Connor studied the flickering device he held in his hand carefully.
“Hope this thing is accurate...” He muttered as he looked up from the device and instead began to gaze at his surroundings.
To both his left and right stood poor and dirty stores, empty and silent, the only light given off was from a single street light on the left. Behind him were only houses, most of them rundown or abandoned, and in front of him there was only the same. The Slums. It was almost surprising to him that he had not yet been assaulted or mugged, such was the nature of these areas. He knew that all too well.
He took another quick look at the device in his hand, noting the distance it’s screen indicated between him and the target he was looking for; only 40 feet to the northeast. Glancing at his surroundings once more to make sure he was not followed, he then began to walk forward down the small and empty street, his footsteps echoing about him through the night air. Struggling to see through the impending darkness, he became dimly aware of an alley to his right, leading even further away from the light. He checked the device once more, making sure he was headed the right direction. He was, and there was only 15 feet to his target now. Walking slowly now, he pocketed the device and instead drew his handgun from beneath his long, brown trench coat. Connor pulled back the hammer of the weapon, letting its loud click serve as a warning for anyone nearby. Then, with his free hand he reached for the small flashlight he always kept handy in his pocket and he let its’ small beam of light pierce through the darkness in front of him. With his gun at the ready and the flashlight held in front of him, Connor began a silent approach to where his target should be. His surroundings were also now visible that he had his flashlight and, while never allowing himself to look anywhere but where he was headed, he was aware that the alley he was in had been home to someone recently. He could smell it as well; cheap liquor. But there was something new as well, something very much out of place. The smell of death.

Connors’ body stiffened slightly and he raised his gun carefully, holding it close and steady, as he inched forwards. Finally, the beam of light emitted from his flashlight revealed the source of the blood and Connor took a sharp breath before moving closer. He took another quick scan of the narrow alley before crouching down over the body, positioning his gun on a nearby crate and drawing out a recording device. Keeping the flashlight in hand, he began an examination of the body, clicking the ‘record’ button.
“Victim is female... Current time... Ten-Thirty pm, based on body temperature time of death estimated at around eight, possibly even Nine pm,” Connor whispered to himself quietly. “Face intact as usual, cranial deformation above the right ear, approximately two centimetres in diameter, one centimetre in height. Right and Left arms featuring identical deformations; excessive swelling of the triceps, bidirectional bending at the elbow, hand span of about thirty-five centimetres. Ribcage is extended to cover entire abdomen, appears to have formed incorrectly resulting in internal bleeding, possibly cause of death. Feet with width of fifteen centimetres, length of Twenty-Five. Knees are also able to bend both directions... Victim features similar deformations as the others...”
Connor finished his monologue and reached forward with a gloved hand to raise the victims shoulder, bending further down to examine her back.
“This is new...” Connor resumed talking to himself. “Spine appears to have been enlarged to fill the entire back area. Still flexible, but well protected...”
Connor rolled her onto her back once more and reached into a pocket, drawing out a small, badly damaged wallet. Opening it revealed a measly sum of money, a poorly written note and ID. Connor quickly scanned the note but it was unimportant and so he returned it to its’ home and instead took out the Identification Card. It was an old photo and looked like it hadn’t been renewed in many years but Connor pocketed it all the same. Taking one last look to make sure he had checked everything he needed to, he withdrew a small camera from inside his coat and took several quick pictures of the body before replacing the camera, retrieving his firearm and heading out of the alley to note the street name.

“Hiran Street...” Connor muttered as he punched in ‘911’ to his mobile and waited for it to connect. Several minutes and a curse upon technology later, Connor connected successfully.
“Hello? I’d like to report a murder. At the north end of Hiran Street, an alley on the right. Victim suffers several deformations.”
Before giving the operator a chance to respond, Connor hung up, dropped the phone on the ground and smashed it with his foot.

Looking around him once more, he breathed a heavy sigh and walked back down the street, away from the alley.

***

The cool night air brushed through Mark’s long fringe as he stepped out of the garage, the door automatically closing behind him. He stood still on the concrete drive, soaking in the night-time silence he was so rarely allowed to indulge himself in. His eyes ran over the street, the moon’s dim light played over the rows of two storey houses, each with their own well kept gardens, the bright flowers’ colours robbed from them by the starry night. Finally he turned to face his own garden; a simple green lawn, he didn’t have the time to look after it. It was a rare occasion he even slept at home. His job consumed most of his life, but he liked it that way, when he wasn’t working his mind left its stone cold state and returned to the more human side of him, and that’s when what he saw each day affected him.

