The Cutter

Gareth Brine gripped the steering wheel of the rental hatchback, its once-bright green paint now chipped and dull from years of neglect. The car groaned with every shift and turn, doors creaking, engine whining. It wasn't much, but it was his ride for the moment, courtesy of the Bureau. He didn't mind, it seemed more reliable than the humvee he'd been driving for past few years.

The light turned green, and the car shot forward, tearing through the intersection. Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport loomed ahead. The air was thick with the smell of rain and diesel. Storm clouds churned like a brewing war, dark and menacing, their shadows swallowing the asphalt.

Gareth tightened his grip, the weight of the day pressing down. He'd been to airstrips like this before—only those were scarred by bomb craters and crawling with soldiers. Some were friendly, others… less so.

He shot past crowded drop-off lanes, sluggish traffic, travelers dragging luggage behind them. TSA officers moved in a robotic daze, uniforms neat but posture slack. A quick glance at the darkening sky reminded him of sandstorms, dust choking out the sun. But this time, it was rain.

Despite his youth, Gareth felt the weight of his past pressing down on him. The investigator role was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to escape the darkness that had followed him since his discharge.

He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, the crackling cellophane offering brief comfort. With a practiced flick, he lit the lighter, the small flame casting a brief glow inside the car. But as the cigarette neared his lips, he hesitated. The burn of nicotine had always been a crutch, a way to drown his demons. Now, it felt like a chain, pulling him back to the darkness he was desperate to leave behind. He extinguished the flame and dropped the cigarette back in the pack.

His eyes shifted to the beige folder on the passenger seat. The edges were frayed, the file unnervingly thin considering the case's weight, a decade of murders, the evidence sparse, pointing to a killer who was precise, almost surgical. He didn't fault the previous investigator for the thin file, but he wasn't sure he could trust someone who'd spent ten years finding nothing.

Frustrated, he tossed the folder aside and slammed the car door open. He squared his shoulders, the weight of the task ahead settling on him.

Duty called. It always did.

He sighed, stepped into the cooling air, and walked toward the terminal, the storm following close behind.

William Moore adjusted the collar of his coat against the encroaching cold, his breath puffing out in small, misty clouds.

William stretched, his back protesting from the cramped flight. The aches and stiffness were a harsh reminder of how much he had aged over the years.

"Must be getting old," he muttered with a wry chuckle.

"Agent Moore?" came a voice from behind him. William turned to see a young man approaching, his blue eyes and blonde hair framing a face that while young seemed betray an older mind. "William Moore?" the man repeated as he drew closer.

"Gareth Brine, I assume?" William asked, half inquiring, half confirming.

"Yes, um, yes sir," He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down before extending the same hand to William. "Nice to meet you."

William regarded the offered hand for a moment, then clasped it firmly and shook it. "Likewise. Did you get any information about the case yet?"

"No sir, I just arrived,"

"All right then, I suppose you're my ride,"

"That I am sir, this way," Gareth turned bidding William to follow.

"No need to call me sir, Will is fine,"

"Yes sir, uh, I mean Will,"

William smiled, Franklin wasn't wrong about the boy being a veteran, clearly he was still adjusting to civilian life.

"How long did you serve?" Asked William as he stepped off the curb and onto the road, the car looked shoddy but, well he wasn't going to complain, Gareth popped open the trunk and took William's bag, easing it in.

"Six years,"

"That's a long time," William shut the boot and hopped into the car, the passenger seat was fine he figured, Gareth climbed after causing the car to sway and groan.

"I suppose, though…" Gareth paused turning the key, and the car whined to life, "You piece of shit."

"What?"

"Oh, no, not you sir, the... the car."

William chuckled waving his hand dismissively, "No need to be nervous boy,"

"I'm no boy. Sir."

"No,' said William his face dropping as he looked in Gareth cold, icy eyes. "I'd wager you're not, sorry."

