Chapter V

A shock
O’Malley read the piece of paper for the 15th time. His hands still trembled. It was almost too good to be true. Almost unreal.

The Poole Street Police Headquarters in Downtown Boisen Bay was a heritage building. It had served as the police station for close to a 150 years. Over the years people had changed it and upgraded it. Some with more imagination than others. But it still had an air of foreboding and gothic horror that loomed over the street. The ground floor was where the uniforms hanged out. Where they brought in people, booked them, harassed them. The basement had the holding cells. The dungeons.

The first floor was where the detectives and higher officer’s sat. Apart from the computers the place was still the same as 50 years ago. Creaking fans, white-washed walls, wooden desks and a red floor. Rows of old desks and swivel chairs spread all over the massive open floor. The walled-off office with horizontal blinds belonged to Quinn. The whole floor was empty, except for O’Malley. The silence was only broken by the constant and reassuring hum of the computers. Every now and then voices from downstairs would come through. The uniforms cracking jokes, or harassing prostitutes and drunks. It was late. Very late.

The last few days had been chaos. They had found solid forensic evidence. The car had prints and DNA from almost every victim. The knife DNA was matched to Eduardo. An orgy of evidence. But then the psych report came out. They knew about Eduardo's mental disablity. Some human rights groups got involved and hired flashy lawyers to defend him. The prosecution wasn’t ready to be beat. So they sent in their best as well. The media was in frenzy. Like jackals at a kill. The city couldn’t get enough of it. The trial was due to start in three days. Poison Bay held its breath.

O’Malley put down the piece of paper and sighed. There was only one thing he could do.

He walked up to Quinn’s office and threw the door open without knocking. Quinn was slurping some noodle soup out of a plastic container. He seemed surprised at the intrusion. O’Malley tossed the piece of paper at him.

“What’s this?”, Quinn asked, squinting at the piece of paper, trying to read it without bothering to put on his glasses.

“I got it from the Maine Street station on the northside”, O’ Malley said. “It says that they arrested one Eduardo Sanchez, the Eduardo Sanchez, for disturbing the peace at 7:13 PM. He was drunk and knocking over garbage cans. They threw him the lockup. Next morning, they realized his…. Err… condition and let him go.”

“So?” Quinn sounded annoyed.

“The date chief. Look at the date. The same day, at 3 AM, the body of Ann Rosenow was found at the docks. The whistler’s third victim.”

Quinn couldn’t hide the shock on his face. He set aside his instant noodles and reached for his spectacles.
“Okay” he said after reading it, “Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe no. 3 was a copycat.”

“Ah!”, this was just what O’Malley had hoped for, “But the knife. We found the knife with Sanchez’s DNA next to no.3. We even found no. 3’s hair in the boot of the Sanchez’s car.”

The colour started to fade from Quinn’s face. Fast.

“See. This confirms what I have been suggesting all along. He didn’t do it. He’s almost a retard. And this just confirms it."