Walking along the path, his hard soled shoes sending an echo deep into the night with each step, he ascended the stairs onto the porch and slipped his key into the lock, turning to take one last look at the beautiful scenery that spread across the moonlit cul-de-sac before he drew a final breath of the fresh air as he opened the door, stepping through into his unlit house.

Closing the door behind him with the flick of a heel he snaps the hall light on and moves into through the house, flicking lights on as he moves throughout the house. Finally reaching his bedroom he glances at the red display of the large clock mounted on the wall; 2257 it reads.
Mark slips off his suit jacket, folds it neatly in half and drapes it over the chair at his desk before moving to the whole body mirror nestled in the corner to undo his tie, he slips the black tie from his throat and casts it over the same chair as his jacket and sits down on the edge of his bed, the mattress moulding to his shape.
Wearily rubbing his eyes Mark tries to think how long it’s been since he spent a night at home; at least a week he concludes as untucks his white shirt from his black dress pants. With two fingers he undoes the top button and runs his fingers through his mid-length black hair.

The first chords of Paranoid by Black Sabbath began playing through the room and Mark grimaced as he got to his feet, shuffling over to his jacket and delving his hands into the right pocket he found his phone; glancing at the screen before sliding it open and putting it to his ear.
“Ellison.” He spoke flatly.
The room was almost silent as the man on the other side of the line spoke.
“Another one? Fucking kidding me.” He sighed heavily, “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Mark clicked the phone shut and slipped it into his pants pocket. Walking to the door he snatched his black hooded jumper from its hook and pulled it on over his head.
“Why the hell did I take this case?” he mumbled as he walked back through the house, headed for his car once more.

Mark had to consult his in-car GPS to find the location; Hiran St. Some place in the slums, just like the other three. After getting lost twice he finally found the street and parked his car across from it. He left the car and walked over to the police barricades, an older looking officer, a Sergeant, stopped him. “I’m sorry, Sir, this area is off limits.”
Mark smiled and held out his badge, “Lieutenant Detective Ellison, this is my case.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Go right on through.” He lifted the yellow tape and Mark ducked under it, “Just down that alley at the end.”
“Thanks.”
Mark shivered under his jumper as he dug his hands deeper into the pocket.
Glad I didn’t wear my jacket…
As he reached the crime scene the coroner greeted him; “It’s not pretty, Mark.”
“I didn’t expect it to be; same as the others?”
“Yes, except this one has an abnormal bone growth around the spine, somewhat like the mutation of the ribcage on the others.”
Mark looked over the old man’s face, he was getting on in years but his enthusiasm for the job never waned. His glasses and silver hair sat quaintly under his floppy wide-brim as Mark stood still watching.
“What is it, Mark?”
He smiled, “You’re too old for this crap Frank.”
“Nonsense, I’ll be doing this until I’m dead.” He chuckled heartily, “Now, come on Leftenant, you have to see this new abnormality.”
“You’re still pronouncing it ‘Leftenant’, eh?” Mark retorted as he followed along behind.
Frank handed Mark a pair of latex gloves as they reached the body and he slipped them on while Frank rolled the body onto its front.
“See, look here,” Frank traced the outline of the bone with his gloved fingers, “This definitely wasn’t in the others. What do you make of it?”
Mark prodded it at several points, “Well, it’s solid all the way around… Almost as if it’s meant to protect the organs… What the hell is going on with this case Frank?”
‘I don’t know Ell, but it’s fascinating.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” He frowned slightly, “Anyway, the formalities then?”
“Well, the time of death would’ve been around 8:45PM. The victim is a female, no identification on her and cause of death is yet to be discerned, but it does look almost as if the ribcage is taking up a lot of space where several organs should be.” He looked up into Mark’s eyes, “We’re going to have to wait until we can get Ms. Doe back to the lab.”
“Well do that as soon as you can. I want these results back ASAP. This case is giving me the creeps and I want it closed.”
“Well if you give me permission I can take her away now?”
“Brilliant, have your boys get her out of here.”
Mark walked away from the body and Frank, surveying the scene of the crime, the CSI’s on the case were busily photographing, bagging and tagging pieces of evidence and anything else they could find.
For a full five minutes he paced the crime scene, with nothing happening around him, the site was dead quiet except the clicking of camera shutters, but every now and then movement would catch his attention in his peripheral, but when he turned to see it there was nothing. It was the same feeling he’d had at the last two scenes…
As he thought about it he saw something again, a warehouse, directly north of the alley. One of the windows held the dark silhouette of a man; it was on the third storey and looked as though the man would have a perfect view of the entire scene.
Mark stood frozen, watching the silhouette trough the corner of his eye. Suddenly it was gone. He took his phone from his pocket and dialled the Chief Inspector’s extension. He picked up on the first ring;
“What the hell do you want Ellison? I’m trying to sleep.”
“Sir, my scene is being watched. I don’t know who by but I keep seeing someone watching from windows.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“Give me some security on this scene. I don’t want it getting screwed with. This case isn’t right and neither is the fact that someone is watching it.”
“Jesus Christ Ellsion, you’re seeing ghosts and you want me to make a group of beat cops sit out there in the slums all night because you don’t sleep enough?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I know what I saw. Someone is watching this scene.” Mark strained to keep from yelling.
“Ellison, put it this way; you want a security detail on that scene, get your own team to do it. I’m not sending my men out because you’re scared of shadows. End of discussion.”
Mark groaned, “Fine, maybe it is just me… I don’t know. This case is messed up Boss.”
“Trust me, Ellison, I know. Go get some sleep kid, you need it.”
They exchanged goodbyes and Mark clicked the phone shut and cast a lingering glance at the warehouse as he slipped it back into his pocket.
He reluctantly took his eyes from the window and trudged towards his car.
The chief is probably right, I’m just seeing ghosts.

