That the barefoot guitarist on the sidewalk could stand standing amazed Holden, because the heat from the asphalt beneath his feet was uncomfortable even in shoes. Opening the entrance door to the SMPD, he glanced back and, again, shook his head half in amusement, half in awe. The vagrant’s (singing) face didn’t look tense at all.

‘Excuse me,’ Holden said, ‘can you tell me where the office of Captain Richards is?’

The bored receptionist continued chewing her gum, and looked at him with an “are you serious”-look on her face. She twisted her wrist so that her thumb pointed towards a sign on the wall. Large sign, in plain sight.

Holden could feel his face going red. He thanked her anyway, and headed to the elevator. He pressed four, and the lift started ascending. He’d been told by Chief Jeter to report to Richards, so after checking in and freshening up at The Westin, here he was. Holden had never been to the SMPD before. He’d actually never even been to Sydney at all. Strange, when he thought about it.

He was twenty-five now, but people told him he looked younger. He’d tried to grow a little facial hair on his boyish face, to compensate for that and for his slim frame and five feet, five inches. It hadn’t helped, in his opinion. He was anxious, even a little nauseous, and he felt his heart beating faster. He tried to calm himself, tried to look confident before meeting the the old-timers of the SMPD. They wouldn’t like upstarts lecturing them in their own field. And especially not if the upstart looked like a scared kid.

He didn’t look very smart in shorts, in his opinion, but he wouldn’t have looked very smart with big sweat stains either. The shirt was okay; a new, stylish, and expensive Polo. Holden felt annoyed nonetheless, he was very preoccupied with looking his best these days. An ambitious fellow, he aimed for the top - he wanted Jeter’s job one day.

And thinking of Jeter, Holden reminded himself that the chief had said the captain; Richards, was okay. Strange, unpredictable at times, but fair. It made Holden feel a little less anxious.

Stepping out of the elevator, he took in the Homicide Department. Straight ahead was the entrance, double glass doors with glass walls on both sides. The theme of transparency was as apparent inside the walls as it was from the outside; there were big, open spaces between the desks. No cubicles. The desks were full sheets of paper, plastered on them were many of those small, quadratic, yellow notes. Well, some were purple. Cluttering even more were ring binders to hold even more paper, and pen holders. On some of the desks, Holden could see laptops underneath all the stuff. This seemed like a department of old-timers, alright.

The most peculiar thing about the department was the fact that it was empty. Early in the workday, and no one was here? It was only to be expected that many were out on assignments, but that they all were surprised him. He looked up, and saw that the lights were all off. Maybe not so strange with glass walls on a bright day like this. They all got light that way, since every detective had their “office” in one big room. Every detective but one.

On the opposite end of the entrance was the door to an actual office. Walls under the windows, windows on which shades could be pulled over. The sign on the door read “Captain Harry Richards”. The shades were not drawn at the moment, and Holden saw something that indicated that he would be along shortly: The spots in the roof of the captain’s office were on.

Holden, nosy, moved closer. The light in the office was dull, so there was some refraction from the brightness of the day, but he could see the details in the office without moving too close. He didn’t have to stand right next to the glass and shield his eyes. It didn’t have to look like he was spying.

This nosiness was the reason he had become a detective. Mysteries and secrets were irresistible to him. Solving puzzling crimes was right down his alley. Always had been.

Captain Richards’ desk was not cluttered. The screen of his computer was on, Holden could see brightness emanating from the apple on the back of it. Another sign the captain had to be in the building somewhere, another thing arousing Holden’s curiosity. How he would’ve liked to see the front of that screen.

Richards had, apparently, left the analogue world behind. At least more so than his semi-ancient colleagues. The only other thing on the captain’s desk were a few pictures (of which he saw only the back of the frames) and some sort of sculpture. Holden squinted his eyes. Yes, he thought, it was definitely made of wood. A wooden…falcon? He scrutinized what he was looking at. Some kind of bird of prey, that was for sure.

Deciding that the office wasn’t that interesting, he was about to sit down on one of the many office chairs in the room (and wait for the absent captain) when something caught his eye. There was a board by the left wall. It was filled with notes, diagrams, and pictures. The display was headed by the title the press had given the killer: “The Sydney Snake Sadist”. Holden wasn’t sure what he thought about the name. The alliteration made it something the populace would remember, and the killer sure had to be a sadist, but the name also gave the impression that he (or she, Holden thought) liked to make the snakes suffer. And nothing pointed towards that.

