Elodie Dubois – The Black Ice Murders (E01)

Episode 01: The Bad Guy (Flash Fiction #22)

   The park was a hangout for unsavoury types, a place where the air was thick with the smell of weed, where youngsters in baggy clothes scuffled about, skin covered in acne, eyes dull with rings of ash, eyes that see nothing, ears that hear nothing. As soon as the officers arrived, the kids scattered. The two that stayed grinned and gawked.
   A Bonanza Bike clung to a park bench like a tired teenager. It had seen better days. Its saddle leather cracked, and the high chrome rail had lost all its shine. Tattered cards stuck in twisted spokes, front wheel bent, chain broken. The owner had given its metallic bright blue frame a half-finished black paint job, exuding an air of desperation akin to a Jekyll and Hyde character.
   Red stains on sandy ground, a backpack lay ripped open on the cut grass, its contents sprawled across the lawn, broken glasses, books, pencils, an inhaler, and a letter.
   “I’ll check if the kids saw anything,” said Officer Tadami, and she went to the two skaters sitting on top of the graffiti-covered bench, skateboards between their knees.
   “Calling it in,” replied Officer Parson.
   “That won’t be necessary,” came a voice from behind. “I’ll take it from ere, Officer…Parson.”
   “Excuse me? And you are…?” Officer Parson turned around.
   “Detective Dubois, Interpol,” said the detective. Her serious face, wide green eyes, and no-nonsense smile imparted to Officer Parson in no uncertain terms who was in charge.
   Officer Parson took the finger off his radio. “Interpol? You’re a long way from home.”
   The detective observed the scene and pointed at a spot on the ground. “The victim was kneeling here, judging by the concentration of blood, indicating blunt force trauma to the head.”
   “Have we met?” wondered Parson.
   Elodie moved towards the backpack. “He took a beating here, rolled over, tried to grab the letter, but his assailant snatched it.”
   She put on a blue glove and picked up the crumpled sheet of paper. “A poem. A name. Ophelia,” she said to herself.
   “How do you know it’s a he?”
   “A teenager in love. Messy handwriting, words slanted to the left, signed H. Check all student first names that start with H and cross-reference with school absences, history of violence and bullying,” she instructed, bagged the letter, got up, handed the evidence to Officer Parson and pointed at the line of trees. “Our young poet went into the woods.” She followed the trail of blood. “He fell over, got back up and ran off in this direction. The attacker chased after him.”
   “Kids haven’t seen or heard anything,” Officer Tadami said as she joined them.
   “My partner, Officer Tadami. This is Detective Dubois,” said Parson. “From Interpol,” he added.
   “You’re Detective Elodie Dubois! It’s such an honour to meet you. I follow all your cases!” Rika Tadami held out her hand, grinning and beaming, but the detective looked at her with the same smile she had given Parson.
   “Officer,” Elodie nodded.
   Officer Parson shook his head. He hadn’t recognised the French Detective and didn’t care much for celebrities and now eyed her with sudden disdain that surprised him.
   “Where’s your partner?”
   “On his way. Feel free to check with your boss, but we need full cooperation from here on out. I’m running the prints, both of them. Going to send the results to your box in a minute. What do we know about this girlfriend of his? Ophelia. If she exists, I want her found. She could be in danger.”
   “You think this is a homicide?”
   “It might be nothing. You never know. Better to take precautions.”
   Rika glanced at the two skaters perched up on the bench. “Want me to…” she nodded towards the boys.
   “Non, they haven’t seen anything. Otherwise, they would’ve run off already.” Elodie scanned the line of trees.
   Parson looked at the bagged letter in his hand, his eyes fixed on the blood-stained fingerprints.
   “The backpack,” said Elodie, her voice filled with decades of sadness and anger. She turned to Officer Parson. “Did you check it?” she said, harsher than she intended to.
   “No. We were just about to…”
   “Wait, is this linked to the Black Ice Murders?” Rika burst out.
   Elodie did not reply.
   “The Black Ice Murders? Here? Now? After what? Five? Six years?” Parson shook his head.
   “Seven years, Officer Parson. And last week, we received an anonymous tip. An envelope with a picture of a severed hand, a location carved into its palm. Et voilà, here I am. Coincidence? Non. Mais oui, this—” she pointed around her, “it doesn’t fit our killer’s MO.” She paused. “Still, the photo has led us here. It has to mean something.” Elodie looked around. “What am I not seeing?” Her holoband buzzed, and she tapped it. “Moreau, what have you got?”
