Unedited Chapter One
Chapter One
(Trigger warnings for: Extreme Gore, Violence, Death Please note none of this has been edited or even looked at twice, and is generally awful.) “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
It was a phrase Ripley heard more than a few times on her way into the crime scene. Uniformed Officers stood around the perimeter, looking stunned and sometimes shell-shocked. She had an idea of what to expect, of course. ‘Small child, mauled and then murdered. Unidentifiable.’ It was the last word that let her know exactly how bad it might be. When a parent couldn’t even recognize their child past the brutal mutilation...
No heart. She paused, fingertips still hovering. Not merely decimated, like the face. There was no trace of the heart - at least as far as she could see. The autopsy would show for sure, but...
She took in a deep breath and took a step back, allowing herself to observe the room starting from the body outward. The crib, despite the carnage within, had no damage to it. The side into the middle of the room had been lowered, presumably to gain easier access to the child. The carpeted floor was soaked through with blood, remnants of the body spread out where they had been thrown, or tossed, or simply dropped.
Beyond the body and the littered pieces of it, however, the room seemed untouched. Not sparkling clean - toys left from the night before were still spread across the floor, a few half-heartedly tossed into the toy bin lying open against a wall. A trail of blood ran a few feet from the crib but ended before it reached the door. There were no obvious footprints (at least at a glance) though there was a large space of white carpet near the crib where the blood had only just begun to seep into at the edges. “I need pictures,” she announced suddenly, her eyes still locked on that strangely clean segment of carpet. A detective constable walked over into her peripheral vision, and she glance up at him. “Of everything,” She clarified, “The whole room. Double of what you would usually take. And make sure to get several of this --” she gestured at the patch of carpet. “Once it has been photographed, I want you to take up that piece and put it in evidence.” The office nodded and set to work as Ripley stepped back, running a hand through her close-cropped, dead straight black hair. Edmund stepped up beside her with barely a sound, and leaned down to speak to her in a low voice. “You’ll want to talk to Martin, when you get a chance.” Ripley frowned, looking up at him to catch his eye - and the solemn expression on his features. “The Staff Inspector? Why?” “He’s put us on point, for this case.” Ripley’s frown deepened, her eye wandering back to the body before meeting Edmund’s once more. “Of course he did. Because putting someone with experience with murders like this--” “No one on the squad has experience with something like this,” Edmund interrupted her quickly. “And that’s not... he has his reasons, but I think you should talk to him.” “Yeah. His reasons. How much do you want to bet it comes back to ‘no family’,” She grumbled under her breath, crossing her arms as she began to survey the room again. “Speak for yourself,” Edmund replied, but then swiftly changed the topic. He could sense a storm when it brewed. “So what do you think? I don’t... I don’t even know where to start,” He admitted, his voice low enough that only Ripley could hear him. “No one could do that with their hands, and... I can’t even imagine of what kind of weapon would do this kind of damage...” “Not one that is silent, at least,” Ripley replied in an equally low tone. “I almost -- It’s weird, but I would almost say an animal did it... Just looking at the rib cage--” But she cut herself off, frowning and shaking her head. No. Rampant speculation at this point wouldn’t help her. She needed evidence. And expertise. “I’ve got nothing on this one, but there must be someone who does?” “What, like a zookeeper?” Edmund asked, the incredulous tone all too apparent. Ripley rolled her eyes. “No. As much as it looks like an animal, I don’t see how it could be one. In the middle of a house in the middle of Rosedale? Only things that live here are raccoons, squirrels and skunks. Even if we did get bears down here, there’s no way it would be able to get in here without--” She broke off, glaring at him. “Stop laughing at me, I’m just running through all the possibilities--” Edmund tried his best to stop, but there was an almost hysterical edge to his laughter. Being anywhere near the body was traumatic enough, and having any opportunity to laugh at all made it that much harder to avoid. “Sorry, I just... You actually sat there starting to work out how a bear would murder a toddler in the middle of Toronto...” Ripley didn’t laugh but her expression softened slightly before she shrugged. “It just... looks organic, to me, you know? It makes no sense, but that’s what it looks like.” She motioned for him to step up beside her as she leaned in next to the crib. “See here... the chest looks as if it was pried open by hand. Okay, granted, it’s much easier to do with a toddler - the bones are soft and much of the chest is cartilage - but that’s still a lot of strength behind it, you need a lot of leverage. And everywhere the flesh is torn, like here-- none of it is cut, there's no incision. As if each limb was ripped off." She paused, frowning into the crib. "Even when dealing with a toddler, the average adult doesn't have anywhere near the strength to pull an arm off - cartilage, sinew and all."