Gareth sighed and shoved the car into gear, "I'm used to it,"

They sat in silence as Gareth drove, down terminal drive up onto the I-10. William watched the city pass as they hurled down the highway, it was greener than he thought it'd be. They followed the I-10 as it wedged itself between two cemeteries, their lawns decorated with above ground tombs. William frowned as they passed them, next to one was some kind of old, opulent manor, and a circus seemed to be either setting up or packing up on its acreage.

When last had he been to circus he wondered, had he ever been to one? The question left his mind as soon as it arrived, as they turned off the highway onto down town New Orleans grid like streets. Meandering until the squat two- and three-story buildings were blocked by a more familiar sea of skyscrapers, though none where as tall as William was used to, they were still impressive next to the rest of the city.

Gareth slid the car to a stop and wrenched up its handbrake, or at least tried, "You damn…" one last tug and it held, "We're here sir."

"Would you call me Will? I'm not your boss,"

"But you are my superior,"

"I'm you're partner, not your superior,"

"You're the lead on the case though,"

"Yes but, oh never mind, let's get on with it."

"Yes. Sir, "William gritted his teeth and was sure he saw a grin flash across Gareth's face.

Outside, a light drizzle splattered against the windshield in a rhythmic patter. The alley beyond was a chaotic orgy of flashing lights and yellow crime scene tape.

Inside an ambulance, a woman sat huddled under a blanket. Her reddish hair, tied back in a ponytail, was a stark contrast to the pale snow of her face. Gareth watched her for a moment. He had seen this kind of shook before, though he couldn't quite remember feeling it himself.

William nudged Gareth to approach the woman while he nodded in direction of an officer standing with his hands on his hips. The two spilt off towards their targets.

William tapped the officer on his shoulder and resisted the temptation to knock his cap off, the officer looked over his shoulder at William, but didn't bother turning to face him.

"William, I take it?" William flashed his badge,

"You the-"

"Why don't you go sit behind a desk and wait for the real cops to do their job."

"This is my case." William gritted his teeth, he should've knocked his cap off.

"Aye, that it is, ten years, what have you to show for it? Nothing, that's what."

"You're right, you think you can do a better job than me?" William eyed his name tag, "sergeant Brambly? You go right ahead but stay out of way." William waited not for the man's response but shoved past, shooting a look at Gareth, who was standing by the ambulance, the witnesses arms wrapped around him. William cocked his head at Gareth and the boy, the man, pried her arms off his neck and trotted over.

"She's a witness," Muttered William.

"I know-"

"I hope you do,"

"She's… She's the victim's sister, found her on her morning jog." William looked up at the body still hanging from the fire escape, lit by sporadic camera flashes.

"How'd she know, that it's her sister?'

"Her eyes apparently, sir."

"I see,"

"She doesn't." William stopped, and turned to face Gareth, slowly. Gareth shrugged, and William shook his head.

"Follow me."

William moved with purpose through the alley, his eyes scanning the ground, walls, and surroundings. As expected, the area was unnaturally clean, save for a puddle of drying blood, oozing around a black rose below where the body had been found. The alley opened at one end onto a quiet street lined with modest two- and three-story apartments. No cameras, no shops, just a solitary row of residences.

A glint of something shiny in the dim light caught William's attention. He walked over, out of the alley and across the street, Gareth trotting behind, and found a scatter of broken glass. Kneeling, he picked up a few pieces. They were small, blunt shards, not consistent with the glass from a window or typical bottle.

"We need to look for a stolen car," William muttered, more to himself than to Gareth.

"A stolen car?" Gareth asked, sounding puzzled.

"Yes," William confirmed. "Would you mind checking with the police to see if there are any reports of a stolen vehicle? And then talk to the people living on this street, maybe one of them saw something."

"Of course, sir," Gareth replied, though his uncertainty was evident. "What about you?"

"I'm going to keep searching for more clues," William said, already walking away. He'd let Gareth handle the initial investigative work. It was both a chance for the rookie to gain experience and an opportunity for William to gauge his new partner's reliability. Deep down, William was sceptical. He knew the chances of finding anything significant were slim, but every investigation required a thorough search, no matter how bleak the prospects, and time was against him.

