John turned his head one way, then the other. “You’re sure that’s not just more fuzz?”

  Adele sighed. “It moved when the rock did. It’s a hand. He flung a stone.”

  “What’s that squiggle?”

  “His hood. He’s wearing a hood.”

  “Why’s his face half hidden—”

  “Sunglasses, John. Keep up.”

  John turned the tablet upside down. “Ah!” the handsome agent declared. “I see it now.”

  Adele rolled her eyes. “Good thing you pretty,” she said.

  “I get by on my looks,” Renee agreed. “You, on the other hand, are brilliant enough to discover a squiggle with sunglasses and a pixel of white. By God, I think we’ve got him.”

  Now it was Adele’s turn to glare. “I’m not saying we got anything. Clearly he knew the camera was there. But that’s him.”

  “At least that’s our vandal,” John said.

  “What are the chances that a rando takes out a camera before a murder?”

  John hesitated, but shrugged. “Fine… I mean, I guess we can screenshot that pixel and see if the folk back at HQ can clean it up at all.”

  “No luck,” the manager muttered. “We’ve tried. With a private agency,” he added defensively.

  But Adele just said, “It’s worth a shot. Sir, we need you to send this file to us. I’ll give you an email before I leave.”

  He didn’t protest. Now, if anything, he seemed resigned to the inconvenience and just wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

  Adele swiped her finger along the smooth glass, shifting the image to the second video. This one provided a bird’s-eye view of the station. She glanced at the timestamp in the corner. The footage rolled only a few hours before the body was found. She and John both watched closely. More commuters moved about in the grainy image. Hundreds of them going about their days, usually coming in flocks and then disappearing completely like spurts of water. Whenever a train arrived, the crowd would swell, when it departed it would diminish.

  At about the 10 p.m. mark, as they sped at 8X through the video, Adele spotted something. “There!” she said. She hit pause.

  This time, John spotted it. “Ah—there’s our pixel again.”

  A man with dark glasses and a low hat, hands in the pockets of a thick, obscuring coat, was moving toward the edge of the platform.

  He moved his head on a swivel, in just such a way to avoid being spotted. As he did, he flashed the bird toward the camera. At first, Adele thought he was flashing the middle finger, but a second later, as she leaned in, squinting, she realized it was the ring finger.

  The same finger he’d severed on his victim. His head was still down, features obscured. The only thing that stood out was his flashing finger toward the camera as he moved out of sight, past the column behind which Adele had just been speaking with the witness.

  Her skin prickled as she watched the image. John rewound. They watched again. Neither of them spoke, both desperately searching for clues. For anything that might stand out.

  Adele’s eyes bounced from the pixelated overcoat to the dark shoes. Everything generic. No visible name brands. No cartoons—no graphics. The killer’s face completely obscured. They watched a third time as he flashed his finger once more.

  “He’s taunting us,” John growled. “He knows what he’s about to do. He knew we’d watch the camera. He’s taunting…”

  Adele didn’t disagree. Her heart pounded as she stared at the small figure, disappearing off the edge of the screen to once more join a throng of pedestrians hastening in the other direction.

  As she stared, she let out a long huffing sigh.

  Not only was he taunting them, but he was smart. He’d broken one camera, then avoided the others. Worse still… Adele felt a jolt of fear.

  John must have noticed something in her face, because he glanced at her and murmured, “What is it?”

  She nodded at the figure on the screen. “He’s establishing a relationship.”

  John paused, but then his jaw clicked as his teeth tightened. “Right. He wants us to know he’s in charge.”

  “Not just that. He wants us to know this is just the start. This is his second victim. But if he’s taunting cops, he’s only growing more confident. He’s not done yet. Not by a long shot.”

  These dark words lingered as John and Adele slowly lifted their gazes from the footage. Adele’s throat felt like cotton. She swallowed, trying to focus once more. “We need that footage too,” she said slowly, watching the station manager.

