The air is stale; it smells like death.
Unaffected hazel green eyes stare at the words printed onto the page of a report written by a forensic team. This woman, whose name is Karen Hill, has been recently murdered with a simple bullet to the head. Her demise is unfortunate, though she likely got caught up in the crossfire of the murder that happened further down the road.
That's what the detective thinks.
"What do you think?" Janelle Pratt, the medical examiner who wrote the report, inquires. Hazel green eyes look at her patiently. "You know…the reason why she was killed. What do you think?"
The detective sighs and closes the report despite not having finished it. "I think she saw our murderer," he says. "Or something she wasn't supposed to see. Right place, wrong time. That kind of shtick, y'know?"
Janelle looks at the brunette sadly where she is lying down on the autopsy table, the stitches painfully dark against her pale skin. "She wasn't killed like her boyfriend."
"This is a bland and up-front murder," he points out as he hands her back the file. "Nothing like her boyfriend. Are you hungover again, Pratt?"
"I took Advil," she states defensively with a slight pout.
The detective just hums quietly and stares at Karen's deathly pale face before he turns and saunters towards the morgue's exit.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Themba Killian is still working on a psychological assessment of the murderer," the detective explains. "I'll need to check up on his progress before another body pops up."
Janelle looks a little grim behind her makeup before she nods and gets to putting Karen Hill's body away.
---
"Are you almost finished?" the detective asks impatiently as he barges in on the consultant known as Killian T. Rosebourne—or, as he prefers it, Themba Killian.
He looks up and smiles at the dark-haired man approaching him. "Hello, Detective Ivan," he says cheerily despite the air that had been tossed in with his entrance. "I just need to tie up some loose ends. Have you got anything else for me? Hearing you yell is most annoying but surprisingly grounding when it comes to the ridiculous amounts of work you tend to shove on me."
"What kinds of loose ends?" Ivan growls as he puts his hands on the desk with a deep frown.
Themba Killian smiles in amusement. "The kind a psychiatrist handles," he says smartly. "Our dear murderer is elusive, and his tactics vary. Not to mention he popped out of nowhere."
Ivan sighs loudly. "Can you get it in by tonight?"
"Oh, Ivan. Ivan, Ivan. The answer is no."
"Why? There's already five dead people on our shoulders! We don't know anything about their killer, and you're saying you still can't get me any sort of psychoanalysis?"
"I did say elusive, didn't I?" he points out. At Ivan's expression, he sighs and weaves his fingers with his pen. They rest under his chin as his hazel blue eyes look up at the detective with a semi-neutral glint. "All I can extract is some standard psyche marks of a serial killer. Despite his cleverness and elusiveness, there really isn't much we can pin on him. And we're assuming a bit too much; we don't even know his actual gender. The murderer being male is statistically higher, and we can only guess his height because of a bloody shoe print that was smeared onto a carpet. Imagine it worse with me, though. I can't do much here."
Ivan rolls his eyes quite dramatically, obviously feeling disappointment. But he asks, regardlessly, "Fine, I'll wait a few more hours. But what do you have so far?"
"…Well…this murderer likes to take his time," Themba Killian says. "The way he kills is practically ritualistic and perfect. If it's interrupted, he'd kill the interrupters. It suggests a disorder like OCD, which can also point to a workaholic or perfectionist. It's further proven to be true since he is surgically correct in all of his murders. He has a size eleven shoe, which suggests that he is tall, but the victim's aren't bruised so he's either a gentle giant or has little muscle."
"How's that related?"
"It's not but it's better than a big fat I don't know," Themba Killian points out shortly.
Ivan grumps. "What else?"
"He likes the sight of blood, so he is most definitely either a psychopath or a sociopath, but I'm leaning more towards psychopathy. Or he's used to the sight. Either way, doesn't matter, but his profession could be something medical. An assistant surgeon, or a surgical nurse…or something," he continues. "But that's it. That's all I can get, and most of it isn't even related to the psycho of the analysis."
"That's fine," Ivan says. "That's…that's actually good." He smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with a satisfactory bloom in his chest. "That is actually very good. Why not finish with this?"
"Because," Themba Killian almost whines with a slight pout to his face, "it doesn't feel completed. Gut feelings, Ivan. Gotta watch out for them." He taps his temple pointedly.