The board wasn’t for sensitive viewers. Unless your senses weren’t dulled by the things you had to have seen working homicide, the images of the dead victims would scream out at you. Holden’s senses weren’t there yet, but he was still about to start reading when -

‘Who are you?’

He didn’t know if he’d been too immersed to hear Richards approaching, or if the older man had sneaked up on him, or if his gait simply was like that - silent. The only thing that was certain was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d jumped that violently.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,’ said the man as Holden stood there clutching his chest. He saw the man’s badge (Cpt. Harry Richards) and a funny expression on Richards’ face, like he was struggling to hold in a laugh.

‘Scare easily, don’t you?’

Richards was almost as short as Holden, but apart from that they looked nothing alike. Salt-and-pepper in his hair and rich beard, a big scar on his right chin; a chin as creased and worn as the rest of the face. The body was burly. His short stature made him, in a way, look even stronger. A concentration of force. Not in tune with the rest of his appearance was his high and soft voice and kind eyes.

Holden found his own voice.

‘I get immersed when I’m intrigued, that’s all.’ He held out his hand. ‘Holden James.’ Richards shook it. ‘Ah, right. The detective Jeter speaks so warmly about.’ The captain gave him a searching look while he scratched his bearded chin, like he tried to figure out what his first impression was. Holden tried to not look too pleased with himself.

The reason Jeter had sent Holden to Sydney, and likely the reason Richards had welcomed it, was his role in solving a series of murders the year before. All serial killers follow a rule or a pattern when they choose their victims. That was almost always things like “they all had something in common with the sicko’s mother”. A trait or role or whatever all the victims shared. The unique thing about the case that had given Holden’s career a flying start was that all the victims had a connection with each other. Remote, but there. Things like one of the women being a cashier in a supermarket that one of the other women frequently shopped in. Holden had, working meticulously, found that there were such connections - and then he’d found all of those connections. After that, just as meticulously, he’d found the one guy (A guy named Teddy Bellis) that could equally remotely be connected to them all.

The captain turned towards the board.

‘Hmm… Well, you came all this way,’ he said, looking intently at Holden. ‘So, what do you think?’

When Richards made him jump, Holden had been about to start with what he assumed was a report on the second victim; a cheerleader found in a locker room. Like most of the other victims, there was traumas on most of her skin - she was full of bruises. Much of her skin, however, were bludgeoned away with a bat. Maybe most fascinating to the technicians was that, due to the neurotoxins in the venom, there had been no rigor mortis. Holden looked away almost immediately.

Holden wasn’t sure how to answer. Merely coming to Sydney was like saying “Your work isn’t good enough.” He felt like threading lightly, even though the SMPD work hadn’t been good enough. Even though Richards had welcomed the help. Holden tried avoiding confrontations. But he had to say something.

’It’s a case as intriguing and challenging as the one with Teddy Bellis,’ he answered, finally. ‘I’ll just have to dig deep and hope I’ll find something that’s, uhm, illuminating.’ He’d almost said “overlooked”.

‘Uh-huh,’ answered Richards, a disbelieving tone in his voice.

‘Where’s your colleagues, by the way?’ asked Holden, ignoring the tone.

‘Murder seems to be all the rage in Sydney these days,’ said Richards. Then, he turned back towards the board. ‘She was a right cunt, that cheerleader.’

Holden was used to cops and detectives using rough language, but it still took him by surprise. So out of nowhere, so inappropriate. Anyway, more interesting to him was something else: Richards had started with the cheerleader. It could be coincidental, but Holden doubted it. Keen powers of observation was exactly the kind of thing that would propel a guy from cop to detective to captain, and Holden thought Richards had seen what he’d glanced at.

‘So I heard,’ said Holden.

‘Almost no one came to the queen bee’s funeral. Her life had been about constantly hazing her “friends”, manipulating and cheating on her boyfriend, using her parents…“Better to be feared than loved”, I guess,’ said Richards. ‘You’d think people would come, if only to remove suspicion from themselves, but no.’

Richards was staring at the board so intently that it looked like he had almost forgotten Holden, like he was talking to himself.

‘It was a shocking investigation, that one. She was a grade A bitch; motives were many, the way it happened suggested the killer knew her. But then it became clear that everyone close to her had watertight alibis. Puzzling shit.’

He suddenly threw a glance at Holden. ‘At least it wasn’t a good person being murdered, you know?’

