Page 67 of Dream a Little Dream

How could he ever stop looking at Aaron when he wasthatbeautifully seductive?

Officers shuffled papers, sipping on lukewarm coffee and eyeing the crime scene photos pinned on the whiteboard. The air hung heavy, thick with the stale scent of long hours and tension. This incident room, with its cluttered desks and tangled cords, felt more like a battlefield than a workspace, and it shunted Kenny back to the time when this had been his home from home. Red string crisscrossed the walls, connecting photos of Rahul Mishra with maps of the university and CCTV stills of his last moments alive, reminding him he was never far from devastation.

Cracking his neck from side to side, he glanced to Jack, at the head of the table, grave expression, tapping a pen against his open laptop, his screen filled with data and reports. That, at least, was a difference. Jack wasn’t in uniform, awaiting instructions from his superiors about what his next information-collecting task would be. He was running this one. And he looked good for it. Decked out dashingly in a suave suit framing his newfound honed body, cleanly shaven, ash-blond hair, short back and sides with only a smattering of grey, he fitted into the role of DI as well as he did his tailored shirt.

Kenny couldn’t see it as a loss. No, Jack was like a wounded creature he’d nursed back to health, only to release into the wild. He missed him. But deep down, he knew Jack was better off where he was now than broken in Kenny’s bed.

Jack cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the room, and the idle chatter died out, all eyes on him, poised and ready.

Once upon a time, Kenny had looked at Jack with as much anticipation.

Perhaps not for the same thing.

More like the way he’d gazed upon Aaron splayed over the glass casing of his jukebox.

“Right, everyone, listen up,” Jack ordered the silence. The colleagues in the room comprised the team of officers brought in to solve the Rahul Mishra case, including the detective sergeant case officer, evidence technician, forensics, family liaison, and intelligence support. And him. Forensic Psychology consultant.

A sliver of pride washed over Kenny. Jack, the man who’d used to burrow under his sheets, asking him to tell him bedtime stories and whisk him away to a better childhood than he’d endured, was now directing a team of trained police officers. A small smile crept on Kenny’s lips. But he kept his eyes focused on his notes, the ones he’d buried himself in for the past few days. The ones that had kept him from reaching for any of the vices that had him dangerously close to the edge.

Drink. Smoke.

Aaron.

“Rahul Mishra. Eighteen years old. Engineering student at the University of Ryston. Originally from Leicester. Found dead on Monday, October 14th, around seven-thirty a.m. by a dog walker at this location on the Ryston River.” Jack hovered a red dot on the projection screen behind him, showing the map of the river and woodland flowing through the University. “Parents notified, and because of religious customs, they’re pushing for a quick funeral. We need to scrape every bit of evidence from him before we release the body.” He nodded to the pathologist. “Dr Chong, what do we know so far?”

“Autopsy report is finalised. Cause of death determined as drowning. Toxicology results show elevated levels of alcohol and multiple substances, including amphetamines and benzodiazepines, which would have significantly impaired the victim’s motor function and cognitive abilities prior to death.”Dr Chong scanned through her notes. “There are indications of physical struggle. Notable contusions observed on the posterior aspect of the neck, suggesting that force had been applied to subdue or restrain him. These injuries are consistent with manual pressure, potentially from behind, exerted during the struggle.”

Kenny closed his eyes, the visions unbearable but necessary. He had to get into the victim’s heads as much as the killer’s. More often than realised, a person’s reaction or lack thereof acted as a trigger for the killer. Although, he didn’t believe that was the case here. This didn’t appear to be an abduction or assault resulting in death because of a struggle. And all the notes on Rahul suggested he was placid, obedient. He more than likely took whatever he was given thinking that would get him out of the situation quicker.

Poor bastard.The chief’s words rung in his head.

“Additionally,” Chong continued, “there is evidence of anal intercourse, which forensic examination confirms occurred postmortem. Tissue trauma and the absence of any pre-death inflammatory response in the area suggest this occurred after the victim was already deceased.”