"Themba, I need to give someone important something soon," he snaps. "I can't sit on my ass like this for much longer."
"You won't. I'll get it to you by…tomorrow morning. Your chewing me out is finally getting somewhere," Themba Killian mutters almost half to himself. He unwinds his hands and sighs tiredly, leaning back and stretching his arms. "Anyways," he says when he finishes, "I need to get going."
"It's only four," Ivan points out. "You don't get off work for another few hours."
"I said tomorrow morning for a reason," he replies, putting the pen down and cleaning up the papers and files on his desk. He sets them aside when he says, "I've got an anniversary."
"For what?"
"Oh, come on…look at the date," Themba Killian states. He pulls his jacket from the chair and strides out of the office with the detective in tow, looking at the date of his lock screen. At the cringe on his face, the psychiatrist smiles a bit sadly. "Anna. Remember?"
"Sorry," Ivan says. "I didn't realize." He awkwardly walks a bit behind Themba Killian before he clears his throat. "Do, um…do you want me to come with?"
"You've got a murderer to catch," he points out as they leave the office. "Isn't that a bit higher up your list?"
"We haven't got much," Ivan points out. "Besides, I've a phone. Work can call me in if there's another spontaneous combustion of blood."
Themba Killian smiles a little bit more.
Anna was his little sister. The twentieth of February, twelve years ago, is the day of her death, and that day is, obviously, today. She'd been killed in a hit-and-run accident.
It was a heavy loss for Themba Killian, because three months prior, their parents had been spirited away and were found dead six days later in a ditch by a field. Both were gruesome sights to see—and Ivan is old enough to remember it. He'd just been put onto the local force, and his overseer was assigned the case.
"Where will we go?" Ivan asks.
"Anna likes daisies," he says. "We're getting her some colorful ones. She'd be mad at me if I got her plain white ones." His voice is quiet and soft-spoken, but loud enough so that Ivan could hear. He is smiling, though, and it's more nostalgic than hurt. It's a strange sight for a mourning brother—but Themba Killian is an all-around strange man anyway. "Then we'll go to dinner and mourn that James Chapman fellow, yeah? And his girlfriend. Karen…something. Right?"
"Yeah," Ivan says, and the rest of the walk to Themba Killian's car is in silence.
---
The rings of the door bell is irritatingly loud, and it hurts Themba Killian's ears as he wakes up at noon with a horrible hangover on the floor of his bedroom.
He jerks up after it continues relentlessly for another few seconds. He's wearing a crappy shirt and sweatpants, his hair is a mess, and he can still smell the alcohol and vomit coming from the bathroom. It makes him sigh tiredly as he stands and trudges to the front room.
He only turns the lock before Ivan suddenly barges in, his face molded into a deep frown. His cheeks were flushed with stress and his hair is a bit unkempt from being messed with.
He sighs loudly and makes an aggravated noise, grabbing Themba Killian's beaten tennis shoes and an old blue jacket that is softer on the inside. He tosses it at the hungover psychiatrist. "Put those on," he snaps. "We need to leave."
Themba Killian glares and rolls his eyes, but puts the shoes and jacket on regardless. Albeit he is slow in accomplishing these tasks, he makes it quick enough that Ivan wouldn't yell. It is obvious that he's been working on some sort of frustrated lead to Themba Killian; to others it would look like a mental breakdown. "What's happened?" he asks with a cracking voice.
"I am an idiot!" Ivan proclaims loudly. "Karen Hill was following a lead! She's a journalist, she does that! She was investigating her boyfriend, trying to stop his excessive use of pesticides, but she died before she could confront him!"
"So…what, you think her boyfriend did it?"
"No! Well—yes, but it didn't make sense. I think her boyfriend used pesticides for something else, something suspicious, and she could've found that something else or other. Anything, really, because he had more pesticides than he should've for his apple farm," Ivan explains. "We're going to his house—right now."
"Right now now?"
"Yes! Let's go." Ivan impatiently pushes Themba Killian out the door, slamming it shut and practically shoving the psychiatrist into his car. He starts it hurriedly, and in a dash, they leave for that remote farm.
