Balancing the Scales

Orange and yellow petals were bright in the bouquet sitting in a glass, doubling as a vase on the dressing table. Detective Mustard looked around the crime scene and tried not to sigh. This was the ninth of these and quite honestly, he figured it was only a matter of time before one of the victims died. In fact, he couldn’t believe the last two were still alive, though the most recent was still in ICU.

Mustard wanted to scream, they were making no headway with this investigation. The victims couldn’t ID the perpetrator, which was no surprise in the best of circumstances if it was a stranger, trauma could do that, and this was hardly the best of circumstances.

A tone sounded indicating a call from an unknown number. Mustard was abrupt, ‘Yes.’

‘What aren’t you releasing?’ asked a computer modulated voice.

Mustard now did sigh, and a slight smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Meet me at Jamie’s in an hour and I’ll tell you.’

The voice at the other end chuckled, ‘Nice try detective.’

Mustard had expected that response though figured he had to try. In the last five years he’d had three other calls like this, and all preceded the mysterious closure of a case the cops were having trouble closing. Mustard called the voice on the other end of the line The Fixer, because the only personal piece of information they had ever let slip was they considered it their job to fix things. The Fixer was pretty much an unknown quantity to the Detective, he didn’t even know if they were male, female, or something other. He was fairly certain they sat somewhere on the cold blooded killer spectrum, if not the sociopath one, but he had no proof. In fact, apart from the few calls from different numbers, there was no proof The Fixer even existed.

‘What’s your interest?’ Mustard asked, though he already knew he would hand over everything he had. The Fixer seemed to be able to access certain things more readily than the police and probably only asked for information because they couldn’t be bothered hacking the police when there was an easier way. Nor were they tied to the ethical restraints the police were, and in a case like this that didn’t seem like a bad thing.

‘Maybe I read about it on the news,’ said The Fixer. ‘Or perhaps someone asked for help. In which case I wouldn’t be telling you because I don’t want you squeezing the victims, their families or their extended circle of acquaintances for information they can’t give you.’

Mustard wasn’t surprised by the block, The Fixer wasn’t one to leave loose ends dangling and whilst he could start trolling through lives until he maybe found something, or more likely didn’t, it would most likely cause more harm than good. Besides it wasn’t out of the realm that The Fixer had read about it, it was not a story they had been able to keep out of the press.

‘Alright fine, there’s one thing, each scene had fresh marigolds left in the room, a bunch in a vase and one on the pillow next to the victim.’ Mustard looked around to ensure no-one was within earshot. ‘Also, this guy is devolving. The brutality used is increasing and the time between attacks is shrinking. We have no viable leads. The flowers came from different florists in different parts of the city. We can’t find any overlap between all victims, though there are moments where one life touches on the edge of another.’

‘One last thing,’ said The Fixer, ‘names, I want all the victim’s names.’

Mustard hesitated for a moment, there was still his duty of care to the victims. The Fixer said nothing. Eventually the knowledge that The Fixer might be better equipped to hand out justice, tipped the scales. Mustard reeled off the list without having to look anything up.

******************************

Not very often did The Fixer do jobs that weren’t somehow touching on the higher end of the social world. Sometimes though, exceptions needed to be made, and whilst the guy that beat his wife would fit the general sin of Wrath, this perpetrator really seemed very custom made to fit into this series The Fixer was working on. He would get the DV guy later, and in fact, there may even still be a way to use him in this masterpiece.

For now though, with all the names at The Fixer’s fingertips, and some exceptional computer skills, the scales for these offenses were about to be balanced.

The pattern had been there, it had just taken a little digging to find, and some playing outside the box. The key had been with the victim where the violence escalation had been the greatest, after that the other pieces fell into place. The Fixer was certain there had been other rapes, more examples of the target’s wrath, amongst the more vulnerable populations. Situations that had never been reported, because why bother when you’re fairly certain no-one cares.

Bobby Thompson. That was the doer. Bobby was thirty two, and the proud owner of a sealed juvie record. Seals though could be broken. He was a twisted young man. Turned out he was second cousin to victim number 8. The connection hadn’t been made earlier because he didn’t register to anyone as being close to the victim in anyway, and checking out every relative was usually a waste of time.

However, Bobby had been at the last family Christmas event, where he had been laughed at by other family members after stating the victim in question had looked hot. That snippet of information had been buried in the memory of the victim’s brother who had used the story to outline how ordinary the family were, including the weird relatives.

A little more snooping confirmed The Fixer’s hunch, now it was their job to come up with a suitable solution. The one they came up with involved baiting Bobby, not so hard to do when one has a very definite type. The paths crossing was arranged, ‘Amythst’ played it tonally perfect, lightly flirting before brushing him off. Like clock-work he started following her. When he ran into her one the street, she pretended they had never met before.

On that final night, Amythst turned tables on him in a heartbeat. All his victims had been taken from behind, just after getting out of the shower. Perhaps it was her smile when her eyes met his in the mirror, as he reached for her. Or maybe it was her lack of fear. Whatever the reason, Bobby hesitated half a beat and her elbow took him completely by surprise.

After she had cracked his cheekbone, The Fixer took over. Bobby was secured to a chair. It didn’t take long for a confession to be blurted out, and whilst The Fixer had no qualms about ending it for good, in this instance they figured a more suitable form of justice for this kind of wrath and hatred, was time spent on the other side of the equation.

Bobby was left secured to a chair, in an empty house, waiting to be leased out. A bouquet of marigolds were superglued to his hands and one glued behind the left ear. Amythst did suggest they tattoo ‘rapist’ onto Bobby’s forehead. Whilst that had an element of appeal, The Fixer thought it was entirely possible the good taxpayers of the world, would end up footing the bill for its removal. The Fixer assured her that news of Bobby’s crime would make it to the right sort of ears.

*******************************

Detective Mustard walked into the address given via a random phone tip, to see a very average looking man, tied at what was clearly uncomfortable angles, a soundtrack of his crimes playing on repeat, a bunch of orange and yellow flowers in his hands, and one in his hair. Surprising for Mustard, the first question he wanted to ask was ‘why marigolds?’ though he was sure the answer wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.