Chapter Text
London’s rain had ceased hours before, leaving behind only its musky scent to mix in with the city. If anyone stayed as long as he did on the street, they could surely make out each distinct scent that made the redolence. First it was the damp cobblestone, then the distant burn of cigarette smoke, nearby the piling garbage at the dump, and then, worst of all, was the unmistakable metallic tang of blood seeping into the concrete. A mixture that could turn anyone's stomach. Colin wiped his nose on his wool coat as the eerie stench filled the air in the alley. The body was still there, sprawled across the cold pavement, bathed in the amber glow of a flickering street lamp just above. Practically on display for all who passed by to see. The police attempted to cover it but they weren’t fast enough. People liked the commotion; most only averted their eyes after it was too late.
Taking a moment to collect himself and keep his supper down, Colin Bridgerton stood at a corner of the crime scene. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the types of scenes in front of him. They seem to be more and more common though, which churns his stomach further.
He pulls his coat tighter, shielding himself from the lingering chill of the evening. His eyes narrowed as he observed the crowd and the latest in what the police were calling the work of a serial killer. He however, was still drawing conclusions with the ongoing evidence. Having received the call just a bit ago, he’d hurried out to this side of town passing the patrols that were on duty in this sector. He barely remembers the drive over, his mind still clenching to the photos of the previous victims.
He should be receiving yesterday’s photo evidence soon to add to the pile, but he wasn’t sure they would be enough. If only he could get a closer look, he would know. Surely he would, he was smarter than all of the detectives on the force - almost all of them. All he needed was a chance to have a closer look; but with the Captain being so involved in this particular string of murders, he had to be careful. So he waited-waited for his opportunity. The photos would have to suffice for now. Either way, he trusted his gut and his mind above all else-and things were not adding up. Not the way the police want them to.
A familiar face with a tight smile approaches him with a small manila envelope in their hand.
Wary of any on-lookers, her eyes darting back and forth. She is being extra careful not to draw attention to herself as she passes him the envelope.
Luckily, his history and connections with the police gave him an advantage in receiving information that he should not be privy to, but he had to be careful. If he acted thoughtlessly he could draw attention; that attention would come with too many questions and it would give him away. Fortunately, she knows his intentions and will assist however much she can even if it means risking getting caught.
Stepping away from the crowd, his thick fingers opened the envelope for a quick look. The familiar man’s vacant eyes stared up at him, lips parted in a silent scream. Colin lifted the image closer, needing to quickly satisfy his curiosity.
There it was again.
A clue. Serving only to make his curiosity grow stronger.
A small tell he had discovered in his hours of searching through evidence pictures. He had not shared it with anyone yet. Most would miss it, most have missed it, but not him. He didn’t, he wouldn’t- and this would be a perfect addition to not only solve the case, but set him above and apart all other journalists that would attempt this case. Colin shook his head for a second already disapproving of their mediocre attempts, his brown hair moving out of his face.
From the outside, the Mayfair Journal was like any other publication trying to keep its thumb on the town's pulse. Known for its posh columns and political sources, fluff pieces to keep the buzz going - the Journal was not too keen on handling more controversial topics, but Colin always chased stories beyond what was neatly manicured in society. He seeked adventure that took him places others would only dare dream of. Traveled all over the world for something real and pulsating. The truth that was living in the shadows drew him in. The danger. The crime and deception he had learned he could uncover gave him a thrill he could not explain. These were the kind of stories that required justice no court could offer.
He wasn’t always part of the Mayfair Journal. He had sold articles and pieces to various publications at the start of his career as it kept him from being committed to a singular location. However, it didn’t last very long and his family begged him to have some type of stability. His kind mother missed him and his sister was having a child. He did not want to miss August’s milestones. So this was his compromise. He would work for the Mayfair Journal, where a position was always open for him, thanks to his Godmother, and if needed, he could make an occasional trip and placate his wandering heart.
His interests and constant need to be friendly with those around him had afforded him some contacts, important ones that could provide him with information to use to his advantage. Making friends with important people allowed him to hear the whispers that those in power wanted kept hidden. He is hoping that within the whispers he can piece together something that connects these cases to a killer or possibly killers? Someone boasting about their mystery stumping the police force. With that thought, Colin took a deep breath ready to head to the office and continue to work on this.
