Title: Angel
Of Death
Author: Demeter94
Pairing: none;
Claire-centered
Rating: PG
Summary: Claire gets more
than she bargained for with the current case,
Word Count: 1,607
Notes: Written for the
Three Fic Challenge on passion_perfect. Story # 2, Claire-centric. Thanks to Lyn
for the beta!
Angel
of Death
By Demeter
When Claire Washburn sat down in her office to do some paperwork, she realized that her hands were shaking. They had been steady minutes ago when she'd finished the autopsy, not betraying her even when she, just for a minute, had allowed the thought that the girl on the table was the same age as her youngest son.
Staring at the black computer screen
without turning it on, she remembered the words of her teachers, one in
particular, who'd told her to be cautious. "You never know when it
happens. You do a hundred autopsies and be fine, and then comes that
hundred-and-first victim, and they get to you."
She
realized she hadn't thought about that in a long time, and why? She was good at
her job, figuring out the stories that the dead told, doing her part in bringing
them justice - as the majority of them were murder victims - but she'd never
been squeamish, or too horrified to do her job.
Today's victim had almost been the
one.
Monday morning, a family of four,
mother, father, the girl and her baby brother. Mother goes up the stairs to her
daughter's room to wake her -- and finds her dead. The windows are closed; no
sign of forced entry anywhere, and yet, he had to have come in somehow, choked
her to death.
It wasn't until the police had
arrived at their place that the traumatized parents became aware of the wooden
figurine standing on their daughter's pink nightstand.
An angel, about 5 inches in size,
hands folded in prayer.
Lindsay had told her that the parents
hadn't been ruled out as suspects yet. Still, they claimed they didn't know
where the angel came from, and if that was true, there were even worse
possibilities. It could be a signature, telling them that he was going to kill
again. Another child.
Claire leaned forward, resting her
head in her hands.
In her line of work, she couldn't
allow herself to think too deeply about a murder victim's last moments, about
their fear and pain. It would immobilize her if she did. Yet, there was
something about this case, this girl, that endangered her professionalism.
There was an intern once who called
her Angel of Death behind her back; at the time, Claire had laughed if off; she
found it quite horrible to think about it now.
He'd been young and arrogant. What
had been his name again?
She finally powered up the computer,
pondering as she was waiting.
"So...
I guess after I'm through here, I'll be able to commit the perfect murder?"
An
awkward silence had followed his words, Claire remembered, something he didn't
even notice. Lindsay, who had also been present, had been shooting daggers with
her glance. He remained oblivious. "Just kidding, guys."
"Had me fooled there for a minute," she'd retorted, knowing sarcasm wouldn't have much of an effect.
As she began to type her report, the
lines soon started to blur before her eyes. She didn't want to think of him
anymore, or dead little girls, or killers' signatures.
Claire hadn't felt like taking sick
leave in a long time, but today, she did.
She was just as sure that she
wouldn't. Maybe just take a little break...
Maybe one of the girls would be up
for a coffee. She dialed Lindsay's number first, because she, too, had touched
the cold stiff fingers of the girl that the killer had folded in prayer, too.
Just who or what was she meant to be
praying for?
***
She brought work home sometimes, but
tried to keep it limited, because you've got to draw the line somewhere, make a
decision if you wanted to invest in your job and be good at it, or get eaten up
by it.
Tonight, it wasn't files or paperwork
to pour over - it was her mind that
couldn't take a break.
Angel of Death.
There was some significance in that,
but she didn't know what, and it made her crazy. Lindsay agreed that this was
likely the work of someone who'd killed before, and/or would kill again.
"Bad day?" Ed asked, and
she just smiled, letting him know she appreciated him asking. He didn't need any
words for confirmation anyway; the kids hadn't noticed that she was
absent-minded, only half-listening to their chatter, but he had.
Their sons had already left the
table, so it was just the two of them, sitting close enough that she could lean
against him a bit. Her thoughts were wandering.
