Bleeding Expection by Ada Andrews | #TheWattys2023

CHAPTER SIX

STRATOS

I googled 'Rare diseases' and waited for the results to pop up on-screen. In the archives hall, internet connection was ridiculously slow. The signal wasn't strong enough to reach down to the basement. It was late-November and the rain hadn't let up since early October, when I met Daphne. I looked at the computer screen, while Elias was going through the envelopes, trying to find some articles on that psycho-killer's crimes. It took me a month to thoroughly pore over the material Dionysis gave me, do my own criminal profiling, go deeper into every detail of his murders, then speak to my informers. That case required lots of attention and strategics, unless we wanted the pattern of constant failure on the part of the police to repeat itself. Murders, very little evidence, and the guy slipping through their fingers into the night, with classical music playing in the background. That was the only distinct characteristic associated with him. It was recorded in the envelope Dionysis handed to me. "At the crime scene was found an old portable tape recorder playing classical music." That damn thing was present in all the crimes.

Thousands of results popped up on my screen. I couldn't make head or tail of them. I repeated the google search, adding the word 'marks'. Some neurological diseases, burn marks, and medical researches on autism came up.

"Why are you looking for marks?" Elias asked me. I jumped from my chair in surprise. He stood over me, with an open folder. It had some 2017 newspaper clippings.

I closed the window. "Nothing. Some stupid thoughts," I avoided him.

"Yeah, alright. Now I believe you, Mr. Amanatides," he chafed. "I won't spend any more time on the case because I've struck gold." He placed the album with the facts in front of me. "I think we have to comb through the social networks. I have a lingering suspicion that the murderer was an acquaintance of the manager's daughter," he surmised. "This is the Fitcher's death announcement," he showed me. He turned a few pages. "And this is the article talking about the funeral." I gave him a puzzled look. He brought me a second album with 2018's news. "Look here," he pressed his finger on a photo. "The news of Hungarian Denes Draskovits's death. Among the guests was the Fitchers' daughter. Something connects them, Stratos. That's why I think he doesn't kill children. He shows pity. It's plain to see. He puts them to sleep, so that they won't face the pain he inflicts on their parents."

"The psycho has a sensitive streak, eh?" I concluded sarcastically.

"He seems to, yes, my friend." He gave me a pat on the shoulder, as he straightened up his body. I had to contact Celia after that revelation.

I aimlessly looked around, my head heavy as lead. We plunged so deep into despair. I wondered how come Dionysis had failed to see that over the past couple of years. The case reeked of rotten bodies, mangled lives, and questions that went unanswered. I snorted. I didn't think those were ordinary deaths; the guy had a mission, and he wouldn't stop unless he fulfilled it. I looked at the screen, reading the last sentence again: "Only a small percentage of people were diagnosed with this rare neurological condition. In Greece, although there are some cases, they are not officially recorded by medical associations."

I logged off when Elias sat beside me holding a photo album. He was shaking like a leaf, giving me some scared looks. His hands couldn't hold it; he almost dropped it. "Stratos, the guy's insanely clever. His murders aren't simple murders. They are a declaration," he stammered.

I took hold of the album. I went over the photos culled from the newspapers. All I could feel was a shiver up and down my spine. The spectacle turned your stomach. That was an exhibition of horror painted with blood all over human bodies.