Besides, William needed to clear his head. His steps were aimless, weighed down by the crushing burden of ten fruitless years. What sergeant Brambly said was held more truth than William wanted to admit, even to himself. Once a promising recruit, he was now a man driven to obsession, his reputation reduced to shambles. He didn't even have a wife or family to return to, his mother was the only person he knew outside of work, and she had passed a few years ago. What had begun as a quest for justice had devolved into a personal battle for redemption, for the lives lost and families shattered by the shadows he chased. This mission was all he had.

"Oh, come on," he muttered, coming to a sudden halt. He squinted at the driveway of a small, dilapidated house. "You've got to be kidding me." He glanced back up the street, unsure of how far he had wandered. The crime scene was out of sight, but the distance was negligible, only a few minutes' walk at best.

William shook his head, almost giddy, and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he approached the driveway. There, in clear view, sat a red hatchback with a broken driver's side window and stripped plates.

With a sigh, he slipped through the unlocked gate and made his way into the yard. Moving cautiously, he stopped outside a window, straining to listen. Silence. He peered inside and saw a rundown room cluttered with teens, probably none older than fifteen, slumped over ruined sofas. The floor was littered with empty bottles and burnt-out joints.

William shook his head again, more in disbelief than annoyance, and tested the front door. Unlocked, of course.

"Why not?" he muttered to himself. "They've got their stolen goods out in the open. Why would they bother locking the door?"

He slipped inside, careful to avoid stepping on discarded chip packets and empty bottles. As he made his way through the room, the stench of mold, cigarettes, marijuana, and unwashed bodies hit him. The air was thick, and he blocked it with the back of his hand. He slipped into the living room and centred himself. One kid muttered something in his sleep, another turned over, but none woke.

William slapped his hands together, "Good morning!"

A smile tugged at his lips as the five teens jerked awake, their eyes wide. They scrambled, their movements chaotic and frightened.

"What the…?" one of them began, his voice cut off as he reached for a metal baseball bat lying nearby.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," William drew his pistol. He held it at his side, making no move to aim directly at the boy, but he fingered the trigger. The teen froze, his hand hovering inches from the bat. William retrieved his badge from his coat and flipped it open. "William Moore, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

The boys exchanged glances, their eyes darting nervously toward the door. One attempted to rise, but William's response was immediate. He fired a shot into the floor, the sharp crack echoing off the walls and mingling with the acrid smell of gunpowder in the stifling air. The boys froze.

"Don't even think about running," William growled "Or I'll lock the lot of you up in Juve. Now, I don't care about the car or any of this", he kicked a bong, sending it skittering across the floor, "what I want is for you to tell me everything you saw last night."

Gareth Brine was bored. He stood outside what might have been called a fancy apartment in most places but seemed par for the norm in New Orleans. Gareth wondered what it might look like after a bomb had been dropped on it. It was a savage thought; Gareth knew it and he hadn't always been this way. Six years of war took their toll, he knew friends that had comeback, and slept like babes, waking every five minutes screaming, crying and covered in sweat, some with browned pants. Not Gareth though. Oh, he had the dreams all the same, but he slept through them, like a rock.

The woman he was speaking to, if you could call the withered raisin a woman, droned on about her cat retching, and then discharging on her carpet. He'd asked if she'd noticed anything strange the previous night, but this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. For a moment he wondered how she got to such a ripe age when her brain was clearly- bang.

The shot. It rang through the air, cutting through the old woman's monologue, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch and snap. Gareth half ducked, his body instinctively coiling, his hand shooting toward his belt, resting on his pistol. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning for cover, for a source, for danger. His pulse thudded in his ears, a dull, insistent beat, and he wasn't sure whether it was fear or something else entirely. Excitement, maybe. He breathed, slow and deliberate, letting the adrenaline run its course.