***

From a third storey window in an old, abandoned warehouse directly north of the alley he had just been in allowing for a perfect view, Connor watched the bright, flashing lights of the police car moving towards the crime scene. At first, it was just the one, the scout, as was usual. Then, only a few minutes later another three cars pulled up and about a dozen people total stepped out and began sealing off the area with yellow police tape. From the looks of it, there were some CSI as well as the regular police grunts. Connor waited.

A few more minutes later, another car pulled up, a casual car rather than a police car, and out stepped the man of whom Connor had been waiting for. Ellison, Connor thought his name was, although he was unsure of a first name, he had only ever seen him on the job. Ellison was something of a mystery to Connor. Every time a body turned up with a similar cause of death, he was there. Connor was unsure of where his loyalty lay; in his job, himself or whether he was with the people behind the murders, whoever they may be. And so, every time a body was found, Connor watched and he waited to see what Ellison would do. Under normal circumstances, Connor wouldn’t have cared either way. But then, horrible deformations were far from normal. For over three weeks Connor had been investigating this case, each time there was something new that was wrong with the victims and what had caused the death previously now seemed as though it had been changed, or fixed. It was as though someone were experimenting; once one mistake was corrected they would try another and so on.
Ellison was examining the body now, and for Connor, this was the most crucial part. He leaned further out of the window so as to get a better view. There was someone else kneeling over the body with him, but he wasn’t in the way so Connor ignored him and centred his attention on Ellison. He looked tired, but even so seemed to be very involved with the case. What Connor thought he made out as shock flashed briefly over Ellison’s face as he saw the new deformation on the woman’s back, but he held himself together and turned to talk with the other person beside him.

Connor wanted to believe Ellison was just a good cop, doing his job. And at times he felt certain that he was, just like he did now. But Connor knew that the police were part of the government, and he knew firsthand how cruel the government could be. While he waited for a better view of Ellison, Connor pondered what he had seen so far. He always wore a suit, no matter where the crime was or what time he was always wearing the same suit. Possibly a Fed, Connor thought, which meant only that he was even more untrustworthy. But he didn’t seem to carry himself like a Fed; he seemed involved in the case and not just playing along.
Connor left this train of thought hurriedly as Ellison began to walk away from the body which was now being carried away. But nothing more happened; instead he only paced about the scene, what appeared to be a worried look on his face. That look in itself made Connor believe he was innocent, but there was still a degree of uncertainty. From what he had observed, Ellison was an innocent man. He did his job and it affected him as it would any other. But from such a distance, Connor could not be certain. And more importantly, he could not trust anyone who worked in a government facility.
Suddenly Connor became aware that Mark was looking in his direction. While not staring directly at Connor, the sudden tensing of his body and his hand moving to his pocket was a clear indication that Connor had to move. He dropped to the floor in an instant and began a slow crawl away from the window and towards the stairs down. Once there he got to his knees and hazarded a quick glance out of the small window opposite the stairs that faced the alley. Ellison had turned away from the warehouse and appeared to be in a heated discussion on his phone. This got Connor thinking again, about who Ellison was, and what he was doing on this case, but before he could make any headway, Ellison turned back to face the warehouse and Connor dropped back down onto the floor again. Once he was out of visible range, he moved onto his feet, ran down the stairs two at a time until he got to the ground floor landing and slipped out through the door into the darkness of the night.

