Murder On The Waterway: The Case Of The Kanaima Demon

Chapter Eighteen

Tension thickened in the room as we collectively held our breath, our eyes fixed on Mildred Thistle's stiffened fingers, gripped around a crumpled piece of paper. The subtle cracking of joints and bones, a habit I'd noticed from Michael's knuckle-cracking, sent shivers down our spines. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation, each of us careful not to disrupt the deceased woman's rigour-mortis-stricken grip.

Miss Wainright's meticulous work was a study in precision. Her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and two little eyebrow caterpillars furrowed in concentration. Her tweezers delicately held the fragile paper, its creases and folds telling a story of resilience even in death. Miss Walker, too, was engrossed in her work, sketching Mildred's frail hand as if to revive it in the drawing. Ligature bruising marked her neck, a stark reminder of the violence she had endured.

Walker's soft voice broke the silence. "This one is different."

I nodded. "Looks like it, but I believe it's connected."

Michael, his gaze fixed on the sketch, voiced his confusion. "Why her?"

The room was tense, and even the gurgling noise from Mildred's body as Wainright worked did little to ease our nerves. A sudden gas release made us recoil, struggling to hide our repulsion. But then I noticed a trickle of dead blood escaping from Mildred's lifeless mouth.

Fearing a resurgence of my primal instincts, Michael pulled me aside, hushing, "Get a grip."

I took a deep breath, focusing on my thoughts. My claws receded, and my jaw returned to normal. "It's okay, it's stopped."

Returning to the matter, Wainright retrieved a torn and creased photograph with tweezers, her concentration unwavering.

The photograph portrayed a woman who had been ripped from a group picture. Tall and dark-haired, she sported khaki shorts and a tied-off shirt, a smile on her lips but uncertain eyes, a subtle squint hinting at hidden stories.

Walker inquired, "Who is she?"

I responded thoughtfully, "That is the question."

Mildred had fought to keep a firm grasp on this photograph, even as she faced her untimely demise. The careful destruction of the rest of the picture suggests the woman's profound importance.

As we contemplated the mysterious woman in the photograph, I suddenly sensed a presence behind Michael. I cautiously alerted him, "Michael, they're here."

Panic swept over his face as he stammered, "What? Where?"

"Right behind you," I said, my gaze unwaveringly focused on the spectral apparitions of our deceased victims, now joined by Mildred. Their presence reminded us of the unresolved cases and the justice that eluded us.

The eerie whispers they emitted sent a chill down my spine, and a gnawing guilt lingered, reminding us we had yet to capture the elusive killer. The unsettling question remained: How many more victims would gather before we could finally put an end to this reign of terror?

***

Sitting at my cluttered desk, I couldn't help but toy with the latest addition to our growing pile of evidence– a crumpled photograph of a dark-haired woman. I had a hunch that it was one of two possibilities: Emily Fulton or Melanie Blake.

After the twists and turns of this perplexing case, one thing was obvious– nothing about it was straightforward or conventional. Our supposed victim, Mr. Kumar, a man driven by greed, was bound to become the subject of a separate investigation once we sifted through the evidence. But he remained an enigma; his abrupt escape from the hotel room was inexplicable. I pondered whether he left of his own accord or under duress, especially with the presence of those Kanaima toxins just outside on the ledge.

However, the biggest curveball of all was the tragic fate of Mildred Thistle. Her death left us grappling with unanswered questions. I stared at the photographs Michael handed me, frustration building within me.

Michael sensed my unease and asked, "You okay, matey?"

I let out a sigh, exasperated. "No... What the hell is going on? There was no hint of a demon there," I remarked, my frustration clear as I examined the photographs.

I focused on the unripped photo, which depicted the dark-haired woman standing beside a tall man to her left and an unidentified woman to her right.

Michael voiced his suspicion, questioning why this woman's picture had been singled out for emphasis. We were still trying to identify both Mr. Kumar and Mr. Walters. A press conference to appeal for information about the individuals in the photograph was a consideration.

I thought aloud, "With the Superintendent in a meeting with Chief Inspector Stenton and the others, perhaps they are discussing a new strategy."

Amid our pondering, I asked Michael about the list of addresses for the expedition members. I hoped it might reveal a connection that had eluded us.

The entrance of a familiar face abruptly disrupted the peaceful interlude. Miss Walker, exuding an air of confidence, confidently strolled into the room.

Michael, quick to indulge in banter, greeted her with a hint of flirtation. "If you wanted to get closer, you only had to say."

Walker, a no-nonsense professional, swiftly put Michael's tie to good use, wrapping it around his throat as part of a demonstration. Michael's face turned beet red, and he flailed his right arm to catch his breath.

I couldn't help but imagine Mildred, with her arm outstretched, struggling with the photograph. Her assailant had been too preoccupied with choking her to notice the other crucial details Mildred had hidden.

Walker explained the significance of the tie, emphasising how the cord had been positioned. Her description of the murderer's actions brought the entire scene vividly to life in my mind.

Frustrated and driven to find answers, I declared, "We need to find out which one of the dark-haired women in this photo had their hair close enough to Mildred to transfer strands."

As Walker finally released Michael, he gasped for air. His tie dropped to his shoulders, and Walker wore a triumphant smile on her face.

Michael, still catching his breath and recovering from the experience, laughed and ran his hand over his throat. "Wow, that was an experience. I liked what you were doing," he remarked with a good-natured chuckle.

Walker playfully responded, "You sick shit, I'll do it for real next time."

I redirected the conversation, asking Michael, "So, what's next?"

If Walker's scientific expertise backed up her claims, we might have a way to tie at least one-half of the murderous duo to the crime scenes through the DNA in the hair.

With Michael occupied brewing coffee, I continued my search for the address list among the clutter on my desk. Among the papers, I stumbled upon the diary and a small, crumpled scrap of paper bearing a single word, "Berth 72."

Just as we were deliberating our next steps, the door burst open with a sense of urgency. A flustered uniformed officer rushed in, delivering an update that demanded our immediate attention: "Detectives, there's another Corbridge Crescent under the railway bridge in Cambridge Heath."

A hushed silence filled the room as we braced ourselves for whatever was about to unfold next.