‘I guess…’ said Holden, his brows furrowing. Richards was weird, alright.

‘I was in that funeral.’

So badly bludgeoned that she was unrecognizable. Then the coroner found that the beating had happened post-mortem. Actual cause of death: tiger snake venom. No bite marks found. The same thing that happened to the banker. Of course Richards had attended that funeral.

‘Anyway, we did, of course, interview every single fucker watching that basketball game,’ continued the captain. ‘Thoroughly. She showed us we had a serial killer on our hands.’ He made a nod at the younger detective. ‘I guess you think you can be even more thorough?’ he asked, in that soft and high voice of his.

‘I’m sent here to try,’ answered Holden. Again he felt his heartbeat elevating.

After what Jeter had told him, Holden hadn’t expected passive-aggressiveness from the captain, and it seemed he’d been right. The question wasn’t accompanied by clenched fists, gritted teeth, a frown, narrowing eyes. Then again, the smile was still lurking under the captain’s neutral expression. Like he was mocking the younger detective.

‘That you are..,’ Richards said, and went on before Holden had the chance to say anything. ‘It was so strange after that first victim,’ Richards said. ‘He was so different from her.’

A middle-aged banker with no relation to the cheerleader. Well, no discovered relation, at least. Found under the heavy door of his own tool shed - in his own tool shed. The technicians had located a pin-sized wound of a needle.

‘Acanthophis,’ said Richards. ‘Death Adder. A dose as massive as the first time. Likely wouldn’t had survived even if he’d gotten anti-venom. Purely neurotoxic, no bruises.’

He turned towards Holden.

‘Unlike how it was with her, we saw no motive for killing him.’ Like Holden knew, the banker had proved to be as well liked as he was honest. ‘Maybe someone wanted him to do something not righteous, and he refused…’ Richards pondered this. Then, he went back to the snake.

‘Purely neurotoxic…Snake venom is a fascinating thing, don’t you think?’

‘I guess..,’ Holden said again, raising his brows as he looked at the captain. ‘How so, by the way?’

‘The potency is remarkable. It’s designed. But is it design by a cruel God, or is it natural selection? I have no idea, but it’s just impressive, you know?’

Holden said nothing. As fascinating as venom was to Richards was listening to the older officer going through the details of the case to Holden. Fascinating, and a little scary. Solving mysteries was what the young detective did, he never entered the field. He’d be paralyzed if he ever had to.

‘Well,’ Richards went on, ‘as we investigated the queen bee, we also went back to the banker-case. Looked at it from the serial killer angle. And we were fumbling in the dark when the third one turned up.’

‘The truck driver.’

Richards nodded.

‘The truck driver. And now the murderer really upped his game. We’d been waiting for it, really - the taipan kill.’

Even more dangerous than tiger snakes and death adders, were taipans. Specially evolved (or created) to kill mammals, the diet of the snake. Holden had been reading a lot about snakes these last few weeks. He’d learnt a lot, but didn’t share Richards’ fascination.

The truck driver had been found after his next door neighbor heard a loud crashing noise and felt a tremor in the floor. When the cops entered his small tower block apartment, they’d found him under a wardrobe. The injuries were, again, inflicted post-mortem.

‘How did he access the apartment? Why did he choose the victims he chose? How and where did he get the venom? Was there any connection between the dead?’ Richards shrugged. ‘Many questions, no answers. That new victims kept turning up didn’t make it any easier.’

Holden nodded. The fourth one. The worst one. The currently last one.

‘I’ve seen a lot of shit during my career, but the fourth one was just about the nastiest thing I’ve seen,’ Richards said. ‘Creative, really.’

Holden didn’t know what to say to that. Then, he glanced at the picture of the fourth victim. It didn’t take long before he shuddered and looked away. She’d been the wife of Jordan Robard, movie star and perhaps the most famous Australian in the world. She was another reason Holden had been sent to Sydney. Fame, apparently, made her more important than the rest of the victims. Robard had (publicly) more or less demanded “the brilliant guy from that other case” was sent to help.

‘Trapped in a chest with violent diarrhea and convulsions followed by paralysis and cardiac arrest can’t be pleasant, no.’

Richards shook his head.

‘Eastern brown snake venom makes me lean towards the cruel God option.’ he said, matter-of-factly.

Cruel God or evolution, where the concept of cruelty did not apply? Like Richards, Holden did not know. Neither did he care. What mattered to him was solving the crime. Because he was living and breathing for solving mysteries. Also, he wanted to stop these horrors.

