Page 97 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Kenny snatched the white Tyvek from the passing SOCO and handed it over. “Put on thedamn suit.”
They suited up by the car, wind and snow biting around them. Aaron tugged the hood into place, already regretting every word he’d said. The deflection was reflex. He couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop himself from lashing out. Shouting at walls. Kicking at the corners of a world never giving him space to breathe. But here, it felt shameful. With Skye lying a few feet away. Cold. Still. Stolen by the same brutal tide he was born into.
“Do you think people see it in me?” he asked as Kenny zipped him up.
“See what?”
“That I’ve got serial killer blood in my veins.”
Kenny froze. A heartbeat of silence. Then he stepped in and pressed a kiss to Aaron’s temple, his gloved hand firm at the back of Aaron’s head. “The only blood in you is yours.”
“Factually inaccurate but emotionally moving.” He kissed Kenny, lax and sweet. “Now let go before we give the crime scene crew a show. Orgasm number whatever is currently: never.”
Kenny released him with a sigh. “Don’t tempt me with long games.”
They stepped back towards the cordon. DS Parry lifted the tape after having signed them on the scene log and giving Kenny a nod as they ducked under.
“Appreciate the cooperation,” she said. “Scene’s been secure since 06:23. Victim ID pulled from the phone left on scene. Skye Addams, seventeen. Listed resident at Tollgate Youth Home. Reported missing multiple times. Known for running. Struggles with identity.”
“She/her,” Aaron cut in sharply.
Kenny glanced his way, a small smile ghosting his lips.
Parry nodded. “Noted.”
“Make that front and centre on the database,” Kenny added.
“Already logged.” Parry approached the tent. “Prelim pathology puts time of death between one and six a.m. Ligature marks present. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Cause of death likely asphyxiation, pending autopsy. No sign of struggle, no defensive wounds.”
The boards laid out to preserve the scene muffled everything. Every crunch of Aaron’s boots felt like an intrusion, too loud in the stillness of the churchyard. The nativity scene glowed with weak light, string bulbs threaded through plywood figures, halos flickering over plastic lambs. Baby Jesus had a crack along his cheek. The Virgin Mary leaned slightly to one side, as if even she couldn’t bear to look.
Aaron held a hand over his mouth.
Because there she was. Laid out beside the manger, curled up like a child asleep beneath the stars. Her head rested on folded arms, legs tucked loosely underneath her, knees pointed towards the holy family. A red ribbon had been tied into her hair, and a crumpled school blazer, too small in the shoulders, buttoned tightly over her chest. No shoes. Toes blue with rigour.
It looked as if she’d simply fallen asleep and not woken up. It didn’t look like heinous murder. She wasn’t humiliated. Or brutalised. Aaron blinked back the tears as Kenny crouched beside her, not touching but assessing, gloved and composed.
“She’s not in costume,” he said, almost to himself. “No Santa suit. No seasonal kitsch. This isn’t the same message.” He scanned the blazer, eyes narrowing. “But that uniform’s decades out of date. It’s not a random choice, either. This belonged to someone.”
Parry crouched beside him. “So, is it the same killer?”
“Highly likely. There’s still personal resonance here. This isn’t dressing the victim. It’s restaging a memory.” He eased open the lapel with gloved hands, revealing the name. “‘Skye.’ Stitched by hand. New thread.”
Parry frowned. “Why would the killer stitch her name into an old school blazer?”
“They’re starting to fracture. This isn’t performance. It’s confession. Potentially remembering something.”
Parry blinked. “Confession? As in theywantto be caught?”
“Perhaps.” Kenny stood. “Some killers reach a point where capture becomes relief. When the compulsion outweighs the control. This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about need.”
Parry stood. “Need?”
Aaron kept his eyes fixed on Skye as he answered for Kenny. “Some killersneedto do it.”
Kenny looked at him. Quiet. Measured. “Some can’t fight the compulsion. No matter what moral compass they pretend to have. Or who they claim to love.”
Parry was quiet. Respectful of the moment. Then her professionalism had to push forward when she said, “Can you help form a profile? Who might have done this?”