"What the hell would he even use stupid pesticides for…?" Themba Killian grumbles, pulling the flap down to look in the mirror. He sees himself in it, and sighs. He looks like a drunk, and he probably smells like one too. Not to mention his hellish headache that the speeding car isn't helping with.
"Poisoning somebody or something, obviously," Ivan points out. "I saw his business plans. He was involved in planning a dinner party. With food. And posh guests!"
"Keep your stupid voice down," Themba Killian says grumpily. He sighs and rubs his eyes. "Why am I coming?"
"Second pair of eyes."
"Why not have someone else go?"
"You've got a good pair of eyes," he points out almost sheepishly. "Plus you were late in getting the psychoanalysis in. This is your punishment."
"Thanks, mom," he groans.
"Are you hungover?"
"No, I grew a stupid tumor overnight. Yes, I'm hungover you idiot," Themba Killian retorts. He starts to search for water and gum, his eyebrows pinching together in spite. When he finds nothing, he sits back and just closes his eyes.
"How much did you drink?" Ivan asks carefully. He knew of Themba Killian's chronic alcoholism. It is one of his more hidden yet prominent flaws, and Ivan fears it might worsen should another tragedy happen.
Themba Killian sighs and shrugs tiredly. "Dunno," he murmurs. "Vodka? Bottle…full of half? Bit of a clue. Probably vodka bottle of…full…" He sighs irritably at his loss of words. "I had lots of pure vodka."
Ivan chuckles a little, but it doesn't stay. It's a bitter memory seconds later, and his internal riot dispersed in a sort of empathy. He has his experience with alcoholism. It's taken dignity and family from him. "You need to stop," he says simply.
"Shut up, Ivan," Themba Killian retorts.
"Seriously," Ivan continues regardlessly. "It'll kill you some day." His face becomes somber. "Anna wouldn't be happy about that, would she?" It's a rhetorical statement, and Themba "I find my words" Killian just gives him a look of contempt at that.
They were quiet.
"Where and when's the party?" Themba Killian asks eventually.
"I think it's in two weeks," Ivan replies. "It's a themed party. You have to wear something red that would go good with an apple."
"Hm. Okay. An apple farmer; a posh apple party," Themba Killian says idly. "That's a bit annoying. Will we attend?"
"You want to come?"
"I have no brimming social life. Last party like this I went to, someone died. Remember the Rachel case?"
Ivan cringes, because yes, he does. Rachel Jackson, a local pop star, died at a party in 2011. She'd been poisoned, and Themba Killian tried to save her. It didn't work, obviously, and the killer is still being hunted down. It's a cold case now. "The details are probably in his home office. He was one of the event coordinators."
"There's more than one?"
"Yeah."
"Ugh…"
"Why so frumpy about it?"
Themba Killian just made a sound of discontent before he closes his eyes and scores for a quick nap until they get to James Chapman's ridiculously remote house.
---
They found the plans for the party. It was to be held on 2 April from 6PM to 10PM to celebrate the money James Chapman and a no-name no-face CEO of some apple company raised for a charity. The richer donators would attend from six to ten; the more poor ones would attend from six to eleven. The disoriented time coordinations were bit off-putting, but Ivan reckons it would be for an after-party.
Themba Killian has a bit of a deeper thought, but he doesn't share, because he isn't totally sure.
"You should bring that Pratt girl," Themba Killian says eventually as they bag the hard copies of the event plans.
Ivan looks at him. "Why?"
"Female company is good for parties of this prestige," Themba Killian points out. "Especially when you want information."
"Janelle can't work her way out of a wet paper bag in social situations," Ivan states. "Implementing a mini interrogation into a conversation is like asking a ostrich to crush a watermelon."
"That's possible, though."
Ivan rolls his eyes and snaps the bag shut, hooking it over his shoulder and leaving Chapman's office with Themba Killian in tow. "It's still difficult."
"You can teach her some tricks," he says.
"For a party that might not be related to this murder?"
"No, for a party that might be related to this murder…" Themba Killian restates almost a bit awkwardly as they passed the bloody living room where Chapman's throat had been slit and surgically removed. It was the first thing you'd see when you enter the house—and it had been a bit of a sight to see. That's all he's heard, though. He was working when James Chapman's murder was called in.
"How would it be, though?"
