The “High” Road

As it plunged into his skin, the prick of the needle was cold and biting, like the first wind of winter. He depressed the plunger on the syringe and his veins hungrily consumed the clear liquid. He leaned back to let it wash over him. A lot of people were disappointed when they first started using heroin. It didn’t get you hopped up like MDMA or coke, it just made you chill and mellow. Your breath came easy, something would unclench between your shoulders and the hues in the world would glint more. 

Sgt. Henry DuPont had been a recreational user till a few months ago, his substance of choice had been Canadian whiskey and pills. But that changed when his wife left, her parting note still lay facedown on their kitchen counter, unread. More than anything, the empty closet bothered him. His clothes still in place, staring at the void where her things had been gave him vertigo. 

He left the windows on his cruiser open, to get rid of the vinegary smell of cooked heroin. It was a dreary overcast night, the backlot of the studio was occupied by a solitary ambulance, it’s pulsating lights guiding him towards the crime scene. This was his element, where he felt truly alive. Cracking a smile that at the best of times had been described as unsettling, he pulled away the police tape and entered the building. 

The crime scene would be fascinating if this wasn’t his third time seeing the same tableau. A young model, barely out of his teens, reclining on a couch, mouth slightly parted, dripping white foam, eyes rolled all the way back. Fashionable clothes unruffled, as if, in his last moments, the model had been conscious of the creases.  Henry was never a religious person but his years of staring at dead bodies convinced him, there had to be something animating the human body other than blood and bones. 

The forensic techs all wore the same brand and color of jumpsuit. They looked to Henry like a pair of triplets escaped from a futuristic insane asylum. They confirmed his suspicion that the body was unmolested apart from a needle jammed behind the ear. He knew a later analysis would reveal a potent combination of fentanyl and benzos.  Just like the others. 

The sound of loud voices took him to the other room, where his partner was having yet another argument with their primary suspect, the flamboyant “Jaymes” (yes that’s how it’s legally spelled). A silver chiffon tunic hugged his dark skin tightly, the heavily made up face gave extra credence to his outraged expressions. 

“You can’t be serious! Another one of MY models ends up dead,
MY show is in ruins and you’re saying
I’m the suspect?! Me?!”

Henry’s “partner” (try as he might, he could not come up with a better term for the insufferable, smug bastard) was firmly trying to placate the flailing designer. His smooth latin face was unlined, it seemed he hadn’t been on the job long enough (or on the planet for that matter). 

“It’s just a working theory at the moment Mr. Jaymes, so far you’re the only common thread linking all the murder victims” 

“I work with hundreds of models!” the designer fired back. 

Both sets of eyes turned to look at him as he entered. If it weren’t for the heroin, he would’ve withered under their gaze. He gestured for Cal to join him outside. 

“The serial killer angle is too simplistic, it’s like we’re being conveniently pushed in that direction” Henry let out as soon as they were out of ear-shot

“Plus this guy doesn’t fit the MO for someone who’d OD their victims, he looks more like a stab with scissors kind of guy” 

“Interesting theory Sgt…” Cal replied patronizingly 

“But we still have to follow protocol” Henry finished for him, failing to keep the exasperation out of his tone. That was the trouble with these newer officers, they didn’t follow their gut. 

Feeling put-out despite the primo stuff coursing through him. Henry went back to the crime scene. The triplets had already left. The room was suffused with the smell of death, fabrics and clove cigarettes. Henry went to stand beside the smoker. She preferred to be called “the seamstress”, her delicate fingers cradling the cigarette were calloused by years of tailoring. Without a word she offered him the pack, he took one out and she lit it for him. 

“Poor boy, had so much potential” her english was heavily accented, 

“Potential is wasted on the young” Henry sighed. 

“I know what you mean Sergent, the young are all about bombast and aplomb, no accounting for grace or charm, I should know, I was supposed to present my designs at the fashion week this year, but in came Jaymes…” His name rolled off her tongue like something bitter. 

Maybe it was the heroin talking but Henry had an epiphany, he saw the seamstress in a new light. He saw her gripping a needle, dripping with fluid. She’d find easy purchase on the soft flesh behind young ears. Her eyes would glint as Jaymes’ gets led away in handcuffs. 

Henry thought about where the case would go from here; he could go against all established precedent and apprehend the seamstress. A success of that magnitude would propel him to the inner echelons of the RCMP. His shoulders sagged as he imagined himself perched among mountains of paperwork, his eyes glazed over as a creaky old fan rotated above him. He’d probably end up swinging from it. 

On the other hand, he could let Cal arrest the exuberant Jaymes. Let him take all the credit, let him move up the ranks, with his smooth smug face. Maybe Henry would be assigned a new partner, someone who shared his proclivity for narcotics. His face cracked in an involuntary grin as he walked towards the back room, slowly unhooking a pair of handcuffs. 

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