Page 50 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Kenny stared at that detail longer than he meant to.
That was interesting.
A token. A signature left like a calling card, but more intimate. It wasn’t about announcing oneself. It was about finishing the performance. Rewarding him. Marking him as complete.
He parked that. Read on.
There were no signs of recent sexual activity. No semen, no tearing, no abrasion. No overt suggestion of assault. Killer wasn’t doing this to get off. It was to make a point. And that was worse. Because people who killed for power wore their pathology differently. They dressed it up in stories, wrapped it in paper-thin morality, convinced themselves they were correcting something, fixing something broken.
This wasn’t about desire. Not in the traditional sense.
It was aboutcontrol.
About seeing someone like Luke and deciding he needed to be repurposed. Dressed up. Made festive. Mademeaningful.
Kenny stared at the photo attached to the report. Luke beneath the tree, limbs arranged like an offering. Left out for Saint Nicholas himself. And that smile, the one on his face faint enough to haunt, wasn’t his.
He exhaled, resting his fingers on the page.
He hadn’t died violently.
He’d diedquietly.
And whoever had done it… had taken their time.
“Whoever dressed him did it with care.” Parry watched him read. “No tearing. No button strain. Arms placed across the chest. Eyes closed. Mouth arranged.”
Kenny ran his fingers across the photograph beneath the pathology text: Luke under the council tree, staged like a nativity scene gone wrong.
“What do you see?” She cocked her head like Chaossometimes did when Aaron made a sound he didn’t recognise.
Kenny looked up. “I see control. Not of the scene, but of the body, the narrative. They made him symbolic.”
Parry gave a slow nod. “It’s not our usual thing here.”
“It’s not usual for most places.” He flipped further. Crime scene photos. Vicinity sketches. Forensic diagrams with blood trace patterns. Minimal, consistent with post-mortem dressing. There was also a rough victimology table, early days yet, with speculative notes.
Parry tapped the second page. “Two other suspicious deaths have been linked through ViSOR and flagged by Serious Crime.”
“Linked how?”
“Same peppermint sweet found in the hand. First case was a young male in Portsmouth, ruled as an overdose, but now they’re revisiting it.”
Kenny frowned. “A reward. Or a signature.”
Parry nodded. “Second was a twenty-year-old female in Southampton. History in care. Found in a field. Exposure. Ruled accidental… until the peppermint sweet got flagged. Found in her pocket.”
Kenny tapped the bottom of the report. “What do you need from me?”
“Profile them. Build us a framework. Help us anticipate what they’ll do next, who they’ll choose, what they want. The motive’s not financial. Not sexual. So we’re left with what? Moral messaging? Compulsion? God complex?”
“All the above.” Kenny ruffled his hair back, tied it up. “But the language isn’t clear yet.”
“What would you need?”
“Full files on all three deaths. Scene photos, autopsy reports, personal histories. Anything you’ve got on them.School records, caseworker notes, even social media if available.”
Parry reached under the table and pulled out a memory stick. “Digital copies. Redacted for confidentiality. I’ll need you to sign for it.”
