Grind Their Bones Read online

  Grind Their Bones

  by

  Drew Cross

  ISBN 1480010499

  EAN 978-1480010499

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  'Grind Their Bones' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

  http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com

  http://ninwriters.ning.com

  'Grind Their Bones' is the copyright of the author, Drew Cross, 2012. All rights are reserved.

  While the story is inspired by the activities of the ‘Gray Man’, Albert Fish, all characters in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  Chapter 1

  'It tastes simply divine.'

  The slim, immaculately attired man raised the cut crystal wine glass to his mouth and took another small sip, smiling at the lady sitting opposite, his lips stained red by the liquid.

  'Perfectly complements the food, of course. But then I'm a man of good taste, evidenced by the company I keep.'

  He smiled again at his own compliment and put down the glass, beginning to loosen off his grey silk tie before he caught himself and paused.

  'You don't mind, do you?'

  He gestured to the tie with an open hand, looking sheepish at the momentary lapse, but there was no complaint from his companion, so he carried on and undid the top button of his crisp shirt with nimble fingers.

  Overhead, the slowly setting sun cast a warming orange glow as the early evening set in, and trails of white vapour from passing planes divided the powder blue spaces between the clouds into soft-edged geometric shapes. The man ran both hands through his thick silver hair and lay back on the picnic blanket to enjoy the view up through the spreading canopy of a grand old oak. He'd chosen this spot in part for its dramatic aesthetic qualities; up here he could cook, drink, and dine surrounded by a sea of sweeping green undulations, appreciating the view with a connoisseur's eye.

  It also had the added advantage of being far removed from main roads and centres of population, since he hated to be disturbed when eating. From up here, the sound of a car would carry to his ears long before it came into sight, and, in the unlikely event of an approach on foot, the elevated vantage point meant that company could be avoided with ease, if he preferred.

  He looked over at his dining companion, an extremely attractive, if slightly plump, young brunette with a flawless milky complexion and dazzling sea green eyes. Those pretty eyes were closed now, since she was unconscious and tightly bound in a seated position by thick ropes that ran all the way around the trunk of the vast tree. Tight tourniquets had been neatly applied around her upper arms and thighs in order to stop her quickly bleeding to death when he had expertly excised sections of her flesh with a thin-bladed knife to cook on the cast-iron skillet. The summer flies were taking an interest, but they weren't yet bothering him.

  'I've greatly enjoyed your company, and now my appetite is almost sated.'

  He hesitated and drank in the view of her again, trailing his eyes over her still form lit by a soft peach glow, and pausing long enough to see her fluttering chest rise and fall. He acknowledged to himself that he’d be sorry when it all had to end.

  'Almost.'

  The last word was a whisper, and he lifted his wine glass up to the softening daylight to see the swirling tendrils of the brunette's blood beginning to clot inside. This one had been easily the most satisfying yet.

  Chapter 2

  'So far as you can tell at this stage, did any sexual activity take place?'

  Detective Chief Inspector Zara Wade addressed John Dent, the Senior CSI in charge, in a voice full of impatience. Not that it mattered to John. He had thicker skin than an elephant and he was only marginally smaller than one, towering over everybody else at the scene and working in a Zen-like state as usual.

  'Impossible to say, Wade. He cut away the section that we'd have analysed and took it with him.'

  He spoke in a matter of fact tone, shrugging his massive shoulders in a what's-a guy-to-do manner and carried on bagging up trace evidence. Zara knew from previous investigations that despite appearances, underneath the lumbering exterior lurked an acutely analytical brain. She also knew that trying to squeeze anything else out of the big man before he'd had time to finish processing the scene and mulling over the possibilities in his mind was like tilting at windmills, bruising and ultimately futile.

  'That could be an attempt to destroy evidence of penetration, of course. Maybe we'll get lucky and find something this time.'

  Aiming the statement at the tall lean figure of Detective Sergeant Lee Mead, who was scanning the horizon as if the killer might leap out at any moment.

  She tried unsuccessfully to pat down an unruly blonde curl that hovered in the periphery of her vision.

  'Perhaps he was still peckish and kept a snack for the road.'

  Came the reply.

  'I can't imagine that it tastes too good.'

  She pulled a face, scrutinising the area surrounding the body, noting how everything about it looked staged. The killer apparently liked to calmly enjoy his meals and then took away anything that might carry a forensic trace, leaving unused replacement plates and glasses for effect.

  'I wouldn't say that, ma'am.' Lee whispered softly into her ear as he passed. She felt the colour rising up in her cheeks as she remembered which part of the girl's anatomy had been removed.

  She cursed herself for giving him the opportunity to flirt, and moved away to let the glow leave her face, pretending to check her phone while she regained her composure. She'd been sleeping with her quirky understudy for almost a year now, and they both knew how important it was to her career that they keep things low key. But the Grey Man murders, as the current investigation had come to be known, put them in constant maddening proximity virtually all of the time. Now they slipped up with increasing frequency.

