2. Chinese Whispers

Inspector Stewart Mills wiped the vomit from his lips and tossed the tissue down the toilet to join his lunch before he flushed it.

“Boss? You in here?” Gus, his second in command, hollered from beyond the cubical door.

“Be right out,” he called back.

Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, he ran his hands through what remained of his hair. Just the thought of the mess that waited him outside the door brought on a fresh wave of nausea and he spun retching again. 

“We have a lead. One of the medics is certain he heard the old man say the name Kayla before he died. He’s waiting outside for you to come talk to him.”

Sliding the bolt back, he opened the door to catch sight of his pale reflection in the mirror opposite, wide eyed behind the gold rim of his glasses. He tapped a fag from the box searching his pockets for the lighter.

“Damn it!” he barked, when he found his pockets empty and he stuffed it in his mouth anyway.

Gus led the way out the back door avoiding the main hall and its horrendous revelations and around the outside of the building to join the medic that was puffing restlessly on a fresh cigarette.

Mills to his friends and collegues, flicked his thumb up from his fist in the universal sign for ‘give us a light’ and sucked rapidly until the tip glowed red when the medic passed his cigarette over. The smoke streamed from his nose and he sighed in bliss as he exhaled another stream.

“Thanks, Mr...?” he enquired of the medic.

“Fisher, Alan Fisher.” The medic supplied taking back the cigarette, his hands shaking. “Man, that was the worst fuckin call I ever been to.”

Mills scratched the bald spot at the back of his head, “Damn straight. Any one left alive?”

“One wee lassy was taken in the first bus about half hour ago, but word just came through she didn’t make it.” He raised the fag to his mouth again, his hand shaking so much it took several attempts to place it between his lips.

“I was told you might have information for us?” Mills prompted.

“Oh yeah, the old man, the one with the funny ears said, ‘Kayla did this’ before he died.”

Gus wrote quickly in his notebook, “Was that all he said?”

“Yup, Kaaaylla diiid thisss.” he imitated, “plain as day.”

Several dust masked, black overall clad men walked past them carrying heavy-duty bin bags in to the building. The eyes of the three watching their reluctant steps did not envy them their job. Forensic the writing on their backs read. The clean up crew.

Mills drew their attention back to him, “Do you know how many victims?”

Alan shivered at the thought, “Think I saw bout a dozen heads but wi’ ever’thin else I wasne paying attention… Is that it? Can I go wash up now?”

“Yeah, you can go now, sorry for keeping you.”

Mills slumped down in the drivers seat of the police cruiser and lit his third smoke from the one he was about to toss as he looked over Gus’s notes.

'A tall girl and short guy were seen running from the building shortly after the medics arrived.'

He flicked through the register book someone found in the old mans pocket. All the names but two were ticked off. Kayla McKeown and Connor Folley.

Typing the first name into the onboard computer, he waited for it to make connection with the main frame. Several minutes later it beeped, flashing the last known address. He flicked the butt away and started the engine.

Destination: Oak Tree Hill.