“I am not crazy; my reality is just different from yours.”

Even this late in the evening it’s still quite warm, and the air has the electric feel of an approaching thunderstorm. Since it’s night time, the traffic flows smoothly, and Vegas weaves his car through the never-ending maze of streets. It’s been 45 minutes since Arm’s unexpected phone call. Time to process the initial shock. His first thought upon hearing about that new victim had been: Pete—which is, of course, absurd. He hates himself for the sheer panic that flooded his system at this thought. It seems the last victim being someone he knew has affected him much more than he would have thought possible. So… What does this say about whatever it is he is feeling when it comes to Pete? He doesn’t want to think about that; everything about last weekend still feels too raw. Pete is really rattling his cage, but Vegas is determined to put a stop to it, to cleanse himself of this impossible attraction.

As for the murder victim—it was a coincidence. Beam was a glitch. That is all. Shit happens (and usually to him, but let’s not think about that either).

Arm hasn’t really given him any information other than the address of the crime scene, leaving Vegas to contemplate why the medical examiner seems to think this new case might be connected to the other one. He shudders to think that he might have to confront more buckets of glistening nastiness or gaping chest cavities. Let’s hope the smell is better this time.

Tonight’s crime scene is located in one of the many commercial re

development areas on the outskirts of the city. The rundown buildings in this quarter are marked for demolition, but the work hasn’t started yet. The area is eerily quiet and devoid of cars and pedestrians; a stark contrast to the rest of Bangkok, which is busy 24/7. This will of course be a problem when it comes to finding potential eye witnesses. Even working CCTV cameras are unlikely to be found here, damn.

As Vegas pulls up to the address, he sees one lone police vehicle and the Crime Scene Investigation team’s van. That’s it. Guess this isn’t really considered a priority, but still… only one car? He parks beside them, gets out, and takes a moment to look around, getting a feel for the neighbourhood. He is in front of what seems to have been an office building once upon a time. Five floors, graffiti-filled concrete walls. Some lights are on inside, shining through dirty, partially broken windows. So they haven’t cut the electricity to the building yet, interesting. The surrounding buildings fall into the same category. There is nothing obvious that makes this one stand out. Why did their suspect choose this one then? Vegas needs to figure this out; he starts scribbling down his initial thoughts in his notebook so he won’t forget. Everything is important, every little detail.

Making his way to the building’s entrance he nods to the two patrol officers sitting there, having a smoke. “Clear perimeter?” They nod. He doesn’t have any questions for them that he can think of yet, so Vegas walks past them and through the door, which was apparently broken into at some point, because it’s visibly damaged.

He steps into a reception area with a staircase leading up to the left. He can see a couple of doors as well, and to the right the former reception counters. Neon lights are on, flickering irregularly, adding to the spookiness of this abandoned place. It’s to the right that he spots Arm and Pol. Both of them are wearing their disposable overalls since they were first on the scene and have most likely processed it already. Pol is currently bent over what used to be a small plastic trash bin, throwing up noisily while Arm stands by his side, helpless and rather distressed.

This is … unexpected. Vegas has never—never—seen Pol throw up at a crime scene. This is Pol, who is always snacking, totally unconcerned even when everyone else is already heaving. There’s no snack in sight tonight either. It’s disconcerting. And so is the fact that Arm is visibly upset. This has also never happened before. Damn. So it’s going to be one of those nights. Just great.

“What took you so long?”

And we’re off to a good start it seems. Arm is as blunt as always.

“And hello to you, too.” Vegas walks up to them, giving Arm and Pol a tense nod.

Glancing up from hugging his trashcan, Pol smiles weakly and then concentrates on getting his stomach back under control. Arm clenches his hands into fists, then releases the tension again.

Before he can say anything, Vegas points out: “I came as fast as I could without breaking any speed limits.”

“Fine.” This explanation seems to mollify the ME; he looks past Vegas’ shoulder as if searching for something … or someone. And then he furrows his brows. “I thought you’d come together. Oh well, you can get dressed already while we wait. Let’s not waste too much time.”

“Wait for…?” Vegas has the feeling he is missing a vital piece of this conversation.

“The other half of your duo of course.”

“Huh?” No way, he must have misunderstood Arm. Vegas’ stomach drops. This cannot be about Tem because Arm knows, which leaves… damn. He groans. “Please tell me you didn’t…?”

An impatient glance at his watch, then Arm shrugs at Vegas. “What? Word has it he’s your intern for the time being… well, sort of. Why on earth should I not call him? He’s supposed to help with the work burden, right? So let him help. Seriously Vegas, I don’t know what your problem is. Whatever it is, get over it. There are other things that are more important that we need to focus on right now.”

He did. He fucking did. Arm called the one person Vegas does not want to see tonight, tomorrow, or ever again. The thought of wrapping his hands around Arm’s neck and squeezing is very tempting. Torn between frustration and despair, he runs his fingers through his hair and then kicks the reception desk for good measure. Hard. “Fuck!”

“Tsk… Language, detective.” Speaking of the devil…

It has been two and a half days since they last saw each other. Vegas has just regained his equilibrium. Running into each other again like this wasn’t the plan! He didn’t even have time to mentally prepare himself, damn it! This is so unfair.

Steeling himself, Vegas turns around and is immediately relieved. This version of Pete, walking briskly towards them, he can deal with. Sensible dark pants, horrid green dress shirt with tiny palm trees printed all over it. Hair brushed and sleek, not a strand out of place. His cheerful baby shrink is back, and this makes everything so much easier, he hopes.