An hour later, Connor slid the apartment key into the lock, turned and pushed open the door to his home. Closing, locking, bolting and chaining the door behind him and flicking on the lights, he then took several weary steps and collapsed onto his small, single bed. For a few minutes he just lay there, gazing at the ceiling in the dim light; thinking. Then, he abruptly got up. Sitting on the edge of his bed he gazed about him. The wall to his left was decorated with newspaper clippings dating from just over three years ago. This wall he only briefly scanned over as he had already memorised almost every word from all of the articles. The wall in front of him was covered in photos and notes which reminded Connor of his latest mission. He walked over to the door and spent the next few minutes getting it open, locked it behind him and walked through the cold night air into the reception room. The girl working the desk appeared to have fallen asleep, so Connor slipped silently into the back room and walked over towards the printer. Pulling out his camera, he connected it to the printers’ USB socket, selected the most recent photos and hit the print button. A few moments later, he pulled the cable out and shoved the camera back into his coat pocket, picked up the printouts delicately and slipped back outside, made his way back into his apartment and made use of every security measure on his door once more.
Then he turned away from the door, picked up a fresh pack of pins and stuck the new photo printouts on the wall to add to the collection. Connor then took a few steps back and looked at them all carefully. All five of the victims, paying particular attention to one of the pictures, dated from the same time as the newspaper articles...

Ellison lay on his bed, still awake; he hadn’t even managed to close his eyes in the twelve hours he had lain there. It was midday and the sun shone brightly through the gaps in his curtains. I have to see that warehouse…
The thought passed through his mind for the millionth time as he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, he still wore his dress shoes, pants and shirt. He quickly put his tie around his neck and slipped into his jacket, tucking his shirt into his pants and combing his hair. Staring into the mirror he looked at his eyes, the dark rings beneath them belied the fact he hadn’t slept properly in days.
God I look like shit.
He grabbed his sunglasses from their case and put them on, hoping to conceal the tired state of his mind. I have to look fresh; the team can’t know this is getting to me.
As he walked out the door he felt his phone vibrate as a reminder of an unread text message. He took it from his pocket and glanced at the screen:
2 unread messages.
9 missed calls.
He muttered under his breath and checked the messages, they were both from members of his team, both asking how he was, apparently the chief had told them he was ‘seeing ghosts’.
The calls were mostly from the chief and his team; another was from one of his few friends who weren’t a colleague. Even so he ignored them all and checked his that Beretta was still holstered in his jacket and unlocked his car, sliding into the seat he twisted the key and it rumbled into life. He shifted into gear and pulled out of his driveway, headed in the opposite direction of the station.

Within ten minutes he had reached area of the crime scene, using his light and siren to force his way through traffic. He parked in an alleyway and left the car; looking around him he saw the warehouse and started for it. The dilapidated building looked uninviting even in the daylight, giving Mark second thoughts about going in. But he soon cast aside any doubts as he stepped into the dank interior and removed his sunglasses, placing them in the inner pocket of his jacket. The stairs stood to his left and he jogged up them as fast as his dress shoes allowed until he reached the third storey. His eyes followed the ground where the dust and grime on the wooden floors had been disturbed recently. He smiled now, knowing that someone had indeed been here. Looking out each window as he went he finally found the one from which he had been watched.
Looking down he could see the entire crime scene perfectly, the body’s location, the end of the street, the alley entrance, everything. He looked at the windowsill hoping for fingerprints but nothing revealed itself... Maybe if I got the CSI’s up here… No, the chief would have my arse.
He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and grunted angrily. He knew he wouldn’t find anything more in this warehouse so he took his leave; sliding his glasses back over his eyes as he left the door he reached for his keys just as the distinct sound of a camera shutter rang out through the still air of the slum.
Mark quickly put it to his imagination and took his keys from his pocket.
He pressed the button unlocking the doors and took another step forward as the sound of a shutter closing once again reached his ears. He drew his handgun and spun two full circles on the spot. Still he saw nothing. For a third time the clicking of the shutter split the air.
For another minute Mark looked around him, nothing. No movement, no sound, nothing. Just as he began to calm down his phone started ringing. He snatched the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, the number on the screen was unrecognisable. He opened the phone but didn’t say anything, holding it to his ear.
“Ellison?” there was a pause, “Lieutenant?” another pause, “Mark, answer. You’re freaking me out.”
Suddenly it clicked in his mind and he looked back at the screen; Izzy.
“Oh, sorry Izzy, I’m… I dunno. I just don’t feel right…”
“What’s wrong?” her voice showed that she actually cared, it wasn’t just a formality.
“Nothing… Just… Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“Don’t say that, now I am worrying.”
“Well don’t. What’s up?” his tone put across that she would get nowhere and she recognised it easily.
A soft sigh came across the line, “I wish you’d talk more Mark…” A short pause before she continued, “There’s something in the blood toxin screen you should see.”
“From the last vic?”
“Yeah; get here soon.”
“On my way.” He started to hang up the phone but stopped as he heard izzy’s voice come over the line again.
“Mark?”
“Yes?”
“Look after yourself…” She finished her sentence and the line went dead.
He glanced at the screen once more before slowly dropping the phone into his jacket and getting into the driver’s seat of the car. He rested his head against the seat’s headrest and closed his eyes for a moment before turning the ignition, his hand drifted to the gearstick and placed it in reverse as he slowly drove from the slums and wove his way through traffic on his way to the department building; part of him dreading seeing his team while he was in this state of mind, the other part excited about what Izzy had found.