The shot had come from down the street, not close enough to be an immediate threat, but not far either a couple hundred yard, a small pistol fire, a berretta maybe. The realization hit him suddenly, a man thrown off a bridge with her feet stuck in cement, cold and heavy, sinking in his gut.

"Moore," he whispered, the name barely audible over the throbbing of his heart.

"You want to know more?" the old woman asked, still unmoved, her wrinkled face blank and untroubled. It was as though the gunshot hadn't even registered with her. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe she was too old, too deaf, too cocooned in her small world of sick cats and worn carpets.

But Gareth was already moving, feet slapping against the pavement as he sprinted toward the source of the sound. His mind raced faster than his legs, flickering through a dozen possibilities. Had Moore found the killer? Or had he become the next target? And why did he feel giddy? So many questions, but he knew one thing for certain; Gareth wasn't bored anymore.

"He was wearing a big hat," said one of the boys, his voice barely louder than a whisper, as if the words themselves carried the weight of something too terrible to fully comprehend.

"And dark clothing. We couldn't see his face," another chimed in, his eyes darting nervously around as if the man they spoke of might materialize out of the shadows at any moment.

William's lips tightened into a grim line. "So, the descriptions are the same as the others," he muttered, more to himself than to the boys. Every witness, every last one of them, had said the same thing. Old-fashioned clothing, a wide-brimmed hat, and always, always, the face obscured, hidden behind shadow or distance.

"Yeah," one of the kids added, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, "he looked like Jack the Ripper!"

"Jack the Ripper?" another boy scoffed, "Don't be an idiot, he looked more like some kind of carnival host!"

William's head snapped up. "Wait," he said sharply, pointing at the second boy. "Say that again."

The boy blinked, confusion momentarily overtaking his bravado. "Don't be an idiot?" he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"No," William could feel the pulse of irritation rising in his throat. He had to stop himself from shaking the boy by his collar. "What you said after that."

The boy hesitated, glancing nervously at his friends before speaking. "He looked like a carnival host," he repeated, his voice quieter now, the words less bold, less certain.

The phrase seeped into William's mind. Carnival host. It echoed in his thoughts, turning over and over like a key in a lock that had long been rusted shut. And then, with an almost audible click, the pieces fell into place.

William's breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear. A flicker of memory danced before his eyes. He had seen it before, hadn't he? A traveling carnival, it had been years ago, his first year on the case. He had dismissed it then as coincidence, something unimportant, too small to matter. But now...

"Of course," William murmured, his hand instinctively moving to rub his chin, his eyes distant, seeing beyond the street, beyond the boys. "Why didn't I see it before?"

The realization hit him with the force of a thunderclap. A traveling circus. It explained everything, the erratic pattern of the murders, the victims, scattered across different cities, all within the same brief window of time. Always a different place, a different face, but always the same hand at work. The carnival moved, and death moved with it.

He left the teens behind without a word, his mind alight with a renewed sense of purpose. The air outside felt lighter, cleaner. The sun, which had earlier been hidden, now shone with a strange brightness, casting long shadows on the pavement. For the first time in what felt like years, he felt a flicker of hope. Real hope.

Gareth tore past him, sprinting down the street with wild abandon, his arms pumping furiously.

"Gareth!" William called, snapping out of his reverie. "Gareth, what the hell are you doing?"

Gareth skidded to a stop, nearly tripping over his own feet as he turned to face William, his chest heaving. "Sir," he panted, breathless, "there was... a gunshot... down the street."

"Never mind that, Gareth," William replied, "Come. We have a circus to attend."

"A circus, sir?" Gareth asked, still catching his breath.

"Yes," William said, his stride already picking up pace as he headed down the street. "I've found it, Gareth. After all these years, I've finally found it."

"Found what, sir?" Gareth hurried to follow, bewilderment written all over his face.

William's eyes gleamed with a fierce, almost manic intensity. "A lead, Gareth. A real, solid lead. And we're going to follow it all the way to the killer."