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Clarkes stomach fluttered and flipped nervously as she strode towards the Directors office. She hadn't been working in the department for long and this was the first case she was being asked to lead. She tugged nervously at the hem of of her blouse and smoothed her hands against the fabric. Everything would be fine.
She pushed open the door and flashed a smile at her superior and he beckoned for her to enter. "Shut the door, Agent Griffin, and take a seat." Clarke did as she was asked and sat down in the chair across from the older man. He had dark soulful eyes and his hands were clasped tightly on the desk in front of him. The older mans presence reeked of power and her nerves were only frazzled more.
"You have a case for me, Director Jaha?" She pushed out the words after a moments hesitation and rubbed her hands up and down her thighs several times. Her palms were sweating mildly, a testimony to how important she viewed this assignment.
A curt nod was Jaha's response and he pushed a manila folder across to Clarke. "The explicit details of the murders are in this and you should go over it all later, but I can give you a quick run down now." Thelonious leaned back into his desk chair, not breaking eye contact with his subordinate. "There have been two so far. Both victims were asphyxiated and then strung up from the roof with a rope noose."
Clarke reached across the desk and pulled the folder into her lap, thumbing a corner absently whilst she stood. "I'll get my team on it straight away," she promised, presenting the Director with what she hoped was a confident smile.
"Go catch us a killer, Agent Griffin."
The folder was hugged against her chest as she turned and walked out of the office and she couldn't help but sigh in relief once she was outside.
This case was no stranger than most of others she'd seen during her time on the force, yet there was still something curious about it, something that had Clarke intrigued the moment she'd started to read through the files. Neither of the victims had actually been hanged, but instead hoisted up post mortem (after death). There was no obvious effort put into making the deaths look like a suicide either and it struck her that the murderer must take some perverse pleasure out of seeing the victims arranged in such a fashion. The realisation left her stomach churning and the desire Clarke had had for something to eat, vanished.
There had been no fingerprints or DNA left at either crime scenes, no witnesses or video evidence to help her begin the search for the murderer. All she could do was pour over the autopsy and forensic reports, and the various pictures that went along with them. Clarke even visited both crime scenes, walking around the still-hanging nooses and trying to play out in her head what might have happened.
The first victim had been found in his bedroom. There had been no signs of forced entry, and the alarm system hadn't been triggered. There was an open kitchen window though, the flyscreen cut into and removed. Both forensics and the autopsy report agreed that this man hadn't been given a chance to fight back. He'd been asphyxiated whilst asleep with a tea towel held tightly across the face and then hanged from the ceiling fan. Clarke had originally thought that the tea towel, the murder weapon, might provide some clues, but the assailant had merely picked it up with gloved hands on his way through the kitchen. So she was right back to square one.
Victim two was very similar, though this time it was clear that he hadn't been caught dreaming and dispatched still snoring. The medical examiner had clearly pointed out a shallow wound across the victims neck, suggesting a knife had been pressed into the skin. The assailant had come up from behind and then smothered the victims face and robbed him of his breath. There was no murder weapon found this time, but traces of leather had been found in the victims teeth. He'd tried to fight back, biting into the glove of his attacker, but their grip and conviction had been too strong. Once more, the victim been strung up from the ceiling, hanged.
Yet again there was no evidence to go off, apart from the body. But this time when Clarke circled the noose, she thought to tip her head back and study it as well. It looked like the nooses you'd see in history books detailing the days where criminals were hanged publicly. Research into the knot of the rope proved to her that it was a hangmans knot, exactly the same as the ones drawn into the textbooks. But still, there was no new information or evidence to be gained from the second crime scene either.
Colder and colder the case grew, but Clarke was fuelled by a determination she hadn't known she possessed. There had to be something she'd missed, and eventually it would hit her. She just had to go over the information again until that happened.
Unfortunately, she had been wrong. No matter how many hours Clarke spent pouring over all the documents and photos, regardless of the numerous times she circled under the nooses and meticulously inspected every centimetre of the crime scenes, nothing changed. There was no new evidence or information, and she didn't receive that lightbulb moment she'd been waiting for.
Predictably though, there was another murder. Another man, found and killed in exactly the same ways as the first two. The only difference here was that the media got wind of what was happening and crowded around the house, camera's rolling. Reporters converged on Clarke as she tried to push her way across the lawn to get back to her car after studying the scene. Microphones were shoved into her face and questions screamed at her. It was overwhelming to say the least, but there was a reason behind them targeting her. She was leading this case after all.