Colin felt the breeze against his cheeks and moved away as the scene closed behind him. The city silently hummed in the background, and a slow exhale left his lips as he pushed towards the street to his car on the other side. The evidence swirled in his brain, committing it to memory. This wasn't just another crime ring fighting for control of the city. This felt precise, targeted, and calculated. Too organized to be led by someone egocentric like the drug lords in the area. An agenda was being managed here, and its roots were more than simple greed. They had to be. This felt like someone seeking revenge, personal. Yet none of the victims seemed to be connected to one another.
He knew the police had already been convinced that they were dealing with a lone killer, perhaps a serial killer seeking out to assuage his urges. But the precision made Colin suspicious. The pattern of these murders. Whoever it was, they were trying to send a signal, there was more than a simple calling card left behind. If the nature of these executions was not of impulse but of what? Something or someone not wanting to be seen.
Until now.
Tucking away the file into his coat, Colin stared down at the now quiet street before climbing into his car. If the police weren't going to dig deeper into the evidence, then he would. This could be so much more than just a story for the Mayfair Journal; it certainly seemed to be more than just about crime. This was about power. Territory perhaps? Domain to run their business? Something twisted that was now coming to light in gruesome ways. He could feel it in his gut. With the evidence from today's kill, he was sure that whoever this was or they were, they were just getting started.
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"Third one this month, second this week." Michaela said as she entered the small, crowded office. Books were stacked along the walls covering the windows, preventing almost any light from filtering in. The room smelled of mildew and frustration. He could see her turn her nose up at it every time she had stopped by. She stood by him with arms crossed as he moved to pin the new pictures on the corkboard. She looked stressed, still dressed in her gear with the badge on her belt gleaming under the flickering gaslight.
“It is late, Officer Stirling, Franny won’t mind me keeping you here?” Colin teased, shuffling through the pictures on the desk.
"She sends her love, and asks that I keep an eye on the big oaf she calls brother.” She rolls her eyes with a chuckle. “Did you find what you were looking for?"
Colin silently nodded, not noticing if she was looking or not. He is distracted as he uses his pen to trace the man's eyelid on a blank sheet for a clearer image. Those markings stared back at him, connected in an elegant cursive scrawl as if it was a word. It wasn’t, but it was the killer or killers' signature, it had to be. Not a name or letter but just a mere symbol or maybe a branding for the dead.
"Captain Bridgerton is already calling him a serial killer," Michaela continued quietly, shifting on her feet. "Says it’s got all the hallmarks… these weird kills, little to no evidence of struggle. The kills are so different in context but each one is the same."
Colin frowned, tapping his pen against the symbol. "See, that - that’s what I don’t buy. Typical serial killers usually have a pattern, yes, but it's never exactly the same. There are subtle differences even if it's done by the same person. And the kills - well they are usually rooted in a psychological compulsion, right? Each one needs to have a trophy of some kind. They like to stake their claim outwardly. They can be hard to quantify, but it's done; there are whole shows about it. But this- -this feels... different."
Michaela raised an eyebrow. "Elaborate."
"This doesn’t feel like it’s about indulgence or psychosis. It’s too methodical. It feels efficient. It's almost like an execution. Each kill is so exact, almost... textbook. Like they are following a guide.” He points to previous photos, “Each kill is exactly the same."
He gestured at the victim’s hands in one of the pictures. "See here, there are no defensive wounds. Like he didn’t even have a chance to fight back. It’s like he knew what was coming or expected it. And look at the wound, it’s clean, controlled, right through the heart. No additional cuts or punctures." He moved back and forth in the short space.
Michaela exhaled slowly through her nose and pinched the bridge of it. "You think it’s what? A really organized crime group? A contract killer? A hitman?"
Colin nodded. "Yeah, yes. I do.” He stopped himself for a moment. “Or something like it. It’s surgical. There is no way these victims are random. Is there? They’re connected. They have to be. I just don’t know how yet. And if I had to bet, I’d say they were tied to something bigger. What was the last guy's occupation?"
Michaela rubbed the back of her neck and sat down in an old office chair grabbing some papers off the desk. "Looks like he was a banker… crooked but a banker nonetheless. - Colin, if you’re right, it will be hell convincing him to let me look into whatever new leads we can come up with legitimately. Anthony is already losing sleep over the growing pile of bodies."
Colin titled his head with a small smirk. "Well, tell Captain Anthony to stock up on coffee and do some meditating, because I intend to find out who's behind this, and I know that I am going in the right direction. I just need time before the killer strikes next."