  He was no longer protesting. He just nodded curtly. Then, in an eager tone, he said, “Is that all? Are you done?”

  Adele paused, beginning to nod, but then catching herself.

  “Actually,” she said, “I have one last question.” She held up a finger to match the manager’s gesticulations. “The killer knew about the cameras. Had access to the lockers. Knew what route to take to obscure his features…”

  “And?” the man insisted.

  “And,” John cut in, “we’re wondering who might have access to that information.”

  He blinked for a moment, swallowing, the crimson knot of his tie bobbing. Suddenly, his eyes widened in realization. “W-wait… You don’t think I—”

  “Yes. You,” John said.

  At the same time, Adele said, “No—we’re not accusing you of anything.” She shot John a glare. He shrugged innocently. She continued, “But do you have any problem employees? Anyone who might know where to hide a body, the combinations for the lockers and locations of the cameras?”

  The manager still looked flustered but was now clearing his throat, paying more attention to Adele than John like a parched man choosing between a cactus and an oasis. He said, “I—no one. No. I hire our employees personally. Some of the train lines that come through might be worth investigating. But everyone who works at the station is personally…” He trailed off suddenly, hesitating for a moment. He tried to continue, to cover, but John snapped a finger.

  “That name,” Renee said. “The one you just thought of. Who?”

  Adele watched silently.

  “I—no one. No… no, no one. It’s nothing.”

  Adele murmured. “Sir, this is a murder investigation.”

  He ran a hand through his combover. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he declared. “But… well, we recently had to place one of our janitors on leave for comments made to a female tourist.” He spoke this quickly, like someone ripping off a Band-Aid. “I must insist,” he continued, “this is very out of the ordinary for me. The people I hire are reputable, reliable, and—”

  “Janitor’s name?” John cut in.

  The man sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t even bring it up. Harassing comments and problematic social media posts are one thing… murder? No—not John.”

  Renee blinked. “The problem employee’s name is John?”

  The manager frowned. “Yes…”

  “Yes!” Adele exclaimed. She caught herself though and coughed. “Umm, I mean—thank you, sir. For your cooperation. Last name? And you mentioned something about media posts?”

  “Yes. John Gastone. He was hired a few months ago but let go. It wasn’t just harassment. There were also… how do I say this delicately… inappropriately aimed photographs of some of our female commuters.” The manager’s cheeks were now beet red and he looked ready to hide behind a support column.

  “Creepshots,” John said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what they’re called online. Creepshots. Pictures of women without them knowing. Down their blouses or up their skirts or—”

  “We get the picture!” Adele interrupted. “And also yuck.”

  The manager looked ready to faint. Before he could protest further on behalf of his station’s reputation or job performance, though, Adele said, “Is there anything else? You mentioned you wouldn’t have brought up Mr. Gastone if not for something… Do you mean the pictures?”

  “Those…” Another swallow and twist of the red tie. “But also he threatened violence against me when I let him go. Told me… told me he’d push me on the tracks.”

  John nodded as if he saw the reasoning behind the suggestion.

  The manager took a step away from the edge, wincing uncomfortably. “I can provide you his address if you want. As he’s no longer an employee here, I don’t see the harm.”

  Adele was quick to nod. This time, John didn’t interrupt. As the manager sighed, took his tablet, and began to move back to the office to retrieve the address, Adele turned away once more, staring down the hall where the body had been found. Her eyes skipped to the lockers again.

  Why hide the finger in a separate location? What was the killer after? Why take the finger at all? He was taunting, toying with them. But something else motivated the mutilation.

  She just had to figure out what.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Adele held her tongue as John drove like a geriatric once more, slowly maneuvering through the streets. She did her best to look chipper, energetic. Any time her side throbbed, she hid it. But John was onto her. He kept below the speed limit, guiding their car up the small road outside the old-fashioned brickwork apartments. The buildings were like one giant row of concrete. Each sewn into the other along the perfectly oriented, angled street lined with bus stops and sidewalks twice as wide as most of the ones found in either Germany or the US.