Kenny’s heart sank as the forensics report continued on detailing Rahul’s last moments, none of it pleasant. Kenny wouldn’t expect it to be. Rahul had been so young, so vulnerable. He probably walked right to his death. Perhaps without fully knowing. A victim’s behaviour or response to an attack also determined how brutal it would be. All signs led Kenny to believe that Rahul might have…let it happen. Too shocked to fight back. Unexpected. It didn’t suggest Rahul knew his killer, although that would be an initial assessment, but more Rahul’s nature could have made for a perfect victim. The killer knew him. Or knew enough about him to attack with the least amount of struggle, leaving the least amount of evidence. The imageof Rahul’s body slumped against a riverbank, rose vines coiled tightly around his neck, etched into Kenny’s mind like all the other victims he’d fought to bring justice to, yet this one carved him deeper, scraping out more of himself with it.

Sometimes he wondered what he had left.

Jack had warned him.“You’re dying along with every victim!”

But he’d brought him here.

Jack nodded grimly. “Thank you, Dr Chong.” He then clicked through a series of images on the projector, displaying Rahul’s last known movements, the locations where CCTV had tracked him, and the spot where his body was found. “We lose him on camera when he enters the woodland area. We’re guessing the killer knew where the cameras were, as there’s no sign of anyone else going in or out at the time Rahul did.”

The room fell silent. Jack turned to Kenny, giving him a nod. “Dr Lyons?”

Kenny snapped to. “Yes?”

Jack gave a brief smile, then addressed the room. “Some of you may remember Dr Lyons, Associate Professor of Forensic Psychology, at the University of Ryston, from previous cases. He was integral to the Howell case, and we’ve brought him in on this one because we believe there could be a link.” The air in the room sucked into a vacuum and Jack gestured to Kenny. “Ken—” he stopped himself from uttering the informality of his first name and cleared his throat, “Dr Lyons.”

Kenny adjusted his glasses, every pair of eyes on him filled with unease and anticipation. Those looks were familiar. Whenever he’d delivered his analyses before, there was always a mix of sceptics and believers in the room. They either distrusted what they didn’t understand or accepted it blindly in a benign sense of hope that Kenny could point out the killer in a crowd and make their job easier. Neither was true, of course. What hebrought to the investigation was years of painstaking research, visits to multiple grubby crime scenes, and expert analysis of the worst of the worst in society to fuel his constant seeking for the answer towhy.

Why was Jessica chosen?

“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Howell case?” Kenny cut through the murmurs, checking on those squirming in their seats, nodding idly. “But for those who need a recap, I’ll give a very brief rundown.” He inhaled, hating having to relive it. “Ten years ago, a local couple, Frank and Roisin Howell, were convicted of multiple murders. The total number of kills has never and probably will never be uncovered. Only the bodies that were found or recovered from their home, and those buried in the woodland surrounding Ryston, formed their charge. But their reign of terror lasted decades. Together, they lured victims to their home, drugged them, sexually assaulted them. Some were tortured. Others were lucky enough for a quick death. Remains were found within the home. The bodies dismembered postmortem.”

The mood in the room darkened. Kenny expected nothing less. No one could hear this and not react. Unless they were psychopaths.

He continued, “Police found some victims out in the open, waiting to be discovered. These were their trophy pieces. Them taunting the local police. They used rose vine as a consistent calling card. Although, my theory, based on interviews with the Howells, is they were gifts. Frank’s way of showing his wife he could be active without her. Roisin was a recluse. She never left their house in over twenty years. Widely believed in the community to be frail with a long-term illness preventing her from getting out. On arrest, she maintained her innocence, declaring she was forced to stay in the house under Frank’s abuse. Frank, however, was a pillar of the community. Had a jobselling antiques. Their manor house, in the village of Wilton, just outside Ryston, was inherited from his aristocratic family.”

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