"So your first instinct is Bear," Edmund chimed in helpfully. Ripley leveled a glare at him.
"You know what I mean. It just--"
"Doesn't make sense. Yeah I know." He finished for her, frowning down at the crib. "Like you said, though, we aren't experts on it. If you think we need to reach out, just say the word."
Ripley nodded, but then said: "Not yet. I want to see the autopsy report first." She backed away from the crib, stepping into the dim hall as she glanced around. There was something about the constant activity of a crime scene that muted the horror, somehow. Even muted, however, it was apparent that this particular murder had shaken everyone to their core.
Edmund quickly ran her through the rest of the house - especially the entrances and exits. But every door had been secure and every window closed. Thanks to the cold winter months, they had even sealed their windows with sealant to keep out the draft. None of it had even been broken.
"Where are the parents?" She asked, before Edmund motioned to the sitting room. The couple sat huddled and horrified on the couch, the mother staring blankly into the mid-distance. Ripley walked over and crouched down in front of them.
"Mr and Mrs Laurent? I am Detective Lau, and this is my colleague, Detective Bates. We would like to ask you a few questions."
"We... They already--"
Edmund Bates stepped up behind Ripley and offered the couple a kind, warm, yet slightly dad smile. "We know. And we understand. It won't take long, but it is incredibly important. The more information we get the faster, the easier it will be for us to find your son's killer."
The wife nodded mutely, the husband merely turning his eyes up to meet Ripley's with a far-away sorrow.
"Thank you," She said gently. "From what you said before, you put him to bed at about 8 pm?"
"Yes," Mrs Laurent answered quietly. "Eight is... Is his usual bedtime. We went to bed around ten, we... I was meant to go to work early this morning, but--"
Ripley said nothing, allowing her to trail off into silence. After a moment, Edmund's voice broke in to gently encourage her.
"You called in at seven-thirty am. Was that when you found him?"
"Y-yes," she replied, her voice catching and tears welling in her eyes. "He-- he usually wakes us up crying every morning but he-- so I went to check on him, and-- oh god, James, my baby--!" Eyes wide, she began to hyperventilate and Ripley shot a quick look at Edmund, who sat down beside the couple on the couch.
"What happened to your son was horrible," He said quietly in a voice like smooth velvet chocolate, "And we will do everything in our power to find his killer and bring him to justice. But that means that right now you need to be calm, and focus."
"Who else has keys to your house?" Ripley asked after a moment. "Land-lord, in-laws, cleaners, construction workers...?"
"My mother has keys," Mr Laurent said slowly, looking a very particular shade of grey-green. "No... No one else, we own the house, haven't had any work done... My mother lives in-- in Ottawa-- sometimes she comes down to visit and babysit..." He stood suddenly, the green in his face even more obvious. "I-- I'm sorry, I can't, I need to..." He fled, suddenly, to the washroom, as his wife bit back a ragged sob. It was no use, Ripley realized, and relayed as much to Edmund in a dark look, who nodded and placed a warm hand on the mother's shoulder.
"It's alright. We have enough to look into for now. We'll talk more tomorrow morning. I'm going to have someone come and go over the procedure and help you both find somewhere else to stay for the next few days while we continue the investigation."