***


For the umpteenth time since he had started his personal revenge quest, Connor went back over everything he knew. He moved to one wall, reciting the newspaper articles in his mind.
‘Higgs Boson leads to the unnatural death of a young reporter,’ Connor read the headline of one of the articles. ‘But she wasn’t a reporter and there was no Higgs Boson.’ Connor thought angrily before calming himself and moving on to the other evidence; Pictures of the first victim. It almost brought a tear to his eye to see the extent of her deformations, she was almost unrecognisable. But before he let it get the better of him, Connor used his hate as a shield, letting the two emotions cancel each other each. Once he had a tight rein over his emotions, Connor pulled the picture off the wall and studied it in detail. A moment later, he took down one of the pictures he had taken the night before and compared the two. The first, from three years ago, bore similar features. There was the extended ribcage, the enlarged spine, bidirectional joints. But they were also different, less precise. Whereas the last victim had died from the ribcage, the one before that lost control of his limbs and starved to death, before that the cranial enlargements turned his brain to mush, this first victim had suffered from all of that and more. She’d had everything done to her all at once, now whoever was doing it was taking it slow; refining every step, every technique.

“They take the homeless from the slums, because nobody will care.” Connor said aloud. “They take them because then they won’t get people like me after them.”
He paced to and fro in front of the pictures for a short time before turning to another wall. This one held no pictures of victims or newspaper articles. Instead, it was concealed with pictures of the detective Connor believed to be named Ellison. Surrounding the pictures were hastily scrawled notes that Connor had written at different time, then, below all of the notes and pictures, scrawled on the wall in large, black letters were the words ‘Who is Ellison?’
He was the only thing that Connor doubted. From what he knew of the case, he was certain he had determined all that he could. He knew that he didn’t have a location, or who precisely was murdering these people, but he was aware that there was no way he could know given what evidence he had found so far. He had learnt not to beat himself up for things he couldn’t have known a long time ago. But Ellison wasn’t like that, with Ellison he felt he should know who Ellison was. He’d been looking into Ellison for over three weeks and he had nothing on him. For several minutes he stared at the pictures of Ellison, struggling to think, but nothing would come. Eventually, Connor turned from the wall and sighed, trying to keep his anger and frustration down. But when he looked away from the pictures of Ellison, he was greeted only by his own shabby, cheap apartment, which only made him feel worse.
Just three years ago it had all been so clear, now there was nothing. Now he had nothing. He fell forward onto his bed and screamed angrily into his pillow, cursing anything that he felt he could blame. Eventually his anger ceased and was instead replaced with despair. He reached under the bed and pulled out a small, framed picture. Wiping away the dust, he stared at it for several minutes as tears began to flow freely from his eyes. A minute later he became aware that his gun had somehow found its way into his hand. Connor gazed at it coldly for a few moments before slowly raising it. He pressed the cold metal into his temple, his finger tightening on the trigger. Slowly, very slowly, his finger tightened further and further until finally there was a click and he realised there was no bullet in the chamber. With a heavy sigh, he dropped the gun back onto his bedside table and placed the picture under his bed again. Taking another look at his surrounding he decided he needed to get out for some fresh air.
He did up his heavy boots, pulled on his long coat, grabbed his combat knife and slid it into place in his boot sheath, put his keys in his pocket then hesitated as he instinctively reached for his gun. He had a quick and silent mental debate as he looked at the weapon then finally reached down slowly , slid in a new clip and then put it into his inside coat pocket. Finally, he adjusted his coat slightly, and went out into the sunlight for the first time in several weeks.