  The GPS chirped as John pulled into an emergency parking spot outside Mr. Gastone’s address. Adele slipped from the vehicle first, taking the sidewalk and hastening toward the front door of the apartment. The car door slammed behind her as John hastened to catch up.

  Thanks to his long gait, John caught up quick enough until the two of them—side by side—were taking the steps to the front door.

  As they reached it, Adele peered through the glass, plastered with notes for the apartment residents, searching for any sign of—

  John ran his fingers down all the buttons.

  Adele sighed. John darted in, stealing a kiss on her cheek. Then he straightened again, beaming as if he’d just won a prize. A second later, the door buzzed and John opened it with a gallant swing of his arm.

  “After you, m’lady,” he exclaimed.

  Adele couldn’t resist a smile. She tried to hide it, but it was nearly impossible to stay in a bad mood around Renee. Well… perhaps that wasn’t true. Renee was almost always in a bad mood. But he was also always up to something. The combination of his grumpiness and his good humor made it difficult to take offense at anything he did, because it rarely felt like he much meant it.

  The two of them took the stairs hastily, moving up the landings and hastening toward the second floor where Mr. Gastone’s thick metal door met them at the end of the smoke-stained hall. Adele held her breath as she passed a no smoking sign, waving a hand in front of her face. A few trails of ash lingered on the air, suggesting someone had only just finished a smoke break.

  They reached the door marked 208. John allowed Adele to stand on the opposite side of the door. Once her back was situated against the peeling flower wallpaper, her feet sturdy on the stained, brown carpet, Renee rapped his knuckles against the steel frame.

  “DGSI!” he called. “Open up!” Then, clearly in a helpful mood, he added, “Police in case you don’t know what that is!”

  They received no reply. John knocked again, the staccato sound of thick knuckles against steel reverberating in Adele’s ears.

  Still no reply.

  Adele frowned, pressing her cheek to the door, listening for any sound from the apartment within. No sounds were forthcoming. She shrugged at Renee.

  He tried a third time…

  “Shit,” John said. “Hiding?”

  She shrugged. “Hunting?”

  They both wrinkled their noses. Adele heard a sudden rattle and glanced back to find the door next to the no smoking sign was opening. An old lady with more wrinkles than a pug peered out. Adele shook her head, flashing her badge and waving the woman back inside.

  The lady sighed but swung her door shut with a faint click.

  Adele returned her attention to the steel door. John tried the handle.

  “Locked,” he said.

  “Thanks, Sherlock.”

  “Words hurt,” he replied.

  “Not you, they don’t. Your skin is too thick.”

  He chuckled wickedly. “Not the only thick part of me.”

  “Renee… Did you try the bell?”

  John shrugged, pressed the bell. A faint ringing sound reverberated from the unit. But still no movement. “I could call for a breaching team,” John said. “Or we could look for the landlord. Or we could… or that.”

  Adele had dropped to a knee and tugged at the bristling mat in front of the door with tasteful, cursive scrawl that read Welcome to Hell instead of Welcome Home. As the mat pulled away, there was a faint scraping sound. She turned the mat over and pulled a key taped to the bottom.

  John reached down, took the key, and inserted it into the lock as Adele returned to her feet, rubbing her hand off on her trousers in order to dislodge the faint sense of uncleanliness from rubbing against the stained floor which boasted all shades of ick.

  The key slipped into the lock, and Agent Renee opened the door slowly. Adele’s hand rested on her holster, her throat tense, eyes searching for any sign of threat.

  But the apartment was dark. No motion. No movement.

  The faint stench of cigarette smoke in the hall competed with the much more potent version emanating from inside the unit. But while the space smelled like Foucault’s office from two years ago, Adele’s attention diverted to the images plastered across the walls.

