The small room was completely dark, only the heavy breathing of a sleeping man disturbing the subtle noise of the street at night. A phone buzzed on the nightstand and the man stirred, not yet awake. The vibration persisted, a low and guttural noise that made the man finally reach for the device.

"What?" he groaned, his voice hoarse from sleep.

A car honked in the distance. The man listened to the voice on the other side of the line and dropped his shoulders in defeat.

“Do they always have to die at unthinkable hours?” he mumbled, hanging up. The screen glared in his face. It was 1 A.M., he had only slept two hours.

He stood up with a grunt and staggered into the bathroom. He was exhausted, his joints felt rusty, his movements clumsy, his vision blurry. He could barely see the toothbrush in his hand.

“Fuck!” he cursed, shaking some toothpaste off his hand. “Get your shit together, John!”

He was used to working ungodly hours, he even preferred them despite his whining. Coming home exhausted and falling straight to sleep was better than the company of his own thoughts. Much better to deal with murder, criminals, and sleepless nights than his own treacherous mind.

Today, though, felt different. He had barely a couple of hours of sleep, and could hardly coordinate his limbs. It took him longer to get dressed. He prepared the strongest coffee he could, but it seemed to do little in the way of waking him up. He had to get going, but he didn't feel half ready.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t coordinate himself. He was already by the side of his car when he remembered he hadn’t locked his front door.

“Shit,” he whispered, walking back to the house. He fiddled a few seconds with the wad of keys on his keying and finally found the house key. He turned the key in the lock, while contemplating the idea of stabbing himself to death with it. "You feel like crap, John," he mumbled to himself and walked back to the street where he parked his car. When he finally folded into the driver’s seat, he thanked god for the working heating system. Outside, the temperature was well below zero, the ground crackling under a passing couple’s feet. He watched the young pair in disbelief. “What the bloody hell is wrong with these two? It’s too fucking cold for romance,” he mumbled, starting the car.

He licked his dry lips and reached for the thermos flask in his cup holder. His coffee was one of the few things he felt true love towards and took great pride in packing every day. He even regarded himself as a bit of a master. He had, after all, very few pleasures in life, and even fewer that were acceptable by society, so might as well get extremely good at what he was allowed to enjoy. Three gulps of hot coffee were enough to get him driving, he thought, so he replaced the thermos n the holder and put the car in reverse to angle out of the car park on the side of his street.

Grateful for the night’s empty streets, he drove silently towards the crime scene. He was, however, still pissed that this murder had to interrupt his much needed sleep. Why can’t people have the sense to kill each other at a reasonable hour? He didn’t think his occasional sleep was optional and when he didn’t get it, he turned into a bastard. Otherwise, he thought of himself as quite a nice gent.

He drove down a narrow street and almost hit a stray cat. He realised he was close to the scene of the crime. He decided to leave his car on Brecknock Road, he could use the cold air to freshen up. Walking towards the cluster of police cars ahead, he hoped that his DI remembered to be careful with him tonight, after interrupting his few hours of sleep.

The bulky man in question pulled a wool hat down his forehead, knowing full well his Sergeant’s predicament. He watched the tall man approaching with his hand tight around that thermos of his like his life depended on it.

“Good morning, John!” he said, trying to hide a grin.

“Fuck off. Sir,” John replied, swallowing loudly. The DI laughed heartily.

“All that bloody coffee would kill you, John. You know that, right?” the older man tried for a conversation.

"Yeah. At least I’ll be able to have a proper sleep then, wouldn’t I?”

“Settle now, lass. Do I need to put you on suicide watch?”

“You can respectfully fuck off. Again. Sir. And skip the pleasantries. I’m not into that.”

“Fine,” the Inspector shrugged. “One of our constables found a body. Said she was already frozen when found.”

"When?" John asked, taking another hungry gulp of coffee.

“Forty minutes ago. See, John? I spared your beauty sleep as much as I could.”

“Yeah, yeah. Very fucking kind of you, Victor Sir”

“Ungrateful bastard,” the man whispered, starting towards the crime scene. “You coming, Serge?”

John let out a frustrated breath and followed his DI.

From the outside, one might see their exchange of pleasantries as crass or unsuitable for their respective positions, John thought, taking in the sight of Victor’s wide back. He suppressed a laugh and the need to remind him for the thousandth time that he needed to lose significant weight. The man had slowly doubled in size over the years they have known each other John made a note to himself to suggest a diet of some sort and slid underneath the police tape. He felt a sliver of concern for the old bastard.

