The Hedgehog and the Fox - Claws

[x-roulette.livejournal.com]

Jennie and Clint meet with the Danish police, and are put on the path of Copenhagen's newest serial killer.



The offices of the Politiet, or Danish National police, were housed in the Københavns Politigård, a stately neoclassical building. Like the rest of the country, it was neat, and orderly, with uniformed officers running to and fro. Entering the station was a young woman wearing a British police officer's uniform, her tie denoting the rank of inspector. Next to her was a man in a subdued blue suit.

"Can I help you?" the desk sergeant asked as the they approached.

"Inspector Jennifer Green of the London Metropolitan Police Service," the woman said in a London accent, producing paperwork. "This is my companion Jonathan Smith, of the CIA, we called ahead earlier?"

"Ah," the sergeant brightened. "Yes of course, please proceed down the hall, Rigspolitichefen Hans Akeslson is expecting you."

"Thank you," Jennie Stavros gave him a crisp nod.

"Smooth," Clint murmured once they were far enough down the hall that the receptionist wouldn't overhear the comment. "I like it. I'm gonna keep my mouth mostly shut, see if I can pick up on anything that might be useful. Reading upside down and backwards - oddly useful skill."

"Hopefully you can read Danish," Jennie muttered back in a sing-song.

They were ushered into a room that seemed to be the command center for the Dansermordor as he had been dubbed. A string of killings that had plagued Copenhagen for three months, and if other reports were to be believed, in parts of Sweden and Norway too. The man that met Jennie and Clint was a kind-eyed blond of middle age.
"Ah, Inspector Green, thank you so much for coming." He shook her hand.

"Not a problem," Jennie replied in her London accent. Even to a trained ear, it was flawless. She'd studied hard enough for it. "This is my companion Jonathan Smith of the CIA, he helped provide us some intel that nabbed our killer in London over four years ago."

Akeslson nodded at Clint and shook his hand as well. "I am sorry to have you here under such horrible circumstances."

"They're definitely not idea," Clint said, expression somber. "But if there's anything we can do to help, I'm happy to be here." He'd let Jennie take the floor while he scanned the maps, clippings, and photographs displayed in various parts of the room. While he did not, in fact, speak Danish, he had a good memory and could memories maps like it was nobody's business. He just hoped the maps weren't color coded or something.

"We checked in on our boy," Jennie handed over the files, letting the Rigspolitichefen leaf through them as she talked. "Richard Deerfield was convicted of five separate counts of murder in the Croydon area of London. Called the Croydon Killer, he attacked immigrants and undesirables, thinking they wouldn't be missed. Deerfield is the son of a Viscount, and thought that his father's connections would protect him and his dirty little habit. The courts disagreed. He is still serving his five consecutive life sentences in maximum security, those are images and logs of surveillance footage. Whoever you have up here may be copying the methods but not the motives."

Areas of interest, little strings attaching tacks to other tags, photographs of the women who'd been murdered. "And not the victimology," Clint offered. "Deerfield targeted undesirables, as Inspector Green said. Your victims are all fairly well off, educated, employed..."

"And dancers," Akeslson added, "that seems to be our common thread. The first one was found in July, and he's been getting bolder and bolder. Our last one was found five days ago, in a parking structure in Indre By, obviously killed offside and then dumped due to the lack of blood and the wounds on the body."

"Any other patterns you've noticed?" Jennie said, looking at the map. Black dots marked the dumps of the bodies, far more than the Croydon Killer ever accomplish.

"None, other than the ones we've already noted. Especially the--"

"Physical resemblance," Jennie said quietly. She looked at the latest victim, a girl with wide blue eyes and short black hair. Ingrid, Jennie noted. Her name was Ingrid.

"Obviously, whoever this is has a connection to your case in more ways than one. And a grudge."

"Yes," Clint murmured, mind ping-ponging through options as he memorized the maps. They had most of the other information and he could probably pick out the headlines from various newspapers if he needed to. He didn't think he would, though. Jennie seemed to have this well in-hand.

"We will assist in any way we can," Jennie said, professional veneer still firmly in place. She briefly locked eyes with Clint.

"Excellent, let's go over the maps some more..."

---

"So, any thoughts on the pattern?" Jennie said, back in her own accent. They had adjourned to a safehouse in Copenhagen, provided by one of Clint's redheads. Boxes of takeout littered the table, along with maps that Clint had painstakingly recreated.

"Nothing in the drop sites - they've done the geographical analysis. The area in between all the place where the bodies were found is too large to narrow anything down. Makes sense, given who we're probably dealing with," Clint said, breaking open a fortune cookie. He ate it without bothering to look at what was written on the little piece of paper. "You've got more experience on this end of mission planning than me. I'm usually set up waiting for my window so I can take a shot. What do you make of all this? If it's Fian, then will he be using any of his old habits?"

"If it was his old habits, it would be smash first, let everyone else clean up later," Jennie said dryly. "He doesn't do careful planning. --Didn't do," she corrected. "This playing a game, messing with the cops, with me-- it's not him. He hated stuff like this. Used to say 'the mad bastards should just grow a feckin' pair and do what they come to do instead of muckin' about.'" She set the carton in her hand down. "So, more evidence of how Mother just takes everything in you and makes it... worse."

Opening another fortune cookie, Clint said, "Okay, yeah. He and I were on a team for the same reason in Moscow. I get that. But there's something of him left in there, if he's doing all this just to get your attention. Where would he go to ground? Did he have, I don't know, a particular thing he was attached to more than anything else. Some things... y'know, they're ingrained, they're under your skin, you can't get rid of them. What's like that for him?"

Jennie closed her eyes and thought, twisting a gold ring on her finger. "He... loved maps. Just, knowing where everything was. Having it all down. He memorized them, he even had The Knowledge, it's something London taxi drivers have, they memorize a map of London, have to take a test. It supposedly makes your brain bigger. That's why he was the driver and not me," Jennie added with a smile. "What else. Folklore. Stories. It's where he got his name, Fian, it's a legendary Irish warrior. Um. Water. He grew up next to the sea?"

Clint hummed, breaking his fortune cookie open to discard the paper before popping half of it into his mouth. He pointed at the map. "Look, each victim was found near a body of water. Within walking distance. Wonder if we can talk to local cabbies here, see if the locations have anything in common from that angle - something that makes them stand out to a driver that we - and the police - wouldn't necessarily notice."

"That... is a fantastic idea," said Jennie.

Grinning, Clint waggled his eyebrows a little. "Every now and then."