Their eyes meet and it seems that despite the wide smile there is a hint of unease noticeable in Pete’s body language. Join the club, kitten. Vegas feels slightly uneasy too.

“What the hell do you think you are doing here?” When insecure, revert to being antisocial. This is a winning concept for Vegas.

Pete’s eyes widen with astonishment and his steps falter a bit; he certainly doesn’t seem to have expected that kind of greeting. “Uhm… we are partners, aren’t we? This is a crime scene? You are here? So I am here too?”

Think again, fluff ball. If this crime scene is anything like that last one, he doesn’t want Pete anywhere near it. Arm was an idiot to call him in the first place, but Vegas intends to fix that mistake. “Wrong conclusion,” he informs him curtly, then marches up to his side to intercept him and takes a firm grip around Pete’s upper arm—and immediately suffers a sensory flashback to when he did the same in Yok’s bar. Zip—electric tingles again.

“Be right back, this will only take a minute,” he shouts over his shoulder at Arm and Pol, and then more or less drags Pete to the other side of the room towards the staircase, so they can have a more private conversation.

“Seriously, would you let go of me, detective?!” Pete struggles at first, but since Vegas is a man on a mission this is a futile attempt, and in the end he allows himself to be dragged along.

When they are on the other side of the room, right beside the staircase that leads upstairs towards yet untold horrors, and safely out of earshot from the CSI team, Vegas releases Pete as quickly as possible because he really shouldn’t be touching him at all judging from how his body is reacting to any sort of physical contact between them. Off limits. Totally off limits, must remember that.

The cheerful smile is gone from Pete’s face; the man Vegas is facing now is visibly irked, but at the same time trying not to be too obvious about it. So damn professional. After a steadying breath, Vegas gives his baby shrink a grim look. Time to set some boundaries when it comes to their involuntary partnership.

“Listen, when it comes to us working together out here in the field, the one in charge is me. You should have called me before coming here, because then I would have told you right away that you will not be setting a foot on this active crime scene. I am the one trained for this kind of work, you are not, and I’ll be damned if—”

“Stop it right there!” Pete raises a hand, interrupting Vegas’ mini rant. “I have something to say first,” and he pins Vegas down with those dark intense eyes, frowning. “Detective… If it was your plan to mess with me to make me stop our therapy sessions and our partnership, then let me tell you that your plan failed. I will most certainly not resign from being your therapist.”

Whoa, what is he talking about? Vegas is clueless. “I beg your pardon?” He isn’t used to getting interrupted like this either.

“Uhm… about the other night.”

Danger, Will Robinson, danger! Pete is certainly braver than he looks, bringing up this clusterfuck, whereas Vegas is trying to avoid even acknowledging that anything out of the ordinary happened that weekend. Ignorance is bliss, let’s not think about it and move on. Or apparently not. Apparently they are about to have a conversation about this. Right now. Can the earth please open and swallow him? No? Fine.

A glance towards the other side of the room; Pol and Arm are watching them, but they are so far away they will not hear a word unless Vegas starts screaming. Which he will try very hard not to. You want to talk? Fine. And he takes a step closer, crowding Pete on purpose.

“Just what exactly are you insinuating?”

His therapist looks as if he wants to take a step backwards, but then reconsiders, clenches his jaws and decides to stand his ground. Brave kitten. “It was inappropriate of you to take me back home to your apartment.”

How can he even sound so matter of fact about this? Vegas is baffled. Just thinking about that night again—no, must not think about the way sleepy Pete’s nose crunched up when smelling the coffee… or those leather pants and a lot of bare skin—remembering all this makes Vegas’ throat so tight that he has to clear it.

“… Inappropriate…” He can’t help but snort with astonishment, and he actually feels a bit offended. “It was either my apartment or someone else bedroom. I think you should thank me instead of throwing around accusations.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Pete straightens, keeping his calm, which is remarkable because Vegas is feeling anything but calm.

“It was inappropriate nevertheless. You should have called a cab, or dropped me off at home. Above all else, we are in a doctor-patient relationship and there are certain ethical guidelines that must be adhered to. As I am sure you are very well aware of…” And here he gives Vegas a sharp accusing stare. “So if you were planning this incident to force me to terminate the therapy because of a breach of work ethics, then let me tell you again, it will not work.”

Wow. Just… wow. Vegas cannot believe what he is hearing. As if he’s an evil mastermind who planned to get Pete drunk in order to get rid of him. The nerve. At the same time, Vegas cannot help wondering just how much his therapist actually remembers about that night. Throwing around accusations like this, when it was he who had his hands all over Vegas’ body—the nerve indeed! Did Pete have a blackout?

And before he can help himself, he decides to put that theory to a test by lying blatantly through his teeth. Take that, fluff ball, and let’s see how you react. “If you are so concerned about your work ethics, maybe you should not have stuck your tongue down my throat.”

“I most certainly did not!” Pete’s eyes widen in shock. He is the perfect picture of righteous indignation and he actually huffs in outrage. And yet… Since Vegas is watching him like a hawk he can make out the minuscule changes in body language and facial expressions that hint at Pete’s underlying uncertainty. Vegas wants to crow in triumph. So he doesn’t remember. And yet—he isn’t sure if he should feel relieved or frustrated about Pete not remembering any details.

“Be glad I did not report you for sexual harassment,” Vegas mildly points out with a silky smile. “Yes, I definitely think you should thank me.”