"We don't have enough to look into," Ripley pointed out petulantly as Edmund pressed the button on his keychain and, with a loud beep, unlocked the car doors. Ripley threw one open, getting in the passenger side. She hated not being the one to drive, but the two of them had worked out some ground rules months ago, and one was they took turns driving.
And back-seat driving.
Edmund pulled into the driver's side and started up the engine. "Of course we don't. But I am pretty damn sure they aren't suspects, and interrogating them after finding their kid like that isn't going to be very productive."
"It would make me extra productive," She grumbled lowly, and Edmund rolled his eyes at her as they pulled out of the driveway.
"Yeah, well, tragedy paralyzes most people, Ripley, it doesn’t invigorate them. Let's order some Chinese and head back to the office and go over this. Maybe then we'll hear back from the coroner."
Ripley grumbled but did not argue, watching the grey, mismatched buildings of her city pass by her window as he drove back to the precinct. Bates kept talking for a while, his smooth voice droning on about the case. No conclusions, just observations, and none that Ripley hadn’t made. She only half listened. The speech wasn’t really for her, anyway. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The speech was, the words weren’t. The gentle background hum of his voice gave texture to her thoughts, let her organize them better. It was impossible not to think about the case, of course. She couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. She knew just how little sleep she would be getting over the next few days.
But everything about this case bothered her.
Her first case had also been tragic, but in a different way. Over in the East End, a young seventeen year old man - no, boy - was shot three times in his backyard at his birthday party from over the fence. Two others had been shot, but both survived. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew who his killers were, or more specifically, which gang his killers were from. The Galloway boys were cleaning up shop, filling a hole where their leader had once been. It took days for anyone to talk to the police - the blanket of silence held over the community was near impenetrable. Bates hadn’t been her partner, then. She had been working with an oldster - a rabi, as they called them in the Homicide Squad. He had taught her the ropes and she had seen him finally worm his way into the community. Getting the mother to open up to him, a couple of his friends. It took months, but they finally managed to find the suspects and arrest them - both boys barely old enough to vote themselves. The case still hadn’t made it to trial, yet, and every once in awhile more paperwork from the case crossed her desk, even after her old partner moved on in the department. Roland Kelly. She still saw him sometimes.
The gang killings were always tragic but made a sick sort of sense, to her. They had rules - and even if governed by human stupidity, the why’s and the how’s were fairly simple to line up. Revenge. Money. Power. Drugs. But this case...
What could someone possibly get out of ripping an innocent toddler to shreds?
Her mind started to go fuzzy, the thoughts not lining up properly, and it was then that she realised that Edmund had stopped talking. She glanced over, found him frowning - face set and hard as he watched the road. It was already getting dark, the grey day only speeding up the setting of the sun. It was only just about 5 pm. God, but she hated November.
“You alright?” She asked finally. It was a stupid question, and she knew that. Of course he wasn’t. No one on this case was going to feel alright tonight.
“It just... It doesn’t make sense,” He said, without bothering to answer the question they both knew the answer to. “You know? It feels like something you see on TV, in a horror movie. Just, completely nonsensical.”
“Humans aren’t always sensical,” Ripley pointed out lowly.
“Yeah, I know, but... I don’t know, it just feels wrong. We’ll see what the coroner says.”
“Look, you can ask me a hundred time, but my answer is going to be the same. I don’t know what the cause of death is, besides massive trauma - as you can see.” Dr Rachel Wagner stood over her slab, in the morgue - gloved hands covered in blood. She’d drained the fluids of the corpse - if it could even be called that, as what was left seemed mostly to be strange, lifeless, unrecognizable pieces. Ripley held a cloth over her mouth as she stared down at it.
“I worked out that much myself, thanks.” She said flatly as Dr Wagner shrugged.