"Connected, you mean?" Themba Killian scrunches his nose thoughtfully and nearly squeezes his eyes shut as they are introduced to the afternoon sun. "No clue. Our murderer might've been connected with Chapman."
"We would've known if he had an accomplice."
"Chapman probably made a mistake," Themba Killian says. "Our murderer likes perfection, doesn't he? He probably kills mistakes, too…ohh, that'd make for an interesting note…"
Ivan eyes him. "How so?" He felt curious, because killing mistakes and witnesses for just being mistakes and witnesses suggests a very egotistical murderer. More so than usual, and that was dangerous. Kills would be gruesomely displayed soon. The buildup is getting clear, but Ivan hadn't a clue how to share it.
"He's a lone wolf," Themba Killian says. "Probably has no family—or even extended family if we're pushing it. Usually never do, but he might also lack various friends. Remote home, probably with perfect gardening and grass. Ugh, I hate those kinda of people…"
"So, basically, what you're saying is…our murderer's perfectionism reflects on everything varying from geological location, psychological mindset and his killings."
"…Yeah."
"…A bit of a stretch."
Themba Killian gives him a dry stare.
Ivan rolls his eyes. "How does that help, exactly?"
"It puts depth to the OCD thing, you idiot. By now we're probably looking for a six-foot-something man with a size eleven shoe and severe OCD, anxiety, depression and ASPD."
Ivan gets in the car and gives him a stare. "Where do the anxiety and depression come from? Hard to imagine a sociopath with it."
The hungover psychiatrist closes the door and sighs loudly. "You will never meet a person with OCD who doesn't have anxiety or depression in some form," he points out. "Sociopaths will express and experience it all very differently."
Ivan looks at him. "You sound very sure about him having OCD."
"I'm actually not," Themba Killian points out, "but I'm giving you a psychoanalysis. Better than stumbling about trying to find this bloody bloke."
The detective smiled and laughs a little. "So, where now?"
"Home."
"You have work."
"First appointment isn't for another three hours," he says. "Monday isn't popular for my patients."
"Three hours?" Ivan echoes. "…Why?"
"Some appointments are ridiculously long," Themba Killian explains. "The longest I've had was probably twenty-four hours."
"Straight?"
"Yup."
"How?"
"Can't talk about it," he says. "Doctor-patient confidentiality. But I had lots of energy drinks."
"No alcohol though, right?" Ivan asks almost like a worrying mother.
"I am not an alcoholic. And what idiotic psychiatrist drinks on the job?"
"No idea, but you do drink a lot. I've looked under your bed before, Themba. The amount of bottles I saw were ridiculous," he snaps.
"They were empty!" he argues.
"They were all thirty-two ounce vodka bottles!"
"Touché! But why are you so concerned about it? Those bottles are long gone and ages old! It's just a bad habit," Themba Killian retorts dryly but impatiently. "A really bad one, but a habit, nonetheless! At least I'm not addicted."
"Sporadic doesn't make a difference."
Themba Killian just sighs and shakes his head in frustration. "Why do you even give a damn?" he grumbles. "It's all just fruits dried up and extracted, mixed with various other ingredients. I happen to like it."
"I'm not stupid, Themba Killian. You tend to get out of touch after a while of being left alone," Ivan says shortly.
He doesn't say anything at that. He goes silent, because it's true. There was a summer where he was alone constantly; no patients, no consulting, no storm-ins from Ivan or anxious calls from Janelle—nothing to keep him grounded to boring and bland and ordinary everyday life, and he'd gotten into a pretty bad car crash that nearly killed him.
He sighs irritably and unbuckles himself, climbing over the center console and into the back seat.
Ivan looks after him. "Where are you going?"
"To Asgard, you stupid idiot," Themba Killian snaps. "Go away." And he plops himself on his side with his back facing the front of the car. He is obviously sulking, and it makes the detective sigh and shake his head.
Regardless, the car moved onward, and they arrive to Themba Killian's house by two.
"If I catch you drunk or hungover again I'll kidnap you and confiscate your supply," Ivan speaks.
"Whatever," Themba Killian mutters.
The detective narrows his eyes at the back of his dark-haired head. "I'm serious."
"I'd be disappointed if you weren't," he shoots back. "Bye," he adds, and he quickly darts out of the car.
ns 15.158.61.21da2