“Detective Theerapanyakul! You are going too far!” Pete is now so outraged that this comes out as a yell and Vegas casts a quick glance over at Arm and Pol. They are obviously confused, not knowing what is going on between him and his shrink. And unsure if they should intervene or not.

“You think this is going too far? You really do not know me at all—otherwise you would know I haven’t even started yet,” Vegas corrects him cynically, keeping his voice low and condescending. “Now be a good boy, go home and let the grown-ups do their job.”

There seems to be no end to Pete’s affront upon hearing this. It’s really fascinating to watch the emotions flicker across his expressive face. Vegas knows he should not enjoy it as much as he does but really, this is priceless. He can barely suppress a grin.

Finally, Pete seems to find his voice again. “I am not going anywhere! I came here to do my job and that is exactly what I am going to do, whether you like it or not!”

“We’ll see about that…” Vegas is done wasting his time arguing, as much fun as it is. He has a job to do, time is ticking and Arm is waiting for him. “Read. My. Lips.”

He looms closer and gives Pete a look that threatens violence, making him shrink away instantly, until his back hits the wall of the staircase. Vegas follows, caging him in with his body, invading his private space on purpose —and it’s thrilling. “You are not getting anywhere near my crime scene.”

And before Pete knows what is happening there’s a snap and a click, followed by another snap and click—and he finds himself handcuffed to the steel handrail of the staircase.

Pete looks visibly stunned. His eyes dart from his handcuffed wrist to the handrail and then back to Vegas. “You’ve got to be kidding me…!?”

“Don’t worry. I will release you once I am done. Just take a seat and relax.” With an insolent smirk, Vegas turns around and saunters back to the CSI team who have witnessed this exchange from a distance, and they look just as stunned as Pete.

“Detective! Detective Theerapanyakul!” Pete howls in rage behind him, but Vegas doesn’t turn around. Trust me, this is for your own good, kitten.

“Sorry about that. Let’s get going,” he tells the other two men as he reaches their side.

“Are you sure you should be doing this, Vegas?” Pol cannot help but ask as he hands Vegas disposable overalls, shoe covers and gloves, darting a look over to where Pete is cursing loudly and battling with the handcuffs.

“You want him to puke all over your crime scene? Then be my guest.” Vegas shrugs and starts putting on the overalls, turning a deaf ear to his ranting therapist, pretending for now that he doesn’t exist.

“You might have a point there…” And Pol decides to also act as if Pete doesn’t exist.

Arm shakes his head at the antics. “Pol will stay here, he can keep him company, while I show you the crime scene.” Then he frowns at Vegas. “You are not going to puke again, are you?”

“You are never going to let me live that down, eh?” Vegas can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “Told you it was the heat, so don’t fret. It’s not that hot today.”

The ME doesn’t exactly look convinced, but decides to drop the topic. As soon as Vegas is all zipped-up in the overalls, the gloves and shoe covers in his hand to be put on later, both of them walk over to the staircase, Arm leading the way. They have to pass his glowering therapist on their way up. Vegas makes sure to stay well out of his reach because—a glance confirms it—Pete looks ready to lurch at him.

“Let me go!” Pete hisses at Vegas, the handcuffs rattling against the metal of the handrail, and then he turns towards Arm to plead with him. “Tell him to uncuff me this instant!”

Completely unfazed, Arm walks right past him, merely shrugging. “Detective Theerapanyakul is in charge here. His scene, his decision. I can assure you, you will sleep better at night not having seen this scene first-hand.”

Following Arm, Vegas, too, shrugs at his irate shrink. “Like he said, my scene, my decision. It’s for your own good.”

When he is safely a few steps up, the devil rides him and he looks back over his shoulder, giving Pete a smug wink, and has the pleasure of hearing him growl with fury as Vegas ascends the stairs. This is fun. But he really shouldn’t enjoy playing these kind of games with his shrink so much.

Time to focus on work now. “Let me guess, 5th floor?”

“Bingo.”

Typical. So up they go; at least they don’t need to carry a lot of equipment this time.

“What makes you think this is the same guy? More buckets?”

“No buckets. I’d rather not talk about any details yet, Vegas. I think you should go in with an open mind, and when you have had a look around we can compare our thoughts.” The tension is back in Arms’ voice.

As soon as they hit the 4th floor, the smell sneaks up on Vegas. This scent is… different. He pauses on the stairs, trying to figure out what this is a blend of. Arm stops as well, watching him with a drawn face, allowing him time to figure it out.

“…Flowers…?”

“Damn right,” Arm replies grimly.

“And …” He doesn’t want to put this into words, but Vegas has recognised the other scent as well. Once again, he gets a very strong feeling that he might not be ready for what is up there. “…and burned meat…?”

Arm nods, sighs and continues climbing the stairs. When they arrive at the top floor, it’s time to put on the shoe covers and gloves. The scene has already been processed, so possible contamination isn’t a problem, but the PPE also creates a convenient disposable layer between them and any potential nastiness. Vegas has ruined a couple of uniforms without the PPE, so he appreciates wearing it even though it can be a hassle at times. Especially in the summer heat.

“Give me a general rundown, please?” he asks Arm as they approach the single door at the end of the stairs. The sweet, honey-like scent of flowers and smoky, roasted meat is getting stronger already.

“This building has been abandoned for 3 years; it’s marked for demolition. The crime was called in a few hours ago. A couple of teenagers exploring the building stumbled across the body and had the good sense to report it in. Thankfully they didn’t really enter the actual scene, so it was nearly untouched when Pol and I arrived. There is one victim inside. The whole floor here used to be an open-plan office.”