“I can get more for you, but it will take awhile. No weapon that I’m familiar with was used, but... here’s the weird thing, Lau, these really don’t look like wounds human hands alone could inflict. Here, look at the spacing between the tears, there and there. The angles are wrong. It would be nearly impossible to twist your fingers to get the spacing to match. It isn’t a length issue, it’s a spread issue. Obviously it must be a person, but their hands must be absolutely huge, and the fingers very very thin, but very very strong.”
“So I’m looking for a very strong, huge, pianist,” Ripley said, her tone still dead flat. “Can you tell me anything useful?”
“Well, for a start, there’s no heart. Or much brain, though there’s a couple scraps of that left. But it looks like all the brain matter was removed, as well as the entirety of the heart.”
Ripley let out a long breath and frowned. “Yeah, I thought as much. Glad you could confirm it though. Anything else missing?”
“Yes. The eyes. The rest of the body is accounted for, though most of the internal organs were reduced to pulp. I sent the blood work in - the chief even asked for it to be given highest priority - but there’s nothing unusual or even remarkable about it.”
“Can you at least get me a time of death?”
Wagner nodded. “It’s a pretty broad one, though. Somewhere between 2am and 5am last night.”
“Alright. Thanks. If you figure out anything else, page me.”
Ripley pulled herself from the room and back out into the hall to make her way back to the homicide squad officers where Edmund was currently buried in paperwork. Returning empty handed felt incredibly defeating, but it just meant they would have to buckle down and find leads elsewhere--
Her reverie was interrupted suddenly when she very nearly ran into her commanding officer, Staff Inspector Douglas Borden.
“Detective Lau, just who I wanted to see,” The gruff, salt-and-peppered haired man said, tucking a file tightly under his armpit and leaning to one side as he looked at her through a half squint. The squint wasn’t indicative of any particular emotion - Ripley had known him long enough now to know that - but the lean was worrying. She straightened her back and nodded to him.
“Staff Inspector. What did you need?”
“I spoke with Detective Bates already, and wanted to make sure to touch base with you. I want you to understand that this case is one of the most horrific in my memory, and that putting you in charge of it means I am putting a great deal of responsibility on your shoulders.”
Ripley shuffled uncomfortably, her brows knotting slightly. “Yes, I understand that, sir. But if I may ask - with no disrespect sir - why I was chosen? I don’t exactly have the longest history with the squad...”
Borden shook his head.
“This isn’t about history or seniority, Lau. Everyone in the squad will be working this one. But I want you and Bates on point. Your family situations--”
Ripley sighed. She knew it. “Our family situations mean we can work longer hours, yes I know.”
“No.” The word was so firm that Ripley blinked, watching him. “No,” he repeated, “That’s not it. At least not all of it. Almost everyone on the squad has family, and almost all of them have children. Kids, Lau. You know how traumatizing this is for you? Imagine how you would feel if every time you looked at that poor mangled soul you saw your son, or your daughter. It’s distracting and it’s distressing and it erodes their judgement. I need detectives on this one that can be as objective as possible. We need to come through on this. The press already got wind of it. Some idiot blabbed about it to the Star and they’re already breathing down our necks. The Chief is very concerned, the Mayor is very concerned - even the Premier called in this afternoon. I wouldn’t be surprised if we hear from the Prime Minister’s office before noon tomorrow. I need my team at their a-game, and right now that means you and Bates. Can you be that a-game for me, detective?”
There was no self-assuredly in Ripley now - no assurance at all. In fact, she was already despairing at the state of the case, where she would usually be so clear cut and ready.
But it didn’t matter how she felt, right now. That wasn’t what Borden wanted from her.
So she nodded, tersely. “Yes, sir. We’ll work night and day and we’ll find him.”
“Good. Knew I could count on you, Lau.”
Ripley said nothing, only nodding once more as she turned away. She could hear the very, very quiet threat in his words. He was worried the case was unsolvable, and wanted the blood - and the responsibility- off his hands.
Forty-eight hours, Ripley thought darkly to herself. Forty-eight hours was the standard length a homicide case that was solved got solved in. Every hour was crucial. And she had already lost fifteen of them.