Eventually she had enough and rounded on the reporters a few meters away from the door of her car. "I can't comment on what's happened, the official report will be released some time soon. Until then, you're all going to have to wait," she commented sharply. The frenzy of questions didn't cease though, and Clarke made a conscious effort to block them out. They were like vultures, circling and waiting patiently until her resolve died and they had a free pass to feed on her corpse, sucking her dry of information. But the car blocked them out completely and she was free to leave.
Three days later the police report was released and it only intensified the hunger for information in the press. They swarmed around the precinct, waiting to ambush anyone who came in or out. Fortunately most of the officers had managed to remained tight-lipped about the case. Disdainfully, Clarke wondered why they couldn't focus their attention on something more optimistic. Who'd want to read about a psychopath running around suffocating and hanging people? The answer, though. seemed to be that many people in fact would.
Thelonious called her into his office once more, though this time around her nerves weren't a mess. She sat down in the same seat as before and attentively waited for to be told why she was there.
"The reporters won't leave us alone about your case. They've dubbed the murderer 'the Executioner' and articles about the previous two victims have been in almost every newspaper printed this morning." He sounded so resigned, tired of the antics of the media. How many times had he had to put up with their nosey behaviour before? Probably far more often than he'd like. Far more often that she would be able to tolerate in his position. "You're going to have to be present at a press conference in two days time to discuss the murders."
Clarke nodded slowly, her mind whirling and already she was getting nervous. She'd have to think about what to say before the conference. Giving away too much information of sensitive details could be explosive, and it would all blow up in her face.
She found herself in a similar position as the one she'd been in at the beginning. Clarke's stomach was churning uncomfortably and her heart pounded in her chest. She was about to sit in a press conference, accompanied only by the Director and her second, Raven Reyes.
Sweat started to bead on the palms of her hands again and she had to wipe them on her trousers. Thelonious strode into the room and she was expected to follow behind up onto the slightly raised stage and be seated in front of the crowd of reporters. Clarke only allowed her step to falter momentarily, before she did just that. Raven gently brushed her fingers against her back, a small show of comfort, an effort to show that she wasn't alone in this.
Questions rained down on them the moment the three officers were seated. It was like being slapped in the face, sharp and sudden, and she hadn't been prepared for the onslaught. But her lack of experience in this situation didn't make the reporters ease up. If anything, the slight unease that passed over Clarke's features just had them shouting louder. Perhaps they thought that she'd slip something important due to nerves. Unfortunately for them, she was thinking through everything she could say carefully, and wouldn't let them gain any information she didn't want them to.
Thelonious leaned forward into the microphone in front of him and briefly introduced himself and the two women on his right. A wave of confidence hit here when her name was paired with the title 'lead investigator'. She was the leader of this case, and everything would be fine.
Swallowing the last traces of her nerves, Clarke bent forward the microphone so she didn't have to lean across the bench for her voice to be picked up. One question kept being repeated and it was time she gave an answer.
"Many of you are asking if we have suspects, and we're not inclined to tell you who we have being questioned. For the moment that information is too sensitive to be released to the public." She had diplomatically and elusively answered the question, sidestepping the fact that they didn't actually have any suspects in holding or being questioned. The case remained as much a mystery to her and her team, as it was to the general public.
Raven took the next few questions, giving information about the names of the three victims and watered down details of their deaths. All three ignored the questions they weren't prepared to answer, unless they were screamed repeatedly by various parties. Even then, the responses weren't straightforward and didn't produce an clear answer.
Someone near the back of the crowd raised their voice above the noisy chaos, and shouted something that Clarke hadn't excepted to hear. "What do the police think of the name, 'the Executioner?'" It took her aback and her gaze slid sideways to her companions. Thelonious' expression was devoid of any obvious emotion, but Raven looked just as shocked as Clarke felt. What did the police think about the nickname?
Licking her lips quickly, she folded her arms against the top of the bench and leaned forward slightly, collecting her thoughts to answer. It was the first time since they'd walked inside that the room wasn't filled with noise. Every reporter had their camera's rolling or pens poised to scribble down her answer the moment the words let her mouth.
"It's fitting," she started decidedly. "The perpetrator does leave their victims hanged from the ceiling, very similar to how people were executed in the past. It's curious how quickly the nickname caught on though, with almost every paper picking it up within a day. If the person responsible for the deaths of the three young men is looking for attention and recognition for his killings, they're certainly getting it."