“Anything I should be aware of when walking the scene?”

“It’s already been processed, so you can go and touch whatever you want. As soon as we are done here I will call the coroner to collect the body. So… are you ready to enter Hell, Detective Theerapanyakul?”

Vegas rolls his eyes while having to suppress a shiver of apprehension. “Stop being so dramatic, let’s just get it over with.”

With a grim smile, Arm walks up to the door and pulls it open. “Welcome to my parlour said the spider to the fly.” And he steps aside to allow Vegas to enter.

The first thing he notices is of course the stench that rolls out of the office space as soon as the door opens, and washes over Vegas. The cloying aroma of flowers is very intensive and so is the smell of barbecued meat. And underneath it he can make out the all-familiar scent of blood.

He takes a moment to steady himself and to breathe, until his stomach stops roiling and heaving. He promised not to throw up and so he won’t. The next thing Vegas notices is that the temperature around them has dropped considerably since the door opened.

“The air conditioning is on?”

This is an interesting twist.

“Indeed. When we arrived the inside was at a steady 12°C.”

Vegas takes out his notebook and makes a note to check about the access to electricity in the surrounding buildings. “I suppose it slowed down decomposition?”

Arm nods. “It’s safe to say that the body has been here a couple of days already. We will know more after the autopsy.”

“So the question is why did the perpetrator do this? Was there a specific reason for cooling down the area or is it just a fluke?” Vegas eyes the door warily. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t enter. He is still having the occasional nightmare about that last scene.

“Perhaps he didn’t want the flowers to wilt.” Arm gives a tired sigh. “Just go inside and have a look, Vegas.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Steeling himself, Vegas walks closer to the door and then cautiously steps over the doorstep into the cold.

Welcome to hell. We do not have fire. We do not have cookies. We have flowers.

Vegas expected to see a body, but a quick glance around reveals that there is none, not in the immediate vicinity of the door. As Arm already informed him, the whole floor was once an open-plan office. When the building was abandoned the desks and any other office equipment was removed, leaving a bare office landscape, only interrupted by the occasional support pillars (some of them seem broken as well) and the obligatory litter on the ground. There are windows on three sides of the room: they seem to be intact as far as Vegas can tell in the twilight, gaping like dark portals into the eternal night of the netherworld. But where is the damn body?

Even though there’s electricity available, the overhead neon lights are not on. Another quick glance around—correction—further towards the back of the open space there’s an area that is bathed in muted light. Is this where the body is located? Difficult to make out from the distance.

“The other lights are broken?” Vegas takes a wild guess.

“All the other neon tubes on this floor have been removed.” Arm’s voice floats towards him from behind. Vegas makes another note about that and then ventures a few more cautious steps into the room. That is when he sees the first flower on the floor.

What the hell…?

A dark-green stem with thin, equally dark-green, knife-shaped leaves, crowned by a large, red blossom. Actually, it’s only the outer parts of the flower petals that are red; they shift into solid black towards the centre. The central style is solid black as well, the filaments a vivid orange. It looks quite spectacular, Vegas muses. He has never seen a flower like this before, so he kneels down and glances towards Arm, who nods his okay. Only then does he pick up the flower with his gloved fingers to take a closer look and to smell it—and immediately wrinkles his nose. It is intensely fragrant, like a high-end floral perfume. Judging from the potency of the scent in the air this isn’t the only flower here either. Weird. He never had a crime scene where the perpetrator brought flowers along.

“No, I don’t know what sort of flower this is,” Arm, who apparently can read his mind now, informs him before he can even ask the question.

Another thing to look into. Those flowers must be rare. Where did the perpetrator get them? How did he bring them here? Has anyone seen him? There must be some sort of paper trail for this somewhere.

Vegas places the flower back on the floor and edges towards the illuminated area in the back of the office space. There are more flowers on the ground. As far as he can see in the gloom, they are all over the floor, and not just placed on a direct path towards the body. Why? Another question to figure out.

The closer he gets to the actual crime scene, the more details he can make out. The centre seems to be one of the broken support pillars, but it looks different from the others. Thicker somehow. He has a very bad feeling about this because the closer he gets, the more distinct the smell of roasted meat becomes. This is going to be bad.

And it is.

Holy shit. Whatever happened to shooting or stabbing people? You know, just regular homicides?

Coming to a stop before entering the circular area of light surrounding it,Vegas is at a loss for words. He thought the other murder scene was bad, but this here is on a whole new level. His mind rebells and shies away from making sense of what the eyes report back to his brain. There’s the body he’s been looking for, tied to a concrete pillar. But it’s been… warped… transformed… to a point that it’s nearly unrecognisable as human remains.

Holy shit.

He notices that his legs have started trembling, actually his whole body is trembling as he is hit by an adrenaline wave that makes his heart pound like crazy. Sucking in a breath of the flowery, icy air, he crouches down and closes his eyes, struggling for composure.

“Just give me a minute,” he croaks, his voice sounding oddly breathless. Is he hyperventilating? Not good.

“Take your time,” Arm replies quietly from behind him somewhere. Vegas is glad that the ME is around and that he isn’t alone in this surreal nightmare. And thankfully Pete isn’t here to see this either.

“What the fuck…” He slowly rocks back and forth, concentrating on getting his erratic breathing back under control. “What the fuck…”

It takes a while until he feels ready again to open his eyes and stand up. No wonder Pol was throwing up. He feels like throwing up as well.

