Duality

Duality

He wakes in his bed, glancing around the spotless room in confusion. How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is walking home from work Tuesday afternoon. Just as he’d approached the corner of his street, everything had gone black. He assumes he passed out, which had happened a couple of times in recent weeks, but then, how did he get home? The shrill ring of the telephone interrupts his train of thought.

Reaching across the bed, he snatches the phone off the bedside table, noticing as he does that the clock radio says five am; the call can only be from the station.

‘Jake Lamor,’ he says, dragging himself out of bed.

‘Detective, there's been another one. Indiana Street.’

‘Same MO?’ He already knows the answer; why else would they be calling him?

‘Yeah, but this time he left a name.’

‘I’ll be right down.’

            It takes him ten minutes to get ready, throwing on his work clothes and grabbing a cup of coffee. Glancing in the mirror on the way out the door, he sees a dark shadow creeping over his chin and neck. He rubs a hand over the stubble before dismissing the idea of a shave. He has to catch this killer; three innocents have already died on his watch.

The crime scene is down a small back alley, halfway along Indiana Street. The tall buildings on either side loom over him as he enters the alley. He pauses as a feeling similar to Déjà vu washes over him; he frowns before shrugging it off and moving down to where the body lies.

            Already the body has been picked at by whatever creatures lurk in the shadows of this gloomy place. He ignores the other officers at the scene. The body is all that matters to him. He kneels by the corpse, a thin cloudy film covers the eyes and rigor mortis has started to set in; the man was murdered no more than four hours ago.

            For a moment rage grips him and his vision flickers. Taking a deep breath, he relaxes. It’s too late to save this one but he will stop it from happening again. He glances at his watch only to notice it’s missing; he must have left it behind in his rush. It doesn’t matter; a pathologist will determine the time of death when they receive the body anyway. Once he knows approximately how long the body has been there, he takes his time to look over it.                      ‘Male, about six foot, looks to be in his early forties. Any ID on him?’ he asks, glancing around for an answer.

            ‘Nothing. The wallet and any other identifiable items were taken before we arrived at the scene. Just like the others,’ Senior Detective Jane Manson replies, straight to the facts. This is why he enjoys working with her, she’s as dedicated to work as he is and solves every case she works on. There’s no pointless conversation, just the facts of the case.

            He returns to his observations. The face of the victim has been slashed open, three slices down each cheek. A gaping red gash stands out along the stiffening neck; the fatal wound. It runs straight across the jugular, which explains the pool of blood surrounding the body. On closer inspection, he sees there are stab wounds puncturing the torso; they look purposeful, not angry like the others. A flash of understanding hits him.

            He pulls himself to his feet; standing tall, he peers straight down at the body.

            ‘Major Kael?’ he reads off the torso of the victim. This he has not seen before. Usually the perp slices the face and body, rips open the jugular and leaves the victim to die. A calling card is new for this guy.