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A Dream of Death

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A Dream of Death A Dream of Death by Harrison Drake, Published: 2012 J J J J J I I I I I Table of Contents Chapter 1 ... thru … 34 Acknowledgements A Dream of Death is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, or organizations are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. J J J J J I I I I I As a serial killer terrorizes London, Ontario, Canada, Detective Lincoln Munroe finds himself at a standstill waiting for the perfect killer to make his first mistake. While the body count rises without any leads, Lincoln finds himself haunted by dreams of discovering skeletal remains in the forest beneath a bloody knife. The dreams seem to come true when Lincoln is called to Algonquin Park to assist an old colleague. There he is tasked with overseeing the excavation of human remains buried more than twenty-five years earlier; remains that will bring to the surface cold cases, a painful past and memories Lincoln had long since forgotten. For my family, without whom none of this would be possible. Chapter 1 Two pairs of dead eyes stared up at me, their gaze placid rather than terrified as I would have expected. Had the victims died like that, with an eternal stare of serenity for their murderer? Or had the killer posed their eyes as he did their bodies? I tossed the crime scene pictures onto the stacks of documents that carpeted the top of my faux mahogany desk, an immovable behemoth of a bygone age. The thought of moving the desk had never struck me before. Even if I could move it there would be nowhere to move it to. The windowless office I shared with my partner left little room for life itself let alone redecorating. Among the files and reference books that tiled my desk I’d found space for only a few scattered family photos, an iPod and small speaker dock, a page-a-day word calendar (today, June seventh, was cornucopia) and Newton’s Cradle, my favourite stress reliever. I had been pouring over crime scene photos that showed nothing new, witness statements from people who had witnessed nothing, the statements of the attending officers, maps of the areas where the women lived, and details of their vehicles, employment, finances and love lives, all of it showed nothing. I knew everything there was to know about these two women now, felt like I knew them better than my own family and friends. The one thing I didn’t know was who had killed them and why. I couldn’t get the pictures out of my mind. It wasn’t horror. Twelve years in policing, the last five in homicide, had desensitized me to the scent, sight and cold feel of death. I had seen it all: a woman killed in a fiery car crash; a man mutilated in an industrial accident; a drunken teenager run over by a train; a woman stabbed multiple times by her jealous ex-boyfriend. As horrible as the resulting images were they never remained in my mind past a cold drink and a night with my family. Until these women died and began to stay with me, all hours of the day and night. Especially the night. Maybe it was because this was my first serial killer, the first in the London area in over three decades. All the other mayhem I had seen was rooted in connections between the victim and the perpetrator—jealous spouses, enraged workers, altercations at bars, even gang members killing each other for turf. Even the few robberies gone bad, the victim was picked for a recognizable human reason— because they looked like they had money. This killer was choosing victims at random. And might be choosing the next victim right now. I took a sip of green tea from the “World’s Greatest Dad” mug my son had given me for my birthday in February and took care to set it down on the only visible ring on the desk. Years of abuse had left a fractal pattern of ring-shaped stains around the desktop, evidence of those who held this position before me. The rings were like coasters thrown to the wind to land where they may and no matter what I was doing or how cluttered my desk there was always one to be found. With it came a chance to maintain my corner of the world. At least if my mug caused new damage it wouldn’t look like new damage. The ring sat between wide angle shots of the decedents, nude and seated on their beds, blankets pulled up to their shoulders. The strip of flesh cut from their necks was hardly visible. The juxtaposition of violence and peace unsettled me and I picked up my mug again, emptied it of the dregs and shuffled the statements to reveal a coaster far from the images of death. The mug was a part of my son’s legacy now and as ridiculous as it may have seemed keeping it away from the macabre photos made me feel like a better father. My gaze returned to the pictures. I searched them again and again trying to find something that had escaped me, something that could bring me closer to the killer. All I found was pain; the body of a woman in an otherwise perfect setting. There was no doubt in my mind that these women had been killed by the same man—or woman as a female killer was a possibility, and I wasn’t dismissing any possibilities. The positioning of the bodies, the mutilation to the victims, the undoing of the crime—all were identical. Lost in their eyes, I could hear their voices goading me and berating me for the lack of information we had and the fact we were no closer to catching the killer than we were before he struck. I needed to get out of the office, regret at sending my partner out to the field made its way past thoughts of misery. The benefit of rank, I thought at the time. Send the ‘rookie’ out to canvass the neighbourhoods and re-interview witnesses whose limited information was now more limited with the passage of time. She didn’t go alone. Nothing freed up police resources like the words ‘serial killer’ and now we had a task force made up of detectives from surrounding areas, a handful of uniformed officers and even a detective inspector from Headquarters leading the charge. I had been left as lead investigator, having been the one who caught each case as it occurred. I rose from my seat with the utmost care, not wanting to disturb the numerous pages and pictures that hung over the edge of my desk, ready to cascade off at any moment. I picked up my mug in my left hand and with my right turned over any images that showed the decedents. Although I wasn’t expecting any visitors, I felt the need to protect what little dignity these women had left. The wooden door creaked as I opened it then closed it behind me. I hadn’t been able to protect their dignity, not at first. I walked down the corridor to the cafeteria, doors passing by, my hand in my pocket jingling change and counting with my ears to ensure there was enough. Crime scene photos and all investigate documents were, in this day and age, available to anyone with access to the service’s computer system. We police are no different from the general public— murder brings out the morbid curiosity in us all, and I was certain that officers outside of the case had seen the images as well. The media feeds us murders far and wide and we gather round like hyenas on a scavenged kill rooting for any morsels. I had taken steps to privatize the cases after the second murder, limiting access only to those with direct involvement in the investigations. A case such as this, a serial killer in southwestern Ontario, was too sensitive to risk the dissemination of any information—even to other officers. A familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. I looked up to see the face of my old partner, now a Staff Sergeant, Jorge ‘George’ Ramirez. “What’s that, George?” I said. “I asked you how the case was going. A little lost in thought?” “A little doesn’t touch it,” I said. “Bounce it off me.” This was something we used to do a lot. It helped to have someone to talk to about the case, and even better if your target knew little to begin with. I was always reminded of psychotherapy, me lying on the couch discussing the case with George while he tried to get me to reach new conclusions on my own. “All right. Two women strangled with a ligature we’ve never found a trace of. Both nude but not sexually assaulted, propped up against the headboard like they’d fallen asleep reading or watching TV.” “Were the bodies covered?” “Blankets pulled up to the neck”. “Undoing the crime. Remorse?” Undoing was the act after the murder where the person tried to cover the body or otherwise make the crime invisible to their eyes. It was most common when the killer and victim were known to each other. “I don’t think so. They were propped up after death for the blood to pool in the lower areas.” “I heard the rumours. He cut the ligature marks out, right?” “As disturbing as that is, it’s also damned practical.
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