“Whoever did this… the fucker is insane,” he mumbles under his breath.

All right, let’s do this. With numb fingers he opens his notebook and then takes a closer look at the horror before him.

The floor in this circle of muted light is covered with flowers; they will have to be counted of course. Pol probably already did. An eerie blood-red meadow of flowers, and as the centerpiece—holy shit—this used to be a human being. Vegas knows this. But the person is all but unrecognisable now.

“Painters use red like spice.” … what is that even supposed to mean…?

The support pillar the man is attached to ends jaggedly at about waist level—Vegas just assumes at this point that the victim is a man—like a black stalagmite rising from the ground. The concrete is black because it has been charred, and so has the lower half of the body tied to it with… chains?

Vegas knows the only way to handle this scene objectively is to detach himself. Even the slightest spark of empathy for the victim will make Vegas fall apart, so he ruthlessly pushes those thoughts away and focuses on the details without associating the remains with someone who was living and breathing and going about with his life just a few days ago.

“I don’t see any firewood. How did the killer burn him?” he checks with Arm while very carefully stepping into the red sea of flowers, approaching the body.

“Take a look at the chains.”

This requires Vegas to step closer. The stench of roasted meat is so overwhelming at this range that he is glad it has been hours since he ate something. This isn’t the first burned body he has seen, but at the other scenes there was always something else that burned as well—furniture, decorations and such. In here, there’s just concrete and flowers and so there’s no other smell covering up the meaty stench to make it more bearable. He swallows drily, then crouches down to take a closer look at the chains. From what he can see, they have burned into the charred mess that used to be the victims legs. The metal seems to be slightly deformed and discoloured as well. The floor in the immediate area around the pillar is covered with charred flakes of—gross… this must be burned skin—and large black stains that Vegas assumes is dried blood. Automatically he takes more notes.

“Blowtorch?” Vegas has to clear his throat. This crime scene is really getting to him.

“Not hot enough to deform the chains I think but I am no expert in that area so I will need to look it up myself,” Arm admits. “For now let’s assume it was a welding torch.”

“What a sick fucker.” Vegas shakes his head in disbelief. Then another thought pops into his head and his throat gets tight again. “The victim wasn’t alive for that, was he?”

“I need to do the autopsy first to look at the lung tissue, Vegas.” There is a long pause again, before Arm hesitantly adds: “Based on the other crime scene I would assume he was alive at least for some of the initial burns, before the perpetrator started with the rest.” And he gestures to the upper body. “Without further tests it’s difficult to say with what the killer started, the burns or …this,” and he gestures towards the torso. “Of course I can’t give you a definite cause of death yet, but I assume the victim went into fatal shock fairly quickly from the pain alone.”

“Do you really think this is connected to that other murder, Arm?” Vegas remains skeptical.

“What are the chances of having two murders with such highly unusual modus operandi in a relative short amount of time, perpetrated by two different people? Yes, I’m pretty sure this is the same perpetrator; we just need to find the clues linking the crime scenes together.” Arm sounds very confident about his theory.

Vegas sighs deeply. Well, one deranged murderer is better than two, right? Back to work…

The upper body…

The upper body that Vegas has tried to ignore so far. You would think chaining someone to a pillar and burning them alive with a welding torch is bad? But it isn’t nearly as fucked up as what their murderer has done above the waist area.

The scent of the flowers is making Vegas dizzy. Or maybe he is just dizzy in general. Maybe his body wants to get the hell out of here and is sending increasingly strong signals to Vegas to make him comply. Self-preservation. Sadly, it doesn’t work that way when you are a police officer and have to deal with violent crime on a regular basis. Pete wanted to know why he has anger issues? Who the hell would not get stressed out when being confronted with this kind of shit here? Vegas can already feel all his muscles knotting up painfully as he forces himself to go against his fight or flight response, and his body isn’t happy that he stays put instead of fleeing this nightmare.

What a mess.

One has to take a closer look at the upper body to finally understand the presence of the flowers. Madness. Utter madness.

From the head down towards the waist the victim has been flayed. Don’t think about it, just note the details. The strips of skin are about 20 cm wide, Vegas estimates. The skin hasn’t been removed completely, it remains attached to the waist. As if someone has peeled a banana. Vegas stomach lurches and he has to swallow down some bile. Slowly, he walks around the pillar once to see it from all sides. That is probably why the killer picked a pillar of this height, so that it wouldn’t interfere with the skinning. When Vegas stands behind the body he can see that the hands of the victim are handcuffed behind his back and firmly attached to the chain that restrains his lower body. No chance of movement for those arms. Interestingly enough they are not flayed, just charred. Why? The hands are burned almost beyond recognition; some of the fingers are gone completely, Vegas can spot only darkened stubs. The remaining fingers are bizarrely bent, as muscle tissue tends to do when exposed to great heat. Gross. Moving on.

Once he has completed the circle, Vegas takes a steadying breath and leans in to take a closer look at the flayed skin. Because it isn’t simply hanging there. No, this crime scene has been perfectly staged, and this alone explains why Arm believes it’s the same murderer. It has to be. The mere thought of having not one, but perhaps two deranged killers like this in his city gives Vegas anxiety. It has to be the same guy. Back to the body.