Michaela rolled her eyes at his remark. "If you pursue this and you are not right, Anthony is going to kill you, and then me when he finds out I have been helping you. Then you again, for making a mess of things.”
"Please, Fran would never let him kill her wife. She'd get him first, have Kate involved and everything. Now you said a banker was crooked right? What is it? Does he have any priors? Anything that he may have needed a loan for? Or a prostitute?"
*****
Colin thumbed through the note cards of the victims, mindlessly biting the corner of his lip.
Colin's hum matched pitch with the light of the office lamp buzzing in the corner, barely lighting Michaela's face as she sifted through the coroner’s reports. Both of them attempted to decipher the pattern for what seemed hours. Exchanging the documents with one another.
All men, different ages, different professions, but the same precise death… a puncture wound straight to the heart. And, perhaps more telling, a message left behind at each scene.
This was more than simply a killing. It was methodical. Whoever did this is making a statement.
Colin leaned towards her, eyes flicking between the reports and his cards.
“Nate Aldridge, Leonard Weissman, and Frank DeMarco. A banker, a psychiatrist, and a loan shark. On the surface, they don’t exactly run in the same circles, but... off paper, they were definitely not good men. Some of the others would make sense to string together but something is not fitting with the recent ones. Maybe I have been staring at them too long. They all harboured some type of wealth by exploiting someone.”
Michaela tapped her pen against the table and then slammed it down. “Right!” She exclaims. “They didn't run in the same circles socially, but... but if we look at their victims. They exploited people. Used them. They were caught for one reason or another and then somehow their charges were either dropped or the case was dismissed or they were found – not guilty.”
She spread out a separate set of files… suicide reports, missing persons cases, complaints that never saw a courtroom. “Aldridge’s alleged Ponzi scheme wiped out hundreds of families, driving some in worst conditions to suicide. Weissman preyed on vulnerable women in therapy, using his credentials as a shield. And DeMarco?”
She flipped over to a photo of a woman with sunken eyes and bruised wrists, and grabbed Colin's note card. “He was reported to have been forcing single mothers into prostitution when they couldn’t pay their debts to him or whoever runs him. Vincent Morello was literally a pimp. The common thread isn’t their professions or what they present themselves to be, Colin- it’s their victims. It's them who were mistreated and abused by the system. It's their atrocities. Putting them in writing, they are scum.”
Colin let out a heavy exhale, rubbing his jaw. His eyes burning from staring at everything for far too long. “So whoever’s behind these murders... isn’t just picking off random men or I guess - criminals. They are targeting men who have utterly ruined women’s lives.”
“Not just women,” Michaela corrected. “Families. Poor people. People who were already incredibly vulnerable.” She gestured to the crime scene photos. “And the way they were killed? No signs of struggle, no hesitation. Just a single, precise wound to the heart. Staged for people to know their crimes and the justice that missed them. Like you said...”
“Professional,” Colin muttered. “Efficient.”
Michaela nodded. “That's the pattern. That's what everyone else is missing. And the messages - they are so specific. Especially with all the reports that somehow never made it to the judges table, like how on earth were none of these people convicted?!”
She reached over a pile of books for the crime scene photos, pointing one by one. “Aldridge had a dollar bill labeled ‘Return to Sender.’ Weissman’s notepad had ‘Doctor’s Orders.’ And DeMarco? A Queen of Hearts stabbed through the center. Theodore Langford had a medical tag with “Consent was never on the chart.” after he raped those people. That’s fucking poetic. Each one is a clear message for others to see or for the judges who dismissed these cases. Whoever this is believes justice wasn't rightfully served. If they weren’t literally a killer I would kiss this person so hard for taking these men down.”
Colin ran a hand through his hair pushing the strands off of his face. “Gross, don’t put that image in my head.” He grimaced, “So, someone’s playing judge, jury, and executioner. They want people to know there's a savior in town. And they are not going quietly.”
“Or it is a killer with a personal vendetta,” Michaela countered. “Someone who sees these people as the same person who wronged them. We need to figure out which one.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the photos. “I have a feeling it's personal. It feels personal, even if it's not directly to them. They're not done yet... Now I have more questions that need to be answered… How is one person pulling this off or could it be that they're not doing this alone? Maybe a duo? And how does today's victim connect to this? What crimes has he committed? Do you have their file yet?"