The Lover's Children

Chapter 61 – April’s Tears #12

JAMES

Stanton pauses, breathes… “At the time it was assumed to be an isolated incident…”

Klempner listens in silence, the whiskey glass cupped in his hands, ignored.

“…The second murder occurred in August. The circumstances were similar. The girl was found in a

hotel room. Again, she'd been restrained. The injuries were similar to the first case, but more

elaborate.”

Klempner breaks in. “Has this elaboration continued?”

"Yes. With each killing, the violence has escalated: with the third case, just before Christmas, and with

the fourth victim in February. Again too, with this latest victim.”

Klempner nods slowly, staring into space. "So, our killer is developing his… art… with practice? His NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

appetite for what he does is increasing."

Our killer?

Stanton’s gaze passes over mine and Richard’s. He picked up Klempner’s phrasing too. "That’s right.

It's a common enough pattern with serial killers. They're often living out some fantasy, honing their

technique over time as their skills and confidence grow."

Klempner muses, apparently remembers his drink, takes a swallow. "Sex?"

"Yes. All the women had sexual relations shortly before their deaths. Hardly surprising given that they

were all prostitutes. But the level of bruising and trauma to thighs and genital area is well beyond what

would be expected. Facial and anal areas also. Each was violently sexually assaulted while still alive.”

Klempner sips again. "Commissioner, you look tired. Tell me why having a psychopath loose in the City

brings you to talk to me.”

Stanton steeples fingers, pressing the tips to his lips, eyes aimed emptily down. When they rise again,

they fix on Klempner. “In your past life, you were a trafficker. You sold to the sex trade."

Klempner stiffens. “Yes. As you were keen to point out when I was your guest at the police station.

However, I don't think I need to explain that it is integral to the trafficking business that the… goods of

sale… are whole and healthy at the point of purchase. There’s no market for corpses. And whatever

you may think of me, my personal preferences are for a woman who’s very much alive, kicking and

actively participating..."

Behind Stanton’s dark skin, a flush rises. "Klempner, I know I’m repeating myself, but once more, no

one believes or suspects that you had any involvement with these murders. The reason I bring the

subject up is that you had… have… access to information and lines of communication that I don’t. You

can talk to people that the police can’t. Or to be precise, you can talk to them and get an answer.”

Klempner ponders, gives a small nod of agreement. “Probably. So?”

“So… Our killer is targeting sex workers, girls working the streets…” Stanton’s expression turns

intense… “Any woman fitting his profile is in grave and immediate danger. There are lines of enquiry

we want to follow. Questions we have to ask if we're going to track down this maniac before any more

women fall victim to him. But the people we need to talk to, won't talk to us. At least not voluntarily."

"You can arrest them. Bring them in for interview."

"Perhaps. If we have good cause. But not casually and without reason. And even if we did, we're then

dealing with hostile witnesses. What we want are answers, not innocent bystanders. We have a list.

Some of them were known associates of Finchby..." His eyes narrow on Klempner, whose expression

remains bland.

Klempner rubs at his nose. "Who's on this list?"

"Damien Renberger. Emilio Schauder. Jake Gordonton... You know any of them?"

"Renberger and Schauder, I've met them. I can't say I know them well. It was Bech who used to handle

that end of the business..." Stanton’s face sets... "... but I think describing them as innocent bystanders

to anything is a stretch of the imagination."

"Innocent regarding these murders. That’s all I care about for this. I'm not on a fact-finding mission on

how they run their vice empires. I want to catch a serial killer. What about Gordonton?"

Klempner plucks at a lip. "Doesn’t ring a bell. Who is he?"

“I know him,” I say.

“You know him, James?” Stanton blinks. “How?”

“Well, in fairness. I know of him. But he was at Charlotte’s auction.”

Klempner arches a brow. Stanton takes a moment digesting the information, then, “We need to

interview the women too, the street girls. But they simply walk away. You’d think the police were their

enemy rather than the killer.”

“Yes...” Charlotte speaks from the doorway, holding a glass of lemonade. “…More so, probably.”

Heads swivel. Klempner’s eyes narrow. War flashes over Stanton’s face.

I try to defuse Charlotte’s words, keep my tone casual. “Why would that be?”

She shrugs…

It’s obvious to her?

“… Because the chances of any particular girl being targeted by the killer are small. And they’re always

alert for trouble. It’s a hazard of the work. Right now, I bet they’re all working in pairs and groups in the

City centre, watching out for each other. But, when they’ve been working the streets for more than a

few weeks, then every one of them has been picked up or moved along a dozen times. More. They’re

just trying to earn a living. For them, the police are the enemy.”

Stanton flinches. Sounding disgruntled, “If we stop them, it’s because they’re breaking the law. As for

earning a living, a lot of the women are funding either a drugs habit or whichever pimp’s running them.”

Charlotte huffs. “Some, yes. But not all. And often they’re picked up because one of the City’s upright

citizens has complained. Or because some john has decided he doesn’t want to pay up and he’s made

a complaint.”

Klempner regards his daughter, his expression thoughtful. “You seem very well informed.”

She glares at him. “For a while, my roomie was a girl who worked the streets. I heard it from her all the

time.”

Enough…

I allow myself a growl. “Charlotte, your mother’s been babysitting long enough. She’ll need to get Vicky

to sleep. Why don’t you go collect Cara. Take her to play in the garden.”