   The holographic head of her partner appeared, hovering in mid-air. Both officers looked confounded at the immaterial assistant.
   “I processed the crime scene data and ran the prints. You were correct. He could be a survivor. Henry Olsen, now Heller, sixteen years old, lost his left hand in a car accident ten years ago. It stands to reason that the depicted hand in the image belongs to our victim. Both parents were declared dead on scene. The child went into foster care, bounced from home to home. They never found the hand. The forensics report matched the cut to shrapnel from the car, but I know what you are going to say,” Moreau paused.
   “It was him. He took the hand. A reversal. But why?”
   “You are the detective,” Moreau glinted, holding back his opinion.
   “It was too soon. The accident interfered with his timeline. He took the hand as a consolation prize and let the boy live.”
   “If you can call it that. Apart from petty theft and several misdemeanours, Henry has been in and out of rehab for the past five years. Also, get this, on the day of the accident, the Olsens were on their way to pick up a puppy for their son.”
   “A Labrador.”
   “Tout à fait,” replied Moreau.
   Elodie tapped her holoband, and Moreau’s head vanished. She looked at the backpack, reached into it with her gloved hand, felt its contents. “It’s empty.”
   “Was this...thing...was your partner?” Officer Parson pointed at the space where Moreau had hovered a moment ago.
    “Oui. Takes some getting used to. Moreau is the future of Contre-Criminalité Intelligence Artificielle. Emulate, predict and prevent crime. Become the victim, the culprit, the killer.”
   “How charming. What does Moreau stand for?” Rika asked.
   “Rien. Tout. Better than calling him HICCPU. Holistic Intelligent Counter-Crime Processing Unit. Such a mouthful—Moreau. Plus simple,” Elodie didn’t even try to pronounce her h’s.
   “Why Moreau? Sherlock was already taken?” said Parson.
   “Brain and reason ephemeral and of augmented reality. Ave you ever been to Musée d’Orsay, Officer Parson?”
   “Can’t say that I have.”
   “You should come visit France. If you do, go and see L’Apparition,” Elodie said with a cryptic smile.
   Parson shrugged.
   “Wouldn’t that make you Salome?” interjected Rika.
   Elodie’s eyes sought Rika’s. A sly wrinkle ran around the corner of her mouth. “Peut-être… if it means justice, I will be whoever I need to be.”
   Her holoband vibrated. Moreau appeared.
   “We have a match for Ophelia. Ophelia Brooke, thirteen, no priors. Transmitting details now.”
   “What about the second set of prints?”
   “No match.”
   “Officers, send all available units to this address and secure the girl. We will track down Henry and his assailant. The most likely trajectory based on the evidence and time elapsed is the path beyond the trees. Where does it lead?” Elodie asked.
   “It follows a drained riverbed. There’s a derelict junkyard nearby,” said Parson.
   “That’s where they went.” Elodie marched off towards the line of trees.

                                                                      ⁂

   At the junkyard, they found signs of another struggle.
   “I’m calling for backup,” said Parson.
   They heard a cry, a screeching of metal and a thud from inside.
   “There’s no time. We need to go in now.” Elodie nodded in the direction of the noise and gestured left and right of the mounds of steel. She reached under her Burgundy leather jacket and drew her service weapon. The officers spread out, advancing under cover of the rusted carcasses of cars. Elodie rushed forward straight down the middle.
   “Henry Olsen,” she shouted.
   Henry stood in the middle of the junkyard. The other teenager lay pinned down under toppled-over car parts.
   “Help! He’s crazy, he’s going to kill me. Please, help me!” The boy on the ground cried.
   “Police! Step away, hands where I can see them. Now!” Elodie commanded.
   Parson and Tadami emerged from their covers, weapons raised.
   “It’s over. Hands above your head,” Parson shouted.
   “You don’t understand. He hit me, wrecked my bike, keeps pushing me. He will never stop.”
   “I understand. We’ll deal with him,” Elodie held out a hand, holstering her weapon.
   “He’s the bad guy. Not me!” said Henry, pointing with his prosthetic hand.

to be continued…

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