  He was looking over at her now, on the blindside of the dozen or so others who milled around, and looked inordinately pleased with himself. He was attractive all right, but definitely not her usual type. She'd always gone for older guys in the past, generally ones with dark hair, rugby player physiques and macho confidence to spare. Younger and less confident men were usually scared of her status, heading up major investigations for the Warwickshire Police. Those that weren't soon lost interest when she put in back to back eighty-hour weeks on the hunt for the latest crazy who'd gotten under her skin.

  Lee Mead, by contrast, was only thirty two years old, five years younger than she was, and greyhound slim and softly spoken with it. He had the confidence part, but it was understated until he decided to let you in; on top of that he was as blond as she was, with eyes the colour of slate and a shower of freckles over the bridge of his sharp nose. His grin grew even broader as they locked eyes; he had an uncanny knack for reading her mind, and he greatly enjoyed the fact that it drove her mad.

  'Ma'am!'

  The shout went up from one of the more junior CSIs in John's trusted team, a youth who looked like he might need to start shaving in a couple more years. He waved her over urgently, and she swiftly obliged, dropping down into a crouch to get a better view of whatever he'd found.

  'What is it?'

  She caught sight of a sealed envelope wrapped in plastic.

  'I think it's another letter, ma'am … and it's addressed to you again.'

  Chapter 3

  'Am I supposed to be seriously bothered or not by the fact that none of our colleagues have figured it out yet? I mean, we're surrounded by
Detectives all day long and flirting with each other like mad, but nobody seems to have realised that we're an item.'

  Zara sighed in exasperation and unscrewed the top of a fresh bottle of Boschendal, a full-bodied South African red, pouring out two deep glasses for Hallie and me.

  'Woah there girl! Easy on the pouring until we've had something to line our stomachs with.'

  Hallie Bailey has been my best friend since we were in primary school. She's a smart and feisty stay at home mum now, or domestic goddess, as she's so fond of referring to herself, and I love her dearly. She invites me over for dinner at least once a week on the basis that she knows how bad my eating habits are around my hectic work schedule.

  'We're still searching for the Grey Man, as he calls himself, but most of them don't seem to notice even the big details of what's going on in the world around them. This one's the scariest I've ever come across, Hals. He's supremely organised, incredibly sadistic, and he seems to genuinely relish what he does. He's not going to stop until we catch him, but how are we ever going to do that with no solid leads and no attention to detail?'

  Hallie took a sip of her wine and then drizzled oil over vibrant, green asparagus before she began to cook it on the smoking griddle.

  'He'll get caught because you're on the case, Webby. He might be intelligent and methodical, but he will make mistakes. They all do sooner or later, and when he does you'll be there to kick his ass and take him down.'

  She smiled and tried to smooth away one of the stray curls cascading down my forehead with a hand that advertised her latest manicure. She's called me Webby since high school, when I introduced myself using my full name and was greeted with 'Wade? You mean like a duck does?' from one of our new classmates, before replying huffily, 'Yes, but without the webbed feet.' I always used to object to the nickname, but I didn't bother now since it made no difference whatsoever to Hallie anyway, and she doesn’t need further encouragement to make me squirm.

  'Anyway, it's just as well that your colleagues aren't more observant, or you'd both be up to your necks in hot water.'

  She removed the green spears from the heat and placed them neatly on square white plates with a poached duck egg on top of each neat stack.

  'I love them, but where do you even buy duck eggs around here?'

  I asked, changing the subject and cutting into mine, letting the golden yolk pour out to coat the asparagus and reaching out for the pepper grinder. She slapped my hand away before it got there and wagged her finger at me exaggeratedly to tell me that it was perfect just the way that she’d served it.

  'Farmers markets. You should come along sometime. You could even bring Lee and then we could all have a bite to eat. Of course he might decide to woo me for my superior cooking skills instead!'

  Despite me telling her all of the juicy details about my clandestine romance, she had still yet to meet him, and now she grinned broadly.

  'I can cook too, you know? I might even be better than you at it.'

  I got defensive, although I’d already started to doubt my own long neglected cooking abilities. Being unable to turn down a challenge, or even just a perceived one, has long been one of my biggest flaws. I’ve always been unwilling to acknowledge when I need the help of others.

  'I'm pretty certain you don't even know how to switch your oven on! But that settles it. You name the day, and me and Mike will bring the wine. I'm looking forward to meeting your secret toy boy lover already.'

  Sometimes I was certain I should take her into interviews to interrogate suspects with me.

  Chapter 4

  Detective Superintendent Fred Russell projected his booming voice out into the furthest corners of the conference room, involuntarily pulling a face as he spoke, as if we could be in any doubt at all about his feelings. A low rumble of collective amusement greeted his usual non-PC delivery.

  'We commissioned a psychological profile of the Grey Man from Doctor Alan Hardwick, a copy of which is in each of your hands. He has decades of experience working in secure units with some of the most infamous crazies that we’ve caught. Although I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t express it in quite the same way. I want you all to take a few moments to digest the content, and then we’ll bounce around a few ideas with regards to how we can use this to focus and redefine the hunt.'

