Page 34 of Sullied Saints

Eyeing me, Dirk says, "I'm not proud of it. It’s not nice to think of a co-worker like that."

I shrug. "It’s a bit late for you to be proper now. Tell." When he still doesn't divulge, I can think of it myself. "That time we were paired for self-defence?" It’s his style, the choking, pinning down, the domination.

"God! What a cocktease," Dirk sighs, running his hand back through his hair, and I get to admire his bicep as his arm bends up beside his head. The line of a scar traces up towards his armpit, dim, the colour fading away.

"I felt it, actually."

"I know you did." Nose wrinkling, he tells me, "I went home, to this bed, and I couldn't stop thinking about it, about you. It was one of only three times I let myself masturbate thinking of you. And I think I blacked out a little."

I bite my lip. I picture him doing that, thinking of me, and feel a little heat rekindle in my belly.

Blinking, Dirk’s voice softens as he admits, "I broke up with Yolena that same day. I knew I couldn't keep pretending with her, after that."

I hadn't known that. Grinning, I poke him. "All from a little training you purported to hate, huh?"

"Oh yeah, totally useless aside from that. In fact," he says, turning towards me, leaning into me, he raises an eyebrow. "I think it’s about time you brush up on those skills…"

***

Dirk is still in bed, sleep-mussed and dopey when I get up to leave for the station. I lean over to give him a quick peck. "I've got to go see if Needler will talk."

"No," Dirk muffles. "Stay."

Smiling, I straighten. "I want to get there before the protests build too much." And it’s true, fighting through the protestors is surely only going to be worse today, with more and more disdain building after the leaked Cocoon photo. And as their latest chosen villain, I'd much rather avoid them altogether.

The sun is only just starting to rise, and to my surprise, the street in front of the station is quiet, almost dead. Since the protestors trickled back a week ago, thereby renewing the marches with fresh vigour, that’s unusual. Something itches in the back of my mind about this, like the calm before the storm, but I yawn and make my way out into the freezing morning air between me and the station doors, instead of thinking about it as much as I should. Maybe the police cleared them off again last night. Who knows.

Being so early, sunrise just peaking over the lower buildings, it’s only me, the janitor and a skeleton night-guard crew as I make straight for the cells at the back. While the station is heated, the cold hours have sapped most of that away, and the air has the stillness of night about it still. I nod in tired greeting to the guard stationed outside his cell, an older man with skin the colour of rich honey. “You can go early,” I say. “I’ve got him from here.”

Smiling, he leaves, and I walk through the door to the interview side of the cell.

Needler, who apparently doesn't sleep, is sitting up in his bed with the case file I gave him yesterday in his lap when I walk in. His orange jumpsuit is pulled up over his shoulders, though unbuttoned down to the waist and revealing the clean white shirt underneath.

"Good morning, detective."

I squint at him. "Unless you have something useful to tell me, I'm not staying."

Tristan ignores me, coming to his feet and wandering towards the glass that I’m standing on the other side of, his focus on the file in his hands. "Late night?"

"Tristan…" Tiredly, knowing this isn't going to be simple because it never is, I pull the stool into the middle of my side of the room, sitting heavily.

"This file was very interesting," he's musing. "My first real kill, as Needler was a man like this."

Shaking my head, I point out, "Your first kill was the Highwayman." Discounting my husband, obviously.

Sparing me a glance as though remembering there are things I'm not privy to, Needler’s lips twitch and he tells me, "No, it was an older man, if you'd call him aman. He'd attacked multiple women. Not killed them but left his mark. He was found dead in the bay. Ryan something."

I stare at him, recalling the case. It had been just before I came back onto the force. "Ryan Ronard?" I ask, squinting, "Are you… confessing to a murder, right now?" Frowning, mind clearing, I press, "But he wasn't surrounded by pictures, he wasn't…" He was, in fact, very nearly a John Doe, only identified because his ex-wife reported him missing when he got behind on child support payments.

"I don't put the faces of the living to accuse the dead. The living have better things to look at." A killer with empathy,great. "His victims got to know that he was fish food, that it happened slow. That’s all they needed." Needler glances up as he flicks to another page, his green eyes startling this close. He might actually be insane, I realise, more than I've credited him with so far. Not a psychopath, but just plain old insane. "And yes, I suppose you could consider this a confession."

"I…" Closing my eyes, I take a breath. What did I come in here for again? "You are supposed to be telling me things about Cassandra, not…"

"This man is like that one. They know him."

"What?" I'd only skimmed the file. It wasn't my case, being not a homicide investigation but rather a violent assault one. Unfortunately, it was the bottom of the pile, as horrible as that was. Tregam is overrun with violence right now, more than usual. "They didn't see his face."

"They don't know they know him. But he'll be in their lives. Someone menial to them—a valet, a store clerk. Older, beneath their notice. He likes to watch how they fade after the attack."

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