Case Closed

• Fourteen •

Getting up for work that morning was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. Considering her job, that was saying something. Another sleepless night left her irritable, even toward the smallest things, such as finding clothes that were clean enough to be worn outside of the house. Scenes kept popping up behind her eyes, horrible, taunting images that made her cry out or hit something.

This new side of her was a shock; the Prof was meant to be the crazy one, not her. Voices danced in her head, facts and notes from the case file she'd read yesterday, but broken so she couldn't decipher them. It was so frustrating that she debated just not leaving the house, and going back to bed. But another nightmare would break her, she knew it.

The Prof was already sitting at the desk when she arrived, although it was still early in the morning.

"What you up to?" she chirped as positively as possible.

"Construction machine. File."

"You know, it would be too much effort just to tell me in real sentences, wouldn't it?" she sighed exasperatedly. The last thing she needed now was a stroppy, short tempered Potty Prof.

"Putting the data from the file I showed you yesterday into the construction machine so I can work on it while you call the suspects and witnesses up for interviews."

"Urghhhhhh."

"Is there a problem?" He turned to face her, one eyebrow raised.

"I forgot about that."

"You said you'd he- do it."

Snorting, she dumped her coat on the sofa and placed her hands on the back of his chair. "Yes, I did. And I will. Once you show me this."

"How about not? We don't have much time."

"Liar. There's no deadline, is there?"

"I suppose not, but-"

"Exactly," she said, knowing she had won. "So, what have you got?"

He clicked back to the main page of the program, then brought up a 3-D image of the crime scene.

The cell was exactly square, with a door in the middle of the south-facing wall. Opposite was a high, iron-barred window, about the size of a large book. To the left, west side of the room was a wooden foldable bed, suspended from the wall by two metal chains. Against the final, East-facing wall was a plastic toilet and sink with a chain flush, and a wooden table. He clicked to zoom in and finer details appeared: a plastic cased light switch beside the door; scrunched blankets on the bed; a bar of acid-yellow soap in the sink; and a book and glass of what appeared to be water on the table. However, there was one vital problem with the scene.

"Prof," she began, frowning slightly, "Where's the body?"

"Ah, yes. Well spotted."

It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic, seeing as one of the main parts of any case was examining the body. A couple more clicks brought up another screen, this time showing images of a bloated, white body, stained red in the centre of the back, that was barely recognisable as Justin Lawson.

"Oh my God," Lucy gasped, taking a step back from the monitor. All the time working there, and she'd never seen a body as horrific as this one. Maybe it was the fact she had known 'he victim' beforehand, or that recent events had shaken her nerves, but this was something new altogether.

"Are you ok?" Placid Prof appeared genuinely worried.

"Um, yeah. I think so."

"Sure?" She had no idea where this sudden concern for her wellbeing had come from.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. What 'appended to 'im?"

Instead of explaining, he stood up sharply and pulled out the red file.
"Read."

The victim was found in the Thames at around 11:45pm on the 13th December, 2016. The only obvious sign of damage was a non-fatal stab wound in the centre of the back. It is suspected that a combination of blood loss and drowning was the cause of death because the victim's lungs contain only some liquid, therefore it is assumed that the victim was unconscious before the body was disposed of.

"Who would do that? What's the point?"

"You tell me," Potty Prof grumbled.

"Well, if the water was moving fast enough, the body would be carried away from the scene, and 'opefully no one would find it. But everyone knows the Thames doesn't flow fast enough for that to 'appen, so it must have been disposed of in panic, which suggests that the culprit was not prepared for his assault. Maybe a sudden burst of anger or hatred let to the murder, and the culprit tried to 'ide the evidence and make a dash."

There was silence from her partner. "Ok then, ignore that. What d'you think?"

Still no reply. "Prof?"

"What? Oh yes, sorry. I agree." Voice tight, he was gripping onto the windowsill like it was the only thing that kept him upright. His knuckles were white, as was his face, but his eyes flared with an anger like she had never seen.

"Um, Earth to Prof! You alright there?" she said, hoping her light approach would snap him out of it.

Instead, he whipped around and strode over to where she stood by the monitor. Pushing her down into the chair, his eyes bored into hers as he said, "Stay. Here."

"But... What? Why?" It was too late - he was gone in a blaze of red anger with the door slammed behind him.