longer therapist and patient, are they? Their last therapy session was ages ago and besides, it’s impossible to continue therapy now that they’ve become lovers.
“I think we can exclude the ‘Acquaintance’ relationship as well. I’ve seen no signs that there was any prior contact between the killer and the victims, however slight. The same goes for the ‘Stranger’ category.”
“But I assumed they were strangers to him, so why do you exclude this category?” Tem is confused.
“Because there’s another category, the last one, which fits our cases much better. The ‘Targeted stranger’.”
“Ah, okay…” That actually makes sense to Vegas, because they were definitely targeted, and all because of him. All those people would be alive if it weren’t for him. He feels terrible about it.
“It means that the killer knew who the victim was, but the victim most likely had no knowledge or familiarity with the killer. This fits to a T for all three cases, since we have seen no evidence of any contact between the killer and the victims prior to the murders yet.” Pete glances at his notes again and frowns. “The next point is the body disposal…”
Vegas and Tem groan again. This is a horror they do not wish to revisit.
“Sorry,” Pete mutters sheepishly. “Anyway, the bodies were neither dumped nor in any way concealed. They weren’t transported from the murder scene at all. In fact, at least at the second crime scene, the killer went to great lengths to ensure the integrity of the crime scene even in case there was a delayed discovery of the body—by picking a location that had access to climate control. I suppose he didn’t want the flowers to go bad …” he ponders thoughtfully.
“I’ll never again go and buy red flowers for anyone, that much I can tell you,” Vegas shudders. “I don’t think I will ever forget their smell either.”
Pete tilts his head to the side, watching Vegas intensely. “Is that so? Interesting. Anyway…” He takes out his pen and starts twirling it with his fingers again. “Even with the first body, he made sure to disconnect the AC unit and close the window, presumably in order to avoid flies finding their way into the room through the gaps around the hose, and destroying the scene before the arrival of the police. Or perhaps he wanted to hasten the decomposition in the heat? All three bodies were left ‘as is’, meaning the killer left the victims at their residence, or took the victim into an abandoned building, killed the victim, and afterwards left the victim inside that same structure.”
Everyone takes a moment to look at the murder board that displays the graphic images of their three crime scenes, the stuff of nightmares as far as Vegas is concerned.
When Pete continues, there is the slightest hint of an underlying tension on his voice. “All three bodies were displayed. This means that the killer intentionally positioned the victim’s body after death to either shock the police, the victim’s family, or the general public. Or to send a message, to make a point about what he thinks about the victim personally or about the class the victim represents—but that goes mostly for sex workers—or he’s sending a message through the substitute victims to his real target, which appears to be you, Vegas.”
“Well, thank you so much for pointing that out to me again, Pete. It’s not as if I would ever forget that I am on a hit list…” Vegas gives him an irritated sideways glance. “So all three cases were a message to me, fine. What’s the damn message then, because I’m obviously too stupid to get it? ‘See what I am going to do to you?’ or perhaps ‘You thought the last scene was bad, look at this one, my creativity is endless, aren’t you curious yet as to how I’m planning to kill you?’…” He can feel himself getting stressed again because, damn, this is what’s on his mind all the time now. He’s going to end up like a fucking art installation for someones twisted amusement after going through unimaginable torture. How is he supposed to deal with that knowledge? With a frustrated groan he leans forward and buries his face in his hands. “I’m so screwed…”
Risking Pete’s ire, Tem puts a hand on Vegas’ shoulder, squeezes briefly and allows it rest there for comfort. “I am so sorry, Vegas. Don’t give up hope yet, all right? We will fix this, you’re not going to end up dead, trust me.”
“If only I had your confidence…” Vegas sighs, because he feels the
situation is hopeless. “We’re screwed, Tem. We have no real lead on the killer and he’s probably already planning the next murder.”
Apart from a slight narrowing of his eyes, Pete doesn’t react to Tem touching Vegas; maybe the whole Switzerland thing has sunken in. “Yes, based on the behaviour of other serial killers that I have studied he’s probably planning the next kill already, Vegas, but I’m fairly sure it isn’t you just yet, so stop wallowing in self-pity.” Pete twirls his pen, watching Vegas pensively. “Snap out of it. If you’re that worried, you can always ask to be put into protective custody or perhaps you could ask your family to lend you some bodyguards for the time being?”