Charlotte’s not fooled, knows she’s being evicted. Eyes cat-green, she looks daggers as she stalks out

of the room.

Stanton follows her out with his eyes. “I’m glad you sent her away, James. I wouldn’t have chosen to

have her here for this.”

He fishes into his jacket, an inside pocket. “Klempner, I’d like to show you some photographs. I want

you to understand what is being done to these women. This is the most recent victim, the woman from

the day you made your little foray into my crime scene and encountered Borje. I hope you have a

strong stomach. I saw what was left of her on the slab. It doesn’t improve by capturing the detail on

paper.”

He hands the photos across. Klempner looks, then hisses air between his teeth, mouth twisting as he

peers closer.

And that’s a man who's seen a corpse or two in his time…

Klempner leafs through the photos, inhales, blows out again. "Your killer has some sophisticated

perversions."

"That's one way of putting it."

His face sculpted neutral, Klempner moves to the window, holding the images to the light, examining

them one by one. "What does forensics have to say about what was used to do this?"

"Something small, a short blade, very sharp. Possibly a scalpel. He took her apart a piece at a time."

"A scalpel? Is it suggested the killer is a medical man?"

“They called him ‘The Slasher’ at first. Now, they’re calling him ‘The Surgeon’.” Stanton hums and

haws. “From what the pathologist… Borje… says, it’s looking fairly certain that we’re dealing with a

man with medical knowledge.”

“A doctor? Who cuts up women like this? For kicks?”

“That’s what the autopsies suggest.” So far as he can, Stanton looks pale. “Just when you think you’ve

seen everything people are capable of doing to each other…”

“I can’t disagree with you there.” Klempner scrutinises an image. Then another. “It would take time to

do this. She was restrained? Like the others?"

"Yes. You'll notice there's extensive bruising and damage around her wrists and ankles…”

“So, they were still alive when he began the mutilation?”

“That's the one mercy. It’s Borje’s opinion that much of the mutilation was post-mortem. She wouldn't

have known that part of it. But as I said, the killer’s style is developing.”

Klempner looks again at the atrocities in his hand. “What was the cause of death?”

“Asphyxiation.”

“Asphyxiation?” Klempner peers close again. “He strangled them? Her throat doesn’t look…”

“Not strangulation. In each case, the victim’s airway was blocked.”

“Blocked? How?”

Stanton raises a finger. “This is not information we have released. It was crumpled banknotes.

Crammed down the throat. Then, he taped over the mouth so she couldn’t cough it up.”

Klempner mutters to himself. “Why murder by suffocation, then disembowel her? If he wanted to wallow

in blood, why not murder her that way?” He muses. “Symbolic perhaps? Choking them with the wages

of sin?”

Stanton looks blue. “Something like that maybe.”

Klempner works through the photos again, one at a time, fascination warring on his face with revulsion.

“Religious freak?”

“Could be. Or just a good old fashioned misogynist.”

“And you’re sure you have a single serial killer?”

“Yes, as sure as we can be. He has patterns and habits, a chosen modus operandi, as serial killers

often do.”

“Anything else?”

“Klempner, look…” Stanton scrapes a hand through his cap of tightly-curled hair… “… I’ve already told

you more than I should. Until I know that I have you on-side, I can’t…” He stalls as the door swings

open.

Mitch stands there, gazing between Stanton and Klempner, her face stricken, eyes wide and glossy.

“Larry?” Fear slithers through her voice.

Klempner, his expression once more neutral, casually slides the photographs under Richard’s

newspaper. Striding forward, he lays palms to her shoulders. “Mitch, everything's fine. We were just

talking.”

“Really fine?” She looks to Stanton, eyes imploring.

Stanton stands, his voice gruff. “Yes, really, Mrs Waterman... Mitch. You have nothing to worry about. I

just wanted a chat with your husband.”

Klempner passes her the coffee pot. “Mitch, would you mind? Jenny brought it in, but it’s cold. We

could use a fresh pot.”

She ducks her head, her voice shaky. “Yes, of course.”

Klempner closes the door carefully behind her, pauses, ear cocked against retreating footsteps then,

“Commissioner, thank you for thinking of me. Under other circumstances, I would have agreed to help

you. But I have to refuse. I have my wife to think of. And my daughters.”

Stanton sags… “I understand…” Then recovers... “How are you finding married life?"

"Good. But confusing sometimes. There are rules I didn't suspect."

Richard chuckles.

Stanton too. "You'd hardly be the first man in history to learn that lesson. My own wife, in fact... Well…

a cop's wife always has crap to live with."

Klempner frowns. "Don’t you drive a desk these days? At your rank, you can't spend much time on the

street surely?"

“In normal times, no. Not that I don't miss it sometimes...” He blows out his cheeks… “But with this

current business…" He gulps at his drink… “These aren’t normal times.” He eyes Klempner. “You’re

sure I can’t persuade you to become involved?”

“Quite sure. That’s one marriage rule I have grasped.”

“If you change your mind…”

“Of course. But I don’t believe I will.”

Richard reaches for the decanter. “Another, Will?”

“No.” He slaps his glass down by the hearth. “I shouldn’t have had that one. And I need to go. Thanks

for the chat, Richard. Mr Waterman. And the drink.”

Klempner’s tone remains perfectly polite. “Any time. If I can help with anything less… controversial…

you know where to find me.”

*****