  Half-naked pictures of women with celebrity faces glued to voluptuous, silicone-injected bodies. John and Adele took hesitant steps into the unit, glancing around. More pictures lined the walls on the side of the hall. These didn’t look like celebrities, but rather were full-blown prints of more candid shots.

  “Well,” Adele said softly. “Guy is definitely a creep.”

  John was moving down the hall, his gun now aiming at the floor. “DGSI!” he called, louder. He shouldered roughly through a door, then another. Adele followed behind him, her own weapon still holstered, but her hand lingering against it.

  After a quick search of a bathroom and bedroom—with far worse pictures plastered above the headboard—Renee determined the coast was clear. Adele rejoined him in the room serving as a shrine for all things flesh.

  John didn’t quite seem to know where to look, so he settled on staring pointedly at Adele, tugging uneasily at his shirt. “Nice place,” he muttered. “Think our little perv got another job?”

  Adele tried not to choke on the smoky air. “Not sure… Doesn’t look like the job holding type very much.”

  John snorted. “You can say that again.”

  The two of them both cast glances behind the couch and into the attached kitchen. But no movement. No sign of anyone. Mr. Gastone wasn’t home.

  Adele forced her way past John, back into the hall which had taken it easier on her sinuses. She pulled her phone from her pocket as John’s voice echoed behind her, calling for a unit to come watch the apartment. For her part, she cycled to the information the station manager had provided.

  Specifically, locating the social media profile. Mr. Gastone had been particularly active on his accounts, which was one of the reasons he’d been fired. She clicked to one of his forums, glancing at the most recent date. He hadn’t posted anything in three days. She cycled back to the rest of the notepad document and clicked on a link for photo and video sharing.

  And then she went stiff.

  “John!” she called over her shoulder.

  Agent Renee finished his own call and hurried into the hall, responding to the urgency in her tone. “Find something?”

  She nodded, turning her phone so he could see. Adele then raised the volume, allowing the live-streaming audio to fill the hall.

  “… a second body,” Mr. Gastone’s voice was saying, chuckling. “Right here in Hamburg. What are the odds, am I right? Well—G-strings, nice to have you all with me. But I’m gonna have to cut this short. My train leaves in an hour…” Adele and John stared as small emojis and little hearts swarmed up from the bottom of the image, and lines of text scrolled by in a chat box off to the side of the screen.

  “He’s live-streaming,” John said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s streaming live.”

  “Oh.” Adele frowned, staring at the image. “You heard him, right? He’s in Hamburg.”

  “At our second crime scene, no less,” John muttered. He trailed off as the video continued.

  Mr. Gastone was saying, “I heard this lady was really pretty. Like really pretty. Man… ha! Wish I’d had a chance to see the body first. If you know what I mean.” He let out a baying little chuckle. His face flashed into view once more. As he stared down at the camera, breathing heavily and giggling at his own joke, Adele stared at the ex-janitor’s face. She didn’t recognize him. Didn’t know if he was the one who’d thrown the stone or avoided the cameras.

  He had a pencil-thin, brown mustache. And judging by the parked cars he was strolling past, while breathing heavily, he wasn’t very tall. Likely shorter than her. Mr. Gastone wore slick hair and had a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He continued prattling into the camera as more emojis and text scrolled by in the adjacent window.

  “Anyway, G-strings,” Gastone exclaimed, “I’m heading back to Paris now. Train’s about to leave. I’ll turn the stream back on if I find any merchandise I want to speculate on.”

  This comment received a bunch of smiley faces in the chat box. A couple of comments read Perverts or weird stream…

  But mostly, the viewers—some five hundred—seemed to be enjoying the show. Whatever, exactly, the show was.

  Judging by the images on Gastone’s wall, and the behavior of some of the viewers, Adele wasn’t particularly interested in finding out too much. She kept the stream open, though, until their suspect shut off his camera. Then the image went black.

 

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