At close range he can see the wires that the killer has rammed into the waist area and then used to thread though the skin flaps lengthwise in order to shape those bloody strips into what are meant to be flower petals, gracefully curving up and then out from the bloody and blackened ruin of the torso. Holy shit. Not thinking too much about this, moving on. The killer has recreated those damn red flowers, and the effect is jarring. The style of the real flowers is black and so the killer has charred everything from the waist upwards, creating his own freakish human style. The exposed muscle tissue is blackened and cracked in places, with traces of liquids oozing through. Even the lower parts of the ‘petals’, where the skin is still connected to the waist has been blackened carefully. Just like those real flower petals shifting from red to black.

“He didn’t use a welder’s torch for this part, did he?” For a moment Vegas is amazed he can even speak; his throat is so dry he thought he would not be able to form intelligible words.

“Correct, it must have been a smaller blowtorch, perhaps like those torches used in the kitchen to flambé desserts,” Arm speculates, and Vegas nearly loses control over his stomach at that comparison.

“Arm… seriously…!” He groans weakly, swallowing more bile.

“Sorry.” At least the ME has the good grace to apologise. “He definitely took his time with this part. As you can see, the skin is just blackened but not burned through in any places. This is very difficult to do, I am pretty sure he must have practised this part beforehand, to ensure he wouldn’t damage his artwork during the live run. The inside of the victim’s skin would have been wet with blood and leftover tissue. Apply too little heat and it won’t burn, apply too much and it’ll burn a hole right through. I attended a seminar about burn victims once, fascinating topic really.”

Vegas groans again. This is of course vital information, but still, he would rather not know so many details about this. “So what, we got a fucking perfectionist? Just great.”

Those damn flowers… he can taste their sweet scent in his mouth.

The neck and head are completely skinned as well, a gory mess. The ears are gone. The lipless mouth a dark gaping hole, opened wide for a scream that will never be heard. Where the eyes used to be, only blackened cavities remain.

Vegas takes a deep, shuddering breath. Do not think about it. Just do not think about it. Moving on.

“Where are the eyes? And … the rest… from the head? Did you recover any of it from the scene?”

Arm shakes his head. Interesting. A trophy perhaps?

The only thing left to complete this macabre floral recreation are the filaments, and naturally, their killer has found a solution for this as well, by using the very same kind of flower, but this time in vivid orange. They are arranged and held in place by wires carefully wrapped around them, and then brutally inserted into the charred torso.

Vegas feels dazed by the insane creativity on display here.

“He must stark raving mad…” he whispers more to himself than to Arm.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. That’s what you have your shrink for, Vegas. Let him figure it out—neither of us is qualified for this.” Coming to stand beside Vegas, Arm looks at the body solemnly. “Are we in agreement that this is most likely the work of the same person? I know the M.O. is different but I am sure if you fine-comb both crime scenes or the victims’ background you will find some kind of connection. It’s a gut feeling I have.”

“You and me both.” Shaking his head, Vegas sighs deeply. “What a fucking mess. You think they’ll hand the case over to someone else now?” He sounds almost hopeful because he does not want to deal with this madness. Let someone else handle this case, please. A serial killer case would be high-profile, right? And no one in their right mind would want Vegas Theerapanyakul, disgraced mafia heir, to handle a high-profile case. Right?

“In your dreams. As long as you can’t prove that this is the same perpetrator, that this is actually a serial killer, no one’s going to touch this case with a ten-foot pole. And even if you do—officially there’s no such thing as a serial killer in Thailand. No one is going to believe you. I think we can safely assume that you’ll be stuck with this case for the foreseeable future, so try and make the best of it. Better you than any of those other idiots.” Arm shrugs. “Anything else you want to look at, or do you want to call it a day?”

“What about the clothes and other personal effects? Is it too much to hope for some sort of ID?”

Arm just shakes his head.

“Well, that sucks. Then let’s get the hell out of here, please. I have seen more than enough. If there’s anything else I’ll just make do with the photos and videos Pol took. He did manage to record everything before his stomach gave out, right?”

Arm snorts. “Of course he did, he’s a professional after all.” Unlike you who threw up on my last crime scene—but Arm doesn’t say this out loud.

Vegas sighs deeply. “I didn’t throw up this time, I think I deserve some credit for that.”

Both men turn around and slowly walk away from this bloody, floral nightmare that will surely haunt their dreams for a while. Vegas wants to leave all of this behind, he feels he is in dire need of a very long hot shower to get the smell of these flowers off his skin. They better catch a break soon. I don’t know if I can handle another one these crime scenes. There are limits as to what gory madness anyone should be exposed to. I didn’t sign up for this level of crazy shit.

His mind still in a daze, with Arm leading the way, Vegas slowly descends the stairs. The ME seems anxious to get back to the ground floor, so he hurries ahead, but Vegas is taking his time; he’s trying to process what he’s just seen. Lost in thoughts, he suddenly feels the small hair on the back of his neck stand up as his danger sense awakens and tingles. Coming to a stop, he looks up, zeroing in on his baby shrink. His very angry baby shrink. Whom he totally forgot about. Oops.

Pete is still handcuffed to the handrail. He is sitting on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with his back against the wall, his cuffed left hand uncomfortably raised above his head. His eyes look impossibly dark in his pale, strained face and those eyes are now trained on Vegas, fixating him with an intensity that makes Vegas instantly apprehensive. The tingles from his danger sense intensify. That gaze wants to rip right through any defensive barriers he might have set up, only to sink into his very mind, to hungrily examine every single thought. The anger rolling off Pete in waves is hard to miss. Being the sole focus of this quiet rage makes Vegas take a step back, but he forgets he is on a staircase, and so he nearly stumbles and has to grab the handrail in order to avoid an embarrassing fall.