Vegas snaps out of it, all right. He straightens up in alarm and vehemently shakes his head. “My family must under no circumstance find out about this.” There is almost a hint of panic in his voice now. “Swear to me that you are not telling them anything, that goes for both of you. Not a word to them. Pete, do not call them behind my back. Tem, don’t even think about discussing this with Porsche. If my family finds out about this, you will never see me again.”
“Aren’t you being a bit overly dramatic now, Vegas?” Pete leans back in his chair and point the pen at him. “Stop threatening me.”
“Damn it, Pete, this isn’t meant as a threat against you! This is literally what is going to happen, should my family find out that I am in any sort of real danger of getting killed. They’re not going to lend me some bodyguards; they’re going to come, take me with or without my permission, lock me up somewhere and throw away the key.”
The mere thought is sends a shudder of anxiety through Vegas. Even if they just put him in the safe house, it will be a golden cage. But they—his father—will probably know that even the safe house won’t be able to hold him, and then it’ll be the cellar, and he hates it there, he hates the damp, moldy smell and the sound of the people screaming and moaning in agony and the darkness and the flickering lights—his breath is becoming irregular again.
He’s eight years again and he hates the cellar, he doesn’t want to be locked up here again, he’ll be a good boy. Just please, no more cellar…
Then there’s a sharp pain in his leg that startles him, and he finds himself back in the here and now. Bloody hell, his thigh hurts! And no wonder, Pete is grinding the tip of his pen ruthlessly into the muscle there. Shit! Vegas gasps in pain and smacks the pen away. “Fuck!”
“Welcome back to reality.” Pete is completely unapologetic about inflicting violence. Not only that, he’s also holding up his index finger in warning to Tem, who looks as if he wants to strangle Pete for hurting Vegas, but doesn’t dare to move. “You had a bit of an episode,” Pete explains calmly, withdraws his hand and starts twirling that damn pen again. “Some childhood trauma, if I may guess? Another thing we need to work on…”
Vegas blinks; he’s speechless. It was effective, yes, but surely this isn’t an approved method of dealing with patients having a traumatic flashback? He’s starting to wonder how Pete ever got his licence.
Pete, meanwhile, is determined to get back to business. “Anyway… the killer is a Thai male, most likely between 25 and 35 years old. He’s highly educated, most likely holds a university diploma or is still studying, or is self-taught through online courses. It’s unlikely that he’s married but he might be in a steady relationship. He will have a prior arrest record, most likely for misdemeanours like assault and/or battery offences. Or larceny. His level of violence shows little to no escalation, but since the first murder we are aware of already started out at a pretty high level of violence I see little possibility to escalate from that in the future. He’s probably killed before, multiple times even. It’s unlikely that he has been restricting himself to Bangkok alone, he’ll have murdered in other cities as well. I am doubtful about him being active in rural areas though, he seems more like a city person. His crime scenes are so elaborate, it must be important for him that they’re discovered and admired. The chances of no one finding a rural crime scene are pretty high, I don’t think he would go for it.”
Here, Pete pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts, absently biting his lower lip while pondering something. And damn, despite being in the middle of a fucking life-threatening mess, Vegas feels himself getting all hot and bothered watching this. Damn it! Focus Vegas, focus.
“The killer is highly organised. He avoids leaving physical evidence, he’s cleaning up the crime scenes, wears PPE, and at least once a condom. We don’t know about possible DNA, Arm hasn’t left a report about that yet. The killer is also removing items from the scenes. Clothing, shoes, phones, IDs. In some cases this includes missing body tissue as well. I find it unlikely that the purpose of this is to keep trophies; it’s more likely that this falls under evidence tampering. He’s also actively leaving clues at each crime scene that connect the different victims to each other.”