The questions after that weren't very interesting, and the three of them jumped to comment whenever they had something to answer or to add to each other's responses. The hour designated to the conference passed reasonably quickly though, and soon enough Thelonious was standing. He made a formal close to the proceedings and then ushered his colleagues out of the room.
When the door was shut behind them, the reporters secured on one side, and them safely on the other, the Director took a moment to beam at the two young officers standing with him. "You both did well in that interview, despite it being your first. They get easier every time," he promised with a knowing look, "and you'll start to pick up what questions are usually asked."
Both women nodded in response and gave each other relieved glances. Whether it got easier or not, it had taken a toll on them both. The stress of watching what they said and the nerves that came with talking to a crowd of strangers had thoroughly burnt Clarke out. She couldn't wait to get home and curl up on the couch to watch TV by that point. But that wouldn't be happening for awhile yet. She still had reports to read through again and a stack of paperwork to get through before she could even entertain the idea of going home.
She'd set up shop in her office in the precinct less than half an hour after the press conference was over. Clarke dived head first into her work and was vaguely aware of time passing around her as she moved from one article to the next.
The TV suspended on the wall just outside her door blared the news at some point in the evening and she registered that her own voice was filtering through the speakers about halfway through the program. The conference had already aired, not that she was surprised. The media had long ago proved how fast it could get information out to the masses.
Time continued to slip away from Clarke and less people milled around the precinct or sat at desks. The TV was switched off and most of the lights in the building flickered out at some point, though she was sure when exactly it had happened. Jaha passed by her office and tossed the keys onto her desk from the doorway, asking her to lock up before she left. After having Clarke work there for several months already, he was aware that she'd sit there all night if it meant getting all her paperwork up to date. And he didn't want to wait around.
She barely reacted to anything that was happening around her all evening. But there was one thing that she couldn't ignore. Clarke stiffened as she felt the cool pressure of a knife against her throat. She'd been so engrossed in her reading that someone had managed to slip into the office undetected. A quiet curse was muttered under her breath and Clarke pressed her lips into a thin line, waiting for her assailant to speak.
"I hear you're looking for me." Warm breath fanned against the back of her neck and a shiver rippled down her spine. The mans voice was dark and confident, and she could hear the smirk in his tone.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Clarke pressed the palms of her hands into the papers on her desk. Her gaze flickered down to the report in front of her. It detailed the murderous activities of the man holding a knife to her throat, the man she was supposed to be tracking down to arrest.
"You're 'the Executioner'," she breathed. "Aren't you?"
Oh, he thought that name was golden. When he'd first read the title in the newspaper it had sent him into a laughing fit. But, it did suit. That didn't mean he didn't chuckle when Clarke spoke like that though.
Leaning down slightly, his breath tickled her ear. "I have a name, Princess."
Confusion and doubt settled in the pit of her stomach. This man had been so careful with his crimes, leaving no trace and no leads. Was he going to turn himself after all that effort? Or was he going to announce his identity and then slaughter her in the same way as the others?
Clarke licked her lips nervously, breath hitching in her throat. Her heart was pounding, thoughts racing through her head. "So do I, funnily enough."
The corner of her attackers mouth quirked upwards into an amused flicker of a smile. He pulled away from Clarke and straightened up, but the knife was steady in his grip and didn't move a millimetre.
"Agent Griffin, I know. I saw your interview," he teased. She turned her head slightly to the side, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Long, cold fingers fiddled with the ends of her hair and danced across the middle of her back. Unease pooled in her chest and her fingers started to whiten as she pushed down against the table more forcefully.
Hesitating a moment, she briefly thought about the repercussions of asking the question on the tip of her tongue. Clarke didn't think it would worsen the situation any, and if she managed to escape this psychopath alive, more information would make him easier to track down and convict. Resolutely she insisted, "And you would be?"
Silence was her initial answer. For a moment she wondered if that was the wrong thing to say. Unconsciously she held her breath, waiting to see if a hand would clamp down over her mouth and suffocate her, or if the knife would press deep into her throat and leave her spluttering blood.
Neither happened though, and when the man spoke again, she breathed our heavily. "I go by Murphy." Each word was slowly spoken and deliberate. He'd thought about the sentence before he uttered it, only giving away what he wanted to.