  We were gathered for a briefing session on the top floor of Warwickshire Police HQ, a pine-scented, wood-panelled room in what had once been a grand old stately home before the force acquired and renovated it in the sixties. In light of recent drastic cuts to our budget it was increasingly starting to look like we’d be searching for a new home before long though.

  I scanned the details rapidly, eyes jumping back over the words again as soon as I’d finished, and my heart sinking like a lead weight. The important parts of the report rang completely counter to everything I felt I’d learned about our killer so far. A white male, forties to fifties, of average to slightly above average intelligence, solitary in habits with independent financial means allowing him to devote time to victim selection. So far nothing contentious or new. Most of us accepted that guys who ate their dinner guests weren’t likely to have many friends or likely to be the centre of a harmonious family unit, but after that opener it went swiftly downhill. Predominantly ‘disorganised’ offender despite ‘staging’ of scenes, history of severe mental illness resulting in contact with the mental health authorities, probable prison record for violence esp. against women, strongly driven by rage and misogynistic feelings, sexually inadequate, probably impotent, socially inept, considered ‘odd’ or abnormal by those around him, forensically aware. I stopped reading and tried to pull together the thoughts swarming like bees inside my head. I respected the doctor’s credentials. He’d written a book a few years back on the subject of offender profiling that had been well received, after all, but this was just plain wrong.

  From what we knew, the Grey Man was careful and incredibly well organised, before, during, and after the commission of his crimes. He selected victims who were anything but vulnerable; smart, successful and affluent women who would not be easily fooled, and there was nothing to suggest that they had been drugged or violently coerced into accompanying him to one of his dinner dates. I couldn’t see any of them going along with an obviously mentally ill or ‘odd’ individual without some kind of force being necessary. If we were dealing with a violent, uncontrolled, woman-hater then surely that would be evidenced by his treatment of them before they died? By contrast, in my eyes, everything about his crimes was carefully measured, no sign of rage or violence beyond the obvious fact that he cooked them and cut pieces off them to eat. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and tried to avoid catching Fred Russell’s eye.

  ‘DCI Wade, you’re leading this investigation. What are your initial thoughts on the profile?’

  Damn it, of course he was going to ask you first, especially since this guy’s been writing to you. I fumbled for words that neither agreed nor disagreed with Dr Hardwick’s assertions, clearing my throat several times before I began.

  ‘Offender profiling can be a very powerful tool in narrowing the search for serial killers, as evidenced by our overseas colleagues in the US, and I for one am grateful of any help I can get right now. But however good it is, it won’t catch him for us guys. We’ll bring this one in when he makes a mistake, or when we pay close enough attention to spot a mistake that he’s already made. In the meantime I suggest that we be mindful of the profile, but don’t automatically rule out a suspect who doesn’t match it until we’ve got other very good reasons to do so.’

  Chapter 5

  The Grey Man sat at the breakfast table with Lexie and Annabel taking up a knee each and scattering jammy toast crumbs all over his pristine suit trousers. He was smiling like a good granddad should and pressing down hard on the urge to wring their scrawny necks.

  'Come on girls, get down off Granddad now. You're covering him in your breakfast.'

  Grandma Madeleine swept the e
xcitable tots onto the floor and showered their sticky faces with kisses, knowing how her husband preferred to be immaculate whenever possible, but the younger of the two, Lexie, trotted back over to him, grinning with bits of breakfast between her tiny white teeth and puckering up her Cupid's bow mouth.

  'A beautiful young lady all smothered in strawberry jam and dusted in breadcrumbs. Delicious. I think I'll eat you all up for elevenses.'

  He gave his best pantomime villain laugh and leaned down licking his lips, taking pleasure in her half-laughing, half-shrieking retreat into Grandma’s arms.

  ‘What’s elevenses?’

  Frowned Lexie, looking perplexed.

  ‘It’s an old-fashioned name for a snack in between breakfast and lunch.’ Chimed in Grandma before he could reply.

  'Anyway you can't eat people!'

  Annabel joined in, running up close and aiming a gentle slap at his knee before dodging just out of reach of his mock lunge, wild blonde curls bouncing around at the movement.

  'Why not? It's all meat isn't it?'

  He grinned and started to move out of his chair towards them in a crouch, hands forming claws and his mouth dropping open to show off his surprisingly good teeth. The girls hid their faces in the folds of Grandmas pretty floral dress, giggling and sneaking quick peeks at him as he got closer. Strange how children of a certain age were convinced that if they closed their eyes and couldn't see you, then you in turn couldn't see them. Of course he'd seen adults revert back to that same tactic early on in his 'career' too, back before he'd managed to perfect his techniques.

  'Come here!'

  He scooped up a squirming girl in each arm and pulled them in pretending to bite them and then putting them back down before the action developed any substance. That wouldn’t do at all now, would it?