The crime scene was a square of white and blue tape around four almost perfectly placed trees. In the middle was a wooden bench sporting some stupid graffiti and right beside it, an overflowing bin.

The body was positioned unnaturally, half underneath the bench, on her stomach with her skirt pulled all the way over her head. She was extremely skinny, with bruises on her thighs and buttocks.

“The fuck is this, boss?”

“I believe it looks exactly like a textbook sex crime, Sergeant,” the heavy man tried to joke, but his smile froze when meeting John’s eyes. “What is it?”

The Sergeant walked closer, stepping carefully, but his tired balance wasn’t very reliable. He struggled on his knees, bent down and looked intently at the victim’s rear.

A young constable couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight; John flipped him a careless middle finger.

“What is it, Sergeant?” the DI repeated his question, now close behind John.

“He’s back, Victor,” John said, rising to his feet.

“Get out of here.”

“Trust me, I would love nothing more, but he’s back, boss. The cocksucker is back and I want him.”

Victor stepped carefully past his Sergeant and looked closely himself. A frustrated gasp escaped him when he saw it. His mark, the Bloody Rapist’s signature. He motioned for a technician and asked him to photograph the small carving just below her left labia: the number 12.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling his hat off in frustration.

John was now back on the other side of the police tape, sipping his coffee. He looked nothing but calm and together though Victor saw the whitening knuckles around his flask. John was boiling inside and wanted to bash someone’s head in.

“Number twelve. The fucker.”

“Who found her?” They spoke at the same time.

Victor considered his remark as being less important at this time and answered:

“The young constable over there. She was an hour off duty when she saw the body.”

John’s eyes followed Victor’s finger and stopped on a petite woman nervously fidgeting with her uniform hat. She was as white as a ghost and looked ready to vomit.

Without another word, John walked towards her and stretched his hand to shake hers.

She seemed unsure of what to do for a second, looking up at him, then she finally took his hand.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Kirsten. Kirsten Yell,” she said, clearing her throat.

“Your first dead body?”

She nodded, her lips parted. His stomach did a familiar flip, but he shook his head to chase it away.

“So, what happened?”

Straightening her back, Kirsten opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with a raised hand. Swallowing another big mouth of coffee, he said:

“Tell me everything, every detail. Understood?

She nodded, already too intimidated.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Sir is my DI. Call me John,” he said, trying to shrug off another stomach back flip. “Go on.”

Clearing her voice again, Kirsten began:

“I went my usual route, through the park. I usually go this way because I like walking through the park. There were a couple of drunken teenagers. I woke them up and told them I would call their parents. One of them seem really scared but the other needed more convincing. I lost almost half an hour on these two.”

John nodded, emptying his thermos with one last sip.

“Ok, so I finish with the two kids and I continue into the park. I almost didn’t see her, at first. It was dark there, before the crime scene lights. Actually, if I hadn’t heard a twig snap behind me I wouldn’t have turned to look at all. And there she was, under the bench.”

"Wait. What twig? Details, Constable. Details!" John interrupted, annoyed.

Kirsten took a deep breath and started again, with big pauses between her words.

“I walked into the alley. I passed the bench because I didn’t see anything suspicious. It was like I told you. I almost reached that intersection, right there. I wanted to go right, as I always do, so I can walk through the entire park, towards Montpelier Grove, on the other side where I leave my car. When I got to the intersection, I heard a twig or something behind me and I turned to look. It was dark so I flashed my torch on and that’s when I saw her. I thought she was drunk, passed out, but when I got to her and shook her, she was ice cold and rigid, like bone. I called it in and waited back in the alley.” She exhaled a cloud of warm air, relieved to have finished talking. A whiff of mint and something sweet reached his nostrils.

“Where did it come from?”

She looked confused. “Sorry, Sir?”

“The crack. Where did it come from? From her side?” he insisted, getting visibly impatient.

She swallowed hard, scared that she might say something wrong.

“Uh, no, not from that direction. Sir. I think.”

“You think? Think harder, Constable,” he raised his voice, frustrated that he didn’t have any more coffee left.

“That’ll be all, Constable. John?” Victor’s voice came from behind.

The Inspector nodded at Kirsten, motioning her to leave. “You’re relieved, Constable. Thank you."

“Make sure if you remember anything else, you tell us,” John threw over his shoulder, turning towards Victor. “What the fuck, boss? She still had something to say.”

“Careful, Sergeant. Even my patience is running low.” He looked into John’s eyes, relying a message only years of friendship could. “She was done, John. If she remembers something I think she’d let us know. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, right. …”

“Um, Sir?” Kirsten’s small voice interrupted.