They stare at each other in silence. Seconds tick by. Angry Pete is quite a sight to behold. Like being on a rollercoaster that has passed the peak and is now about to dip downward: exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Vegas does not think he is in the right state of mind to deal with any of this at the moment, so he decides to simply pretend he doesn’t notice that Pete is upset.

He straightens, releases his hold on the handrail and slowly descends the last few steps to the ground floor, pasting an unconcerned smirk on his face. “Missed me?”

Pete’s eyes shoot daggers at him. He doesn’t reply but clenches his jaw instead.

“Sorry for the delay, it took a bit longer than I thought it would.” Fishing the key out of his back pocket, Vegas leans in, towering above Pete, and proceeds to unlock the handcuffs. He is taking great care not to look at Pete’s face, or actually touch any skin while he is doing so. With a click, Pete is freed and he lowers his arm, wincing ever so slightly. There’s a red mark on his wrist and Vegas feels a moment of regret. He should have been more careful, shouldn’t have fastened the cuffs so tightly. Automatically he leans further down and reaches out to touch the mark but Pete snatches his wrist out of the way, cradling it with his other hand.

“Back off,” he snarls, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger. Vegas complies immediately, taking some steps back. What was he even thinking, he knows he shouldn’t touch Pete. He is off limits.

Standing up, his therapist stretches, looks Vegas over and then wrinkles his nose. “What’s that smell? BBQ and flowers?”

Vegas cringes visibly and hastily takes another step backwards, as if he could take the offending smell with him. For a moment, his mind takes him back to the body upstairs, all that horror washes over him once more, and he struggles with locking those vivid memories back up again.

And Pete watches all of this with an intensity that nearly takes his breath away. He seems to hungrily catalogue every emotion displayed on Vegas’ face as if searching for something… and that makes Vegas feel entirely off-kilter.

Thunder rolls over the building, followed by a flash of lightning.

Vegas flinches with surprise, then takes this opportunity to turn around and walk away, heading over to Arm and Pol. Distance. He needs some distance from those mind-probing eyes. Methodically, he takes off the overall and then throws all the PPE into a trash bag. “Are you staying to wait for the coroner?”

“Yeah, I already called, they should be here within 30 minutes.” Pol seems to be feeling better already, but he is still a bit pale around the nose. Arm is taking notes on his tablet and doesn’t even look up.

“All right, if there’s nothing else I’ll get going.” And since no one makes a move to stop him, he turns around to head for his car—only to be confronted once again with Pete, who is standing forlorn by the exit, looking outside where it has started to rain heavily.

A peek outside confirms that the only cars around are the patrol car, the CSI van and Vegas’ car. Great. Just great. His baby shrink apparently took a cab here.

“Come along, I’ll give you a ride to the station.”

In reality, this is the last thing Vegas wants to do. He does not want to sit in a confined space with Pete. Especially not with an irate Pete. Somehow this feel unsafe. But it doesn’t feel right to leave him here either. Damn, this sucks.

And so for the second time in three days, Pete ends up sitting silently in the passenger seat beside him, as Vegas pulls away from the crime scene and drives through the sparsely populated streets of this industrial area. The rain is heavy, the squeaky windshield wipers are working overtime. The silence is uncomfortable. His baby shrink is brimming with hostility, his body posture stiff and tense, even an idiot would notice it, and Vegas isn’t an idiot. He really managed to piss him off this time, it seems. Maybe he will resign from being his therapist and that will be the end of it? If only he were so lucky.

The tension inside the car is tangible. Vegas waits for something to give, for Pete to start yelling at him or do something other than just sit there brooding, staring straight ahead out into the rain. But when he finally decides to make his move, it still takes Vegas by total surprise.

With his left hand, Pete braces himself on the door while he simultaneously reaches out with the right hand towards the space between their seats. Vegas is driving an old-fashioned, cheap car. There’s no fancy electronic parking brake. There is, however, a regular, hand-powered emergency brake.

Which Pete now suddenly pulls, with icy determination.

In mid-drive (and they are not going particularly slow).

Hard.

Fuck!

The car’s anti-lock braking system, one of the most crucial safety features in modern vehicles, tries to kick in, and then decides to take this critical moment to fail. With a high-pitched screech the wheels lock up, and the car goes into a wild skid and spin on the wet road.

Vegas holds on to the steering wheel for dear life, slamming into his seatbelt, vaguely remembering how he is supposed to counteract the skid and doing his best to get the vehicle under control again before they careen into the nearest building. Pete, too, is holding on to the door and the handle of the brake as if his life depends on it.

The uncontrolled swerve comes to an abrupt end a meter before they would have hit a looming graffiti-covered concrete wall. The sudden stop makes both Vegas’ and Pete’s heads jerk forward, before they slam back into their seats as the car comes to a stand-still and the smell of burned rubber fills the air.

Fuck.

It’s as if they have suddenly been cast into the eye of the hurricane. They have gone from a vertigo-inducing, spinning madness, filled with the shrill screech of tires, to unexpected silence. There’s no more movement. The only thing audible inside the car is their heavy breathing, the mechanical click of the flashing hazard lights, and the never-ending squeak of the wipers still doing their job.

Fuck.