Surprisingly, he pulled back the knife and held it in front of Clarke's face for a moment. "You won't be able to catch me, Princess." Forcefully Murphy impaled the knife into the wooden desk, straight between two of her fingers. The blade had barely missed her flesh and she jerked back her hand. Imbedded to the hilt, she stared at the weapon, eyes wide as dinner plates.
He stalked around to the front of her desk and leaned down, finally showing his face to Clarke. Murphy bared his teeth at her in a feral grin. He rested his hands on the desk and leant across so they were nose to nose. She became trapped in his predatory glare, the cocky upward tilt of his lips and the mess of dark hair. Their breath mingled together in the small gap between their faces and the silence stretched on endlessly.
She was the one to break it, deciding to call his bluff. "Now that I've seen your face I can easily track you. You even gave me a name or alias to track you down with." Clarke spoke barely above a whisper. She hadn't wanted to shatter the silence, but felt it was necessary.
Picking one hand up off the desk, he reached forward to hold her chin firmly in his gloved fingers. Murphy forced her head back and smoothed his thumb across her jaw bone. His gaze had dropped to her neck and he took notice of every twitch of every muscle in her throat as she swallowed and breathed. After a long drawn out moment, he lifted his eyes to meet hers once more.
"You won't have the grounds to arrest me." He spoke so confidently that doubt prickled in the back of her mind. He must have a alibi, she realised, and a pretty solid one if Murphy was so sure he could get away with admitting who he was to the woman trying to catch him.
"There are security camera's all over this place," Clarke pressed. "At least one of them will catch you and debunk any alibi you think will keep you safe."
Harsh laughter escaped Murphy's lips and he was shaking his head before she'd even finished her sentence. "Princess, I didn't just saunter through the front door and there are no camera's in your office. You'll have no evidence of my presence except a wound in your desk." His gaze flickered towards the knife still embedded in the wood. Murphy relinquished his grasp on Clarke's chin to yank it out. The cut in the furniture piece was so clean and thin it was easy to miss without the knife hilt there to mark it.
He straightened up and slipped the knife into the pocket of his jacket. Apart from his facial features, one detail that Clarke would never forget about Murphy was the spiky red shoulder on his leather jacket. It was strange of her to notice, but it would be forever burned into her memory.
"This case will go cold soon. There won't be any more bodies," Murphy promised her, his tone only conveying a vague interest in the continuation of their conversation. "I've eliminated the people that wronged me most."
Clarke didn't take any satisfaction out of hearing him say that. She couldn't hold him to those words, and if Murphy so wished, his killing spree could continue. "I will catch you." They were the only words that she could formulate, the only thing that made sense to say. He laughed again at her and circled around behind Clarke once more. She was glued to her desk chair, unable to stand or turn around to face him. He could easily press the blade to her throat again if she made one wrong move.
His voice was distant when she next heard it. "You keep telling yourself that, Princess." They were the last words she heard Murphy say that night and were followed by the soft click of the office window being pulled shut. Clarke sat their in silence for a moment before slapping her hand down on her desk loudly and violently. She'd had him right there in the room with her and fear had left her incapable of acting. She'd lost him, let him slip through her fingers and shame burned hot in her chest.
The next morning, and the days afterwards, Clarke threw herself into searching for Murphy tirelessly. She scoured all of the security footage from the night of his visit, not leaving any of the camera's unchecked. One had picked up a dark silhouette rounding the corner of the building and crossing the street, but none of that was helpful. The only camera that might have helped her had been knocked out of place and was facing the sky. Clarke was convinced that Murphy had been responsible for the carelessly thrown basketball that had swung it out of position. It was too convenient to be a coincidence.
She did end up finding several people with connections to the name Murphy and even managed to narrow it down to a familiar face. John Murphy. That was his name. That was her murderer. The picture attached to his file made him unmistakeable.
Clarke acquired an address and stormed up to the doorway of his apartment and hammered on the wood with her first. It swung open and those predatory eyes of his glittered coldly. A smirk pulled Murphy's lips upwards, he knew exactly who she was and why she was on his doorstep. But true to his word, the alibi was rock solid. Almost a dozen people confirmed it and Clarke just ended up frustrated.
She was at a loss as to how to continue after that. Regardless of how many more times she went over the details of the murders, there was nothing more to be found. There were no lightbulb moments and no other bodies turned up hanged from the ceiling. The case did indeed go cold and there nothing that Clarke could do about it, despite how badly it pained her to know he was walking free. She had no grounds to arrest Murphy on, exactly as he'd said.