“When we look at the characteristics of the victims chosen so far, the only thing that the victims we know of have in common is that they’re Thai, male and have some sort of a connection to Vegas, however vague. There’s no other pattern here—he’s mixing victims like Beam, who through his behavioural pattern can be categorised as a high risk of victimisation, and someone like the bodyguard, who due to his extensive training is categorised as a low risk, which is unusual. Obviously he’s not afraid of taking risks. As for his method of operation, it changes with each victim. He doesn’t have a preferred weapon of choice. He doesn’t have a preferred manner of death, apart from it being unusual and gruesome. You’ll need to look at the manners of death again, and see if any of them have been used in murders before, be it historical or fictional, since he obviously gets some inspiration from somewhere, as we can see with the Blood Eagle. The only distinctive feature we have regarding manner of death right now, is that some form of torture is involved; not for the pure sake of torture, but as part of the procedure the killer puts the victims through in order to achieve the display he wants to arrange.”
“I think I just lost my appetite for lunch,” Tem shudders involuntarily.
Vegas couldn’t agree more.
“Since there are still so many unknown variables when it comes to the killer, and since you’re in a race against time, the most important advice I can give you right now is the following: If you want to catch this killer, it’s paramount to identify his first murder, or attempted murder, and by first murder I don’t mean the first murder that you’re aware of right now. You need to go back and find the very first crime scene, the very first time he killed.” Pete pauses and looks at both of them, dead serious. “It’s like with all things you do for the very first time: if you’re not proficient in it yet, the greater the probability that mistakes are made. And these errors will be the clues you need to identify the killer.”
Easier said that done, Vegas thinks.
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
----------------------------------------
And then it’s lunchtime already. Pete simply packs up and leaves before Vegas can really process everything.
Huh? Wait a moment… he’s walking out on him again? No way. Again? They need to talk.
“Be right back!” he calls out to Tem and rushes out of the office. A quick glance left and right, yes, he can see Pete standing by the elevator. Vegas hurries to catch up with him and breathlessly manages to squeeze through the doors just as they’re starting to close.
Pete has been checking something on his phone; he looks up, their eyes meet and lock. A familiar spark rekindles between them. Neither of them speaks; there are other people in the elevator with them. They just assess each other silently.
The elevator stops, the doors open, some people disembark, the doors close again. Less people in the cabin with them now. Vegas’ eyes flicker down to Pete’s lips and then back up; he can’t resist the temptation to wink. He can see Pete swallow drily as the sexual tension between them increases.
The elevator stops again, the doors open, more people disembark, the doors close again. There is only one more person in the cabin with them now and the woman is totally oblivious to her surroundings, checking her phone. Vegas feels his lips curling into a slow smile and Pete swallows again, the hand holding the phone trembling ever so slightly. He seems to be entranced by the naked desire he can see on Vegas’ face and this time it’s him looking like the mouse before the rattlesnake. Rightfully so, because this rattlesnake is readying itself to strike.
Are they going up or down? Vegas doesn’t know, he couldn’t care less, his full attention is solely focused on Pete. First, he just wanted a chance to talk in private. But it seems reason has disembarked along with the fellow passengers on the elevator, and madness has taken over. Yes, Vegas must have gone utterly and totally mad. Blame it on Pete, who is too damn hot for his own good when he’s fully immersed in his competent psychologist persona. Vegas could barely control himself while listening to him earlier, and now even that control is about to fly out the elevator doors.
The elevator stops, the doors open, the woman disembarks, the doors close again. And they’re alone. The elevator starts moving and Vegas casually reaches out and presses the emergency stop button. The cabin comes to a rather sudden stop.
“What the hell…” Pete manages to blurt out, before Vegas slams into him, grabs his face and kisses him so roughly that Pete drops his phone in surprise.
Yes! This is what he wanted to do all along. Finally! Vegas wants to drown himself in Pete, he licks into his mouth and growls possessively. Mine. He feels Pete shudder as he presses him against the wall. All mine. Pete makes some incoherent noises, he has his hands on Vegas’ hips, his fingers digging in as he tries to keep up with Vegas’ frantic kisses. Burning, they’re burning together; he will never get used to the intensity with which his body reacts to Pete as soon as they touch. He craves him so badly, body and soul, he, too, wants everything. And surely Pete feels the same way because after the initial surprise he’s kissing Vegas like a man possessed, pulling at Vegas’ uniform, trying to find a way underneath with his wandering hands. It sends a sharp spike of arousal through Vegas. He nearly forgets where they are; all he wants is to touch Pete, he wants skin contact, he wants him naked again, he wants a repeat of that glorious night—but then the elevator’s speaker makes a crackling noise and comes to life. They’ve run out of time. Damn.