Vegas is panting, unable to say anything, unable to even release his grip on the steering wheel. He is beyond stunned; he just saw his whole life flashing by before his inner eye, and he needs a moment to comprehend what just happened. His heart is racing so hard it seems ready to jump right out of his chest. What the fuck?! They almost died! Fuck! They could have died!

… and then Pete leans forwards and slams the palms of his hands onto the dashboard—hard …like the crack of a gunshot… and Vegas flinches instinctively at the sudden sound.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing, eh?! Are you talking back to me?! Are you?! Want me to teach you another lesson, boy?”… and father slams his palms onto the desk so hard, everything on it rattles…

Vegas’ breath catches in the back of his throat. He whips around and regards Pete with wide-eyed wariness, suddenly feeling very much like a mouse trapped in close quarters with a rattlesnake.

Pete turns his head very slowly to face Vegas.

“Never. Ever. Do. Anything. Like. This. Again.” Pete’s voice sounds tight with deep-seated rage, and there is something dark and dangerous in the depth of his eyes. “We are partners. We are supposed to work together and if you sabotage this partnership one more time, I’ll make you regret it.”

Good Lord…

Threat aside…

Good Lord…

Angry Pete is hot.

Angry Pete threatening him is even hotter.

And angry Pete doing unhinged things like almost killing them is like an unexpected aphrodisiac.

It sends a shiver of excitement and lust through Vegas. He just stares at that pale furious face, drinking in the emotions flashing in those dark squinted eyes, the tension of the jaw muscles, the flare of his nostrils and the way Pete’s lips have tightened. All he can think about is how he wants to stick his tongue down that throat to absorb all that anger and convert it into something else. Oh dear, here we go again.

He must have looked as hungry as he feels because there is a minute change in Pete’s facial expression. His gaze flickers away from Vegas’ eyes and lower… lingers… and then snaps back up—and his cheeks turn slightly pink. He then blinks with embarrassment and stares out into the rain again, acting as if nothing ever happened. Vegas is left clenching his hands around the steering wheel even tighter to hang on to his self-control and not do anything exceedingly stupid. Dammit. Off limits. Very much off limits!

Pete clears his throat. “You are blocking the road.”

No shit Sherlock! Vegas huffs with exasperation. So this is how you want to play it? We’re not going to talk about … this… this threat? And we are just going to deal with whatever this is… whatever just happened… this way? Like… not at all? Fine. Be my guest.

Without another word he resolutely shifts the car back into gear, backs up, and then continues their drive back to the police station. Pete threatened him. The tires are probably ruined, he needs to book a time for a check-up as soon as possible. Pete threatened him. He will have to borrow a car from someone else in the meantime. Pete threatened him. Vegas forces himself to think about practical problems; anything is better than to acknowledge that this whole incident has aroused him to no end and that he is sitting in the car with a god damn hard-on for his perplexing and deliciously terrifying therapist. Who is off limits!

My life sucks.

And naturally, he does not get a break. “You know, it was all for nothing anyway,” Pete remarks all of a sudden into the silence. Huh?

“I already asked Pol for the crime scene photographs and all the material and notes. So in a few hours I will be looking at everything anyway, whether you like it or not.”

Oh, okay, so we are talking about the case again. Vegas sighs deeply, all at once tired. “It’s not the same,” he tries to explain. “Photos are photos. An active crime scene is something completely different. Trust me, you really did not want to be stepping into this one.”

“I should have been there!” Pete insists stubbornly. “Maybe you could stop treating me like a child, trying to shield me. I find this offensive.” He is still not looking at him, and Vegas has to keep his eyes on the road, so he cannot check his facial expression, but Pete sounds almost disheartened. “I bet you wouldn’t treat Tem like this,” he adds in a tight voice.

“Tem is my partner and a fellow police officer. He has extensive training in handling and dealing with crime scenes, even if they are disturbing. You, on the other hand, are a civilian. You have no clue what horrors can await you at a crime scene. You are not prepared for the smell, the gore and the incredible mess that people can inflict on other people.” Vegas’ voice is strained as he does his best to make Pete see reason. “What is the worst thing you have ever experienced? The death of your pet bunny?”

“I think you should shut up, detective, before you make any more stupid remarks. You don’t know me, you haven’t the slightest clue about what I can handle. Right now, you’re just being a jerk.” Vegas can hear Pete’s irritation loud and clear, and then his therapist surprises him again by changing the topic. “You will be glad to know that while you were on sick leave these past two days, I have arranged for a dedicated office-space for our team, so we can work on this case without being disturbed.”

Taking a moment to cast Pete an incredulous glance, Vegas frowns. “I don’t think this is necessary.”

“Yes it is. I don’t believe the rest of the department should be given access to all the details of this case … these cases… and I don’t want to risk anyone messing up my murder board with their doodles.”

Murder board?! What the heck? “Oh, come on, get real. There will be no murder board.” Vegas snorts; what an idiotic idea.

“I already organised the whiteboard,” Pete states matter of factly, and Vegas recognises that tone. That is the exact same tone he used when making them involuntary partners! Must nip this in the bud right away!

“Listen up, this isn’t a TV show, Sunshine. There will be no fancy murder boards here. We do not work that way in this police department. This isn’t Criminal Minds or CSI.” Maybe if Vegas keeps repeating this it will eventually sink in.

Pete just snorts, not sounding impressed at all.

Oh-oo-oh, you think you're special

Oh-oo-oh, you think you're something else

Okay, so you're a detective

That don't impress me much

Whatever, nuh-uh

That don't impress me much