“First was a minor Greek godling,” I said. “Supposedly descended from Hercules, at many removes. Very strong. Died of a single knife wound to the heart. Chest and arm muscles were taken.”
“Just the one blow, to the heart,” said Ms. Fate. “You’d have to get in close for that. Which suggests the victim either knew his killer, or had reason to trust him.”
“If the killer has acquired a godling’s strength, he wouldn’t need a knife any more,” I said.
“There’s more to it than that.” She looked like she might be frowning, behind her mask. “This whole hands-on thing shouts… passion. That the killer enjoyed it, or took some satisfaction from it.”
“Second victim was a farseer,” I said. “What they call a remote viewer these days. Her head was smashed in, and her eyes taken. After that; an immortal who lost his testicles, a teleporter for a messenger service who had his brain ripped right out of his skull, and finally a minor radio chat show host, who lost his tongue and vocal chords.”
“Why that last one?” said Ms Fate. “What did the killer hope to gain? The gift of the gab?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” I said. “Presumably the killer believed that eating the werewolf’s missing organs would give him shapechanging abilities, or at least regeneration.”
“He’s trying to eat himself into a more powerful person… Hell, just the godling’s strength and the werewolf’s abilities will make him really hard to take down. Have you come up with any leads yet, from the previous victims?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing.”
“Then I suppose we’d better run through the usual suspects, if only to cross them off. How about Mr. Stab, the legendary uncaught immortal serial killer of Old London Town?”
“No,” I said. “He always uses a knife, or a scalpel. Always has, ever since 1888.”
“All right; how about Arnold Drood, the Bloody Man?”
“His own family tracked him down and killed him, just last year.”
“Good. Shock-Headed Peter?”
“Still in prison, where I put him,” I said. “And there he’ll stay, till the day he dies.”
Ms. Fate sniffed. “Don’t know why they didn’t just execute him.”
“Oh, they tried,” I said. “Several times, in fact. But it didn’t take.”
“Wait a minute,” said Ms. Fate. She knelt down again suddenly, and leant right over to study the dead man’s elongated muzzle. “Take a look at this, Detective. The nose and mouth tissues are eaten away. Right back to the bone in places. I wonder… ” She produced a chemical kit from her belt, and ran some quick tests. “I thought so. Silver. Definite traces of silver dust, in the nose, mouth and throat. Now that was clever… Throw a handful of silver dust into the werewolf’s face, he breathes it in, unsuspecting, and his tissues would immediately react to the silver. It had to have been horribly painful; certainly enough to distract the victim and interrupt his shape change… while leaving him vulnerable to the killer’s exceptional strength.”
“Well spotted,” I said. “I must be getting old. Was a time I wouldn’t have missed something like that.”
“You’re not that old,” Ms. Fate said lightly.
“Old enough that they want to retire me,” I said.
“You? You’ll never retire! You live for this job.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve done it so long it’s all I’ve got now. But I am getting old. Slow. Still better than any of these upstart latecomers, like John Taylor and Tommy Oblivion.”
“You look fine to me,” Ms. Fate said firmly. “In pretty good shape too, for a man of your age. How do you manage it?”
I smiled. “We all have our secrets.”
“Of course. This is the Nightside, after all.”
“I could have worked out your secret identity,” I said. “If I’d wanted to.”
“Perhaps. Though it might have surprised you. Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Professional courtesy? Or maybe I just liked the idea of knowing there was someone else around who wanted to catch murderers as much as I did.”
“You can depend on me,” said Ms. Fate.
Our next port of call was the Nightside’s one and only autopsy room. We do have a CSI, but it only has four people in it. And only one Coroner; Dr. West. Short, stocky fellow with a smiling face and flat straw-yellow hair. I wouldn’t leave him alone with the body of anyone I cared about, but he’s good enough at his job.
By the time Ms. Fate and I got there, Dr. West already has the werewolf’s body laid out in his slab. He was washing the naked body with great thoroughness and crooning a song to it as we entered. He looked round unhurriedly, and waggled the fingers of one podgy hand at us.
“Come in, come in! So nice to have visitors. So nice! Of course, I’m never alone down here, but I do miss good conversation. Take a look at this.”
He put down his wet sponge, picked up a long surgical instrument, and started poking around inside the body’s massive wound. Ms. Fate and I moved closer, while still maintaining a respectful distance. Dr. West tended to get over-excited with a scalpel in his hand, and we didn’t want to get spattered.
Dr. West thrust both his hands into the cavity and started rooting around with quite unnecessary enthusiasm. “The heart is missing,” he said cheerfully. “Also, the liver. Yes. Yes… Not cut out, torn out… Made a real mess of this poor fellow’s insides; hard to be sure of anything else… Not sure what to put down as actual cause of death; blood loss, trauma, shock… Heart attack? Yes. That covers it. So; another victim for our current serial killer. Number six… how very industrious. Oh yes. Haven’t even got a name for your chart, have we, boy? Just another John Doe… But not to worry; I’ve got a nice little locker waiting for you, nice and cosy, next to your fellow victims.”
“You have got to stop talking to the corpses like that,” I said sternly. “One of these days someone will catch you at it.”
Dr. West stuck out his tongue at me. “Let them. See if I care. See if they can get anyone else to do this job.”
“How long have you been Coroner, Dr. West?” said Ms. Fate, tactfully changing the subject.
“Oh, years and years, my dear. I was made Coroner the same year Samuel here was made Detective. Oh yes, we go way back, Samuel and I. All because of that nasty Shock-Headed Peter… The Authorities decided that such a successful serial killer was bad for business, and therefore Something Must Be Done. It’s all about popular perception, you see… There are many things in the Nightside far more dangerous than any human killer could ever hope to be, but the Authorities, bless their grey little hearts, wanted visitors to feel safe, so…”
He stopped and looked at me sourly. “You’d never believe he and I were the same age, would you? How do you do it, Samuel?”
“Healthy eating,” I said. “And lots of vitamins.”
“Why haven’t you called in Walker?” Ms. Fate said suddenly. “He speaks for the Authorities, with a Voice everyone has to obey; and I’ve heard it said he once made a corpse sit up on a slab and answer his questions.”
“Oh he did, he did,” said Dr. West, pulling his hands out of the body with a nasty sucking sound. “I was there at the time, and very edifying it was too. But unfortunately, all six of our victims had their tongues torn out. After our killer had taken the bits and pieces he wanted. Which suggests our killer had reason to be afraid of Walker.”
“Hell,” I said. “Everyone’s got good reason to be afraid of Walker.”
Dr. West shrugged, threw aside his scalpel and slipped off his latex gloves with a deliberate flourish, as though to make clear he’d done all that could reasonably be expected of him.
Ms. Fate stared into the open wound again. “Our killer really does like his work, doesn’t he?”