“Hello? Is there a problem?” someone from technical support asks.
Vegas curses silently and pulls away from Pete’s mouth, breathing hard. “Everything’s fine here.” He has to clear his throat. “Sorry. It was a misunderstanding, I accidentally pushed the wrong button.” Pete looks so delightfully dazed, ruffled and thoroughly kissed, Vegas wants to purr and rub himself all over him. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else, when he wants to keep kissing him.
“Oh, okay,” the service technician replies. “Please press the button again to start the elevator and be more careful the next time. Have a nice day.” The speaker falls silent again.
“Are you completely out of your mind?” Pete has found his voice again, blushing furiously. He pushes Vegas away and bends down to pick up his phone. “We’re at work. Does this elevator have a camera?” He glances around nervously, scanning the cabin, and pales a bit when he sees the camera lens in one of the corners.
Vegas grins cheekily, straightening his uniform again, and shakes his head. “That camera has been dead for years. What’s up, Pete? Not ready for a walk on the wild side? Wasn’t it exciting? Want some more?” Because Vegas definitely wants some more. The question is, where can they go, someplace safe, where they won’t be disturbed…
“Wild side, my ass,” Pete mutters. He seems thoroughly flustered, and that makes him even more sexy in Vegas’ eyes.
Vegas dutifully presses the stop button once more and the elevator jerks to life again and continues its journey downward. “Your hair looks ruffled.” Vegas can’t stop grinning. “Need help fixing it?”
“Vegas!” Pete hisses in exasperation and hastily runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself look presentable again.
It’s probably best not to tell that his lips are swollen from kissing, he would surely throw a hissy fit if he knew.
As the elevator continues to move downward, Vegas feels very pleased with himself. They should do this more often.
“So… don’t you think you should ask me for permission first before you go on your lunch date with Arm?” he can’t help teasing Pete.
“Now why on earth would I need to do that?”
The elevator stops and the doors open; they’re in the basement with the parking garage, is Pete calling it a day already? Well, he does exit the elevator, so Vegas trails along.
“Because I don’t like how you fawn all over him perhaps?” Vegas didn’t plan on answering so truthfully, but there it is. “You do know Arm isn’t into men, right?”
Pete is slowly walking along the rows of parked cars, but now he stops and turns around to confront Vegas, mild disapproval written all over his face. “Don’t be boring, Vegas. I’ll meet with whoever I want and do whatever I want, you better keep that in mind.”
Huh? Somehow this isn’t how Vegas expected this conversation to go; he wanted to tease Pete a little, but he definitely does not like what he’s hearing right now.
“I beg your pardon? What exactly do you mean by ‘do whatever I want’? Because I don’t like the sound of that.” He can’t help but frown. What’s going on here?
Once again Pete exhibits such complete control over his facial expressions that he’s entirely unreadable; it’s unnerving.
“It means exactly what you think it means. I don’t need your permission for anything because we never had an agreement to be exclusive.”
So this is how it must feel to have a dagger plunged into your heart, Vegas notes, completely floored by that unexpected answer. He had no idea words could hurt this much. Because this hurts, and it hurts badly. That’s what he gets for allowing himself to care so much about this man, he should have known better. Stupid stupid stupid.
“I see …” he somehow manages to get those words out. “I suppose you gave me the impression of exclusiveness with your ongoing tantrums about Tem, but I guess I had it wrong.” Bitterness creeps into his voice and he hates himself for it. He doesn’t want to show any of the emotions he’s feeling right now, it will only make him even more vulnerable.
“That still stands, Vegas. You stay away from Tem and anyone else.” Pete narrows his eyes and gives him a sharp look. “Nothing has changed there.”
“Oh, so the exclusiveness applies to me, but not to you?” Vegas scoffs; he can’t believe this. Pete can’t possibly be serious about this, right?