***
At night, she slipped out of bed,
making herself tea and carrying it into the office where she turned on the
computer. Claire didn't know yet what she was searching for, but today's memory
had sparked another... so strange she hadn't thought about this in some time.
One day, she had sent him out of the room, because he had made a comment on a
dead woman's body that had made her furious.
You couldn't do this job if you
thought too much of a victim's story, their lives and dreams harshly interrupted
- but if you couldn't give them the dignity they deserved, you *shouldn't* do
it.
He had apologized, and nothing ever
happened again during his internship, but Claire had been very glad when he was
gone.
Why was she thinking about him all
the time now?
Maybe, because it was better than
thinking of the dead girl, lying in her bed. Her eyes, Lindsay had said, had
been wide in terror. She'd known something terrible was about to happen - and it
did.
***
Two days later, the Angel of Death
came to visit again. Another girl dead in a suburban home, another distraught
family - another angel figurine left at the scene.
This time, they got a lucky break;
there was a partial print left on the girl's nightstand, which led them to a man
who had been working for a catering service that both families
had employed in the last two weeks.
He had no alibi.
He had a prior conviction for
attempting to kidnap a child.
That night, Claire got an email from
someone calling themselves 'Angel of Death'.
***
"Dr. Haslett. I see you prefer
to work with the living, after all. You had me wondering for a while."
"Dr. Washburn, nice to see you.
You're still making a living out of cutting up dead bodies?"
If she hadn't recognized him right
away, Claire would have now. He might be in his mid-thirties now, but he still
had that spoiled-brat air about him that spoke of generations of money before
him. The neighborhood where he'd opened his practice spoke of that, too.
"At least, they don't talk back to me,
and they never ask stupid questions, either."
He laughed. "Still the same, I
see. Why did you want to see me?"
Claire felt her heart beating faster.
Not a good moment for showing nerves, but she knew she wouldn't. It was her
strong suit that she could remain calm, when inside she just... wasn't. "I
needed your expertise, as I recalled that your hobby was wood carving. Did you
ever do any religious symbols?"
He looked at her intently, and she
held his gaze, unflinching.
"I understand you never quite
seemed to like me, but I heard they caught that nut who murdered the little
girls, so--"
If they were in an interrogation room
at the precinct, and if she were Lindsay, she'd probably wear that little,
triumphant, 'gotcha' smile now. Claire didn't feel like smiling; in fact, she
felt rather terrified.
"It was nowhere in the press
that 'that nut' left carved figures at the scene. But you were seen at the
internet café from which an email was sent to me. The guy whose print was
found? I think you helped him out with money, and he didn't yet know what kind
of deal he signed. Why children?"
She'd seen that expression before,
years back, when he talked about the dead woman in a way that had made Claire
think he should be excluded from the profession. Her instincts had been all
right.
"Don't tell me you never think
about it," he said. "You find the mistakes they make. Don't you ever
wonder if, with all that knowledge, you could commit the perfect murder? And
once you do, let me tell you, it's addictive. You want more of that rush. As for
your question, Claire, there's no particular meaning. They just don't fight back
that hard."
It made her want to scream at him,
punch him, but Claire did none of these things. She patiently waited for the
words she knew would come, "I'm glad we finally got to talk about it, but
I'm sorry, Claire, surely you know I can't leave you alive now."
She'd known he would reach for the
gun in the drawer now. Claire had also known that Lindsay would kick that door
open and have him cuffed before he could ever go through with it.
"They will love you in
court," Jill told him, the tone of her voice conveying that she was just as
sick about what she'd just heard.
Claire stayed reasonably calm through
it all, removing the small microphone from under her blouse, getting up on
surprisingly steady legs to leave the house of a former colleague who'd murdered
just to see if he could do it, and then again, because he liked it so much.
She'd try not to think too hard about
it.
Fortunately, she had friends who'd,
just like always, helped to maintain some sort of sanity in an insane world.
The End