chapter two
The work starts immediately. Coffee is brewed, but not the kind that scrapes at his insides and makes him want to vomit. James loads it up with cream that makes Remus wrinkle his nose.
The clock ticks closer to four in the morning. They’re at their respective desks in the office, and Remus has been kind enough to wheel a bulletin board to the front of the room. James props his feet atop his desk and stares.
“Is there anything else?” he asks, absently.
“What do you mean?”
“Any more patterns. You said he killed in other countries, too? Can I see the crime scene photos from those?”
Remus nods. He slides to his computer and prints the pictures, hanging them on the board. He tosses a bright red Sharpie in James’ direction. Just as he knew he would need.
Remus is like that, James knows. Perceptive like that.
James stands, squinting at the photo from America. A dead man on the glass floor on the very highest story of the Seattle Space Needle. Washington’s most popular tourist attraction, no doubt. The man’s eyes are closed. His skin is pallid and stretched thin, his leg twisted in an unnatural angle.
James frowns. “What’s the cause of death in this one?”
“He was stabbed.”
There is blood on the glass beside him. RAB. James catches his bottom lip between his teeth.
He rattles off questions to Remus. Routine questions. The victim hadn’t been famous or a public figure. He hadn’t been a criminal. The man had had no family to speak of. No next of kin.
No one to mourn his loss.
“He’s either opportunistic and lucky, or he does his research,” James decides. “He would’ve needed a ticket to get to the top, so either he used a fake ID, or he posed as an employee. Even then, he needed to prepare. He picked a place where the victim would be seen. Displayed.”
“His leg.”
“Hm?”
“His leg looks like it’s broken,” Remus tells him. He points. “Legs aren’t supposed to bend that way, are they?”
No, they weren’t. James narrows his eyes. “What did the medical examiner say? Was his leg actually broken?”
Remus rifles through the records. He raises his mug to his lips. Coffee dribbles down his chin. “No. The only injury he has is when we was stabbed.”
“And RAB didn’t give us the gift of the knife that stabbed him?”
“I wish he was that generous.”
Fake, then. The leg twisted to look like the man had fallen. “He’s given us a red herring,” James says. “The leg doesn’t matter at all. He did it as an afterthought.”
“You think so?”
“There’s no message besides something to throw us off. The blood, on the other hand…” James shakes his head. His heart quickens in pace. He doesn’t dare mention it to Remus. “Showmanship. He’s a performer.”
Remus blinks at him. He swipes at his chin, leaning forward, his brown eyes sliding across every detail. James knows the exact moment he’s come to a conclusion: there are wrinkles in his forehead where his brows knit together. He nods. Job well done, Moony.
“This isn’t his first kill,” Remus says. “There have to be other ones we’ve missed that belong to him. Maybe he didn’t use a signature before, and we’ve skipped past them.”
“It wasn’t perfected until now,” James agrees. “Perfectionist. Perfect crimes.”
You don’t get to see me until I’ve done it without flaw, it screams. I only do it perfectly. I am perfect.
James leans back. “He makes no mistakes.”
Remus gets a call at ten past five. His face is flat against his desk, the wood cool against his skin. He only moves to take the call.
“Hello?”
“Dearest Moonbeam!”
Remus cracks a smile. The barest twitch of his lips. “’Lo, Padfoot. Surprised you haven’t checked in sooner.”
“I’m not that much of a nag,” Sirius says, indignantly. His voice is low and familiar.
“You fell asleep, didn’t you?”
“How dare you insinuate such a thing? I was waiting by the phone, nervous beyond your wildest dreams, counting down the minutes, eating, making sure everything was in order at home—”
“You fell asleep.”
Sirius sputters something that sounds like a mix of a squawk and a growl. “The couch is unfairly comfy. Cold, though.”
“Without me?”
“Without you,” says Sirius. “I need you back at the apartment. For my health.”
“You’ll survive, I’m sure.”
“You need anything over there? Just James need anything? Did you catch a break of some kind?”
“We could use a fresh set of eyes, I suppose,” Remus says. He rubs at his temples. “We’re just about to fall asleep here. Is there food at your place?”
“Prongs’ pancakes.”
“Prongs’ pancakes, you say?” Remus echoes with a grin, catching James’ eye. “Great. Bring them right over.”
“Don’t you dare!” James says from the board, circling something with his Sharpie. “Fuck you, Sirius. We barely have enough for both of us!”
“Is that dear James I hear?” Sirius crows in his ear. “Is he giving us his assent?”
“He agrees. With his whole heart. Generous, our James.”
James reaches to swat at his coffee. Remus covers it with his arms protectively. Over the phone, Sirius laughs, and it’s enough to turn their dark office into something resembling light.
“I’ll be right there,” Sirius promises.
James tears the phone from Remus’ hand and says hello to Sirius, their conversation a nice background noise for Remus as he rustles through RAB’s previous murders.
France is by far the most artistic. A woman lying dead on the street in front of the Louvre. Her arms are poised above her head like a dancer’s. A ballerina’s. Her makeup is done flawlessly—post-mortem—and her eyes are closed. Her mouth is closed. Lips pink and shiny with lipgloss. She is dressed in a beautiful, flowery sundress. She wears no shoes. In front of her body are the letters RAB, written with paint and in a hand similar to calligraphy.
Remus, despite how much he is disgusted, is reluctantly impressed.
This murder is far more recent than the one in Italy—in front of the Cathedral of Santa Mara del Fiore, RAB spelled out in black chalk—and Remus studies the differences like a moth drawn to fire.
His earlier hypothesis was correct.
RAB was no amateur. And he would not stop until they stopped him.