“Take it or leave it, Vegas. Your choice.” Pete is entirely too blasé about this matter, he folds his arms on his chest, so damn aloof all of a sudden. It rankles, especially after that episode in the elevator just now.
“Pete… seriously?” This whole conversation is absurd; Vegas feels as if his world has been upended all of a sudden. What the hell is happening here? “Shouldn’t we have a talk about this? About us? Because I do not like where this is going. I really don’t understand what you want from me. You’re giving me so many mixed signals I feel like my mind’s going to explode. Could we please sit down and talk, really talk, about us and everything for once? Please?”
Vegas cringes slightly when he hears himself pleading like this, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He desperately needs clarification on this matter—it seems he keeps misinterpreting everything. What exactly are they to each other?
Clap
Clap
Clap
In surprise Vegas turns his head in the direction of the sudden sound, and sees a man leaning casually against a nearby concrete pillar, clapping his hands theatrically.
Tall, lanky, relatively good looking, immaculately dressed in a suit, presumably their age. Vegas automatically takes note of all of this, his mind racing. What exactly did this guy overhear? This isn’t good, not good at all. He should have paid more attention to their surroundings, should have ensured that they’re alone and can’t be overheard. Not good at all.
“Sorry to interrupt this riveting conversation—”
The man smiles at Vegas, and somehow that smile just feels wrong, Vegas can feel the hair at the nape of his neck standing up. He instantly dislikes this guy.
The stranger pushes himself away from the pillar and straightens his expensive suit. He looks like a banker. Or someone Kinn would associate with. “—but I’m on a tight schedule and time is ticking… tick tock tick tock…” And with that he turns his attention from Vegas to Pete, and the hungry way he looks at Pete awakens something feral deep inside of Vegas. “Time to go, Pete. Say your goodbyes.”
Vegas’ gaze skips over to Pete, and he doesn’t like what he sees there either. Pete—his Pete—is looking at that stranger with fond exasperation, and the barest narrowing of eyes. They know each other, that much is obvious. Just how well remains to be seen. “I told you not to come here,” Pete sighs deeply at the stranger. “You never listen to me. Very well… I suppose you can tag along, since you’re already here.”
He then turns back towards Vegas and gives him a curt, distant nod. Not only is the mask firmly back in place; the invisible wall between them has been slammed into place as well. What the hell?
“This conversation is over. Have a nice day, Detective.”
And while Vegas is still reeling from this icy dismissal, Pete turns around and strides away towards his car, parked at a short distance.
What. The. Hell?
Vegas is simply stunned. What the heck is going on? Less than 10 minutes! They were fine in the elevator; it took them less than 10 minutes to go from frantically making out to ‘we might as well be strangers’. What the bloody hell is going on? Vegas is thoroughly confused.
The stranger seems to find all this drama amusing. He chuckles softly, and even that’s giving Vegas goosebumps, not in a good way. Vegas does not like the way this guy is looking at Pete, or the way this guy is looking at him either, come to think of it. As if he pities him. Something about this man just rubs Vegas the wrong way.
“He’s adorable, isn’t he?” The stranger casts a longing look at Pete’s retreating back, licks his lips—the beast inside of Vegas growls angrily—and then turns his handsome head to smirk at Vegas. “It seems he has you wrapped around his little finger. He’s such a naughty boy. Is he playing his little mind games with you? Tsk…” He tuts when he sees how Vegas flinches. “Such a naughty boy indeed, can’t resist playing… Don’t take it to heart, Detective. That’s just how my Pete is.”
Before he can stop himself, something akin to a feral growl escapes Vegas mouth. He clenches his hands into tight fists, feeling the all familiar rage bubbling up inside of him. ‘My Pete’. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?! Pete belongs to him!
“Just who the hell are you?” Vegas snarls angrily at him.
Before the stranger can answer, Pete, who is now standing by his car, calls out sharply to him. “Tawan!”
“On my way…” the man calls back before giving Vegas another smug smile. “Me? I’m his on-again, off-again. Have a lovely day, Detective.” And with a wink, the man turns around and saunters away to catch up with Pete.
What the fuck?!