Holden suddenly realized solving the mystery meant more to him than stopping the horrors. They’d been talking very clinically about these terrible murders. Was he taking the first steps towards becoming as emotionally numb as Richards seemed?

‘Anyway,’ the captain continued, making Holden jump, ‘back to my original question. You’ve already looked at this case. What do you think?’

Holden had seen many SMPD-files before arriving, and there was one thing he suspected was more significant than the other elements. A place to start digging.

‘Among the elements in the case,’ he said, ‘one of them seems to me the best place to start when trying to dig deeper.’

They had both seated themselves. Holden didn’t like his office chair, he couldn’t find a comfortable position.

‘Go on,’ said Richards. He’d put his palms together in front of him. He was leaning his elbows on his knees while focusing his gaze on Holden.

‘That all of the victims has been physically abused after death is particularly interesting to me.’ Holden answered, still squirming.

There had been a dent in the chipboard, there had been a wound on the banker’s forehead. There had been blood in the bottom of the chest, there had been a wound on the trophy wife’s forehead.

‘I know it’s not much, but that’s where I’ll start.’

Suddenly, without a word, Richards rose and walked the few steps to his office door. Holden, unsure of how to react, felt confounded. He couldn’t hear a thing but for footsteps. It was only seconds later when Richards reappeared. He held a thermos in one hand, one of those white disposable plastic cups that all water coolers used in the other.

‘Stays cold in here, see. Works that way too.’ Richards said, with a smile. ‘Want some? He offered Holden the already filled white cup. ‘It’s coke, coffee is no good in this heat.’

Holden nodded. Whenever he was intrigued, he didn’t only ignore his surroundings, he also ignored physical needs. Only now did he realize how dry his mouth was. Richards gave him the white cup, then poured some more into the thermos cup.

The strange man put his thermos and cup on the nearby desk before he continued - as abruptly as he’d left to find his thermos.

‘Well, good! We were looking into that. We didn’t get anywhere with it, but maybe you can find something.’

Eager to know more, the younger man leaned forward.

‘Yes?’ He took a sip from the plastic cup. The coke was stale.

‘Yeah, we took that info to a bunch of different psychologists and psychiatrists. They agreed that it was unlikely to be coincidental, and that the killer likely had some trauma to compensate for.’ Richards snorted. ‘Charging you for things anyone with half a brain will long since have realized. That’s shrinks for you.’ He rose.

Holden, having focused on this part, found it strange that he hadn’t found those files among those given to him. Anyway, he was too excited to be annoyed.

‘They said a lot of crap, and it all boils down to what I’ve already told you. I thought they were useless. Anyway, I’ve got the records on my hard drive if you want them.’

‘For sure!’ answered Holden, his voice louder than he had intended, a grin on his face.

Richards’ office didn’t contain much that Holden hadn’t seen from the outside. There was a (rather uncomfortable looking) small sofa hiding behind the front wall, under the windows. That was it.

The pictures were, unsurprisingly, of his family (Richards with his right arm over the shoulder of his spouse, three adult children in front of them - a man and two women) and the screen saver showed he wasn’t that far ahead of his colleagues after all. The generic Windows logo bobbed around on the screen.

‘Okay, let’s see here..,’ said Richards, and moved the mouse. Away went the screen saver, another picture of his family could be seen (blurry) under the password request. Holden, as was only polite, looked away when Richards typed it in. As he did, he saw the another thing he’d missed from the outside: There hung a large poster of a snake in a corner.

‘It used to hang right here,’ said Richards. He pointed at the wall behind his chair. ‘But my wife, bless her soul, said it was creepy and nasty and tried to make me throw it away. We compromised.’

Under the snake, there were all sorts of writing. Details about the animal, presumably. Holden looked at the captain. ‘They fascinate you that much?’

Richards nodded. ‘Always have.’

He pulled out the memory stick. Then he walked over to the poster.

‘It’s an Acanthophis, Richards said, pointing at the snake drawing. ‘A death adder, remember?’ Holden hadn’t forgotten.

‘Yes.’

‘Beautiful animals, aren’t they? Unlike other elapids, their venom is purely neurotoxic,’ Richards said again. ‘Not all those other toxins complicating stuff, just pure paralyzation. Take the prey out, no nonsense about bruises on the skin or shit like that.’

Holden could understand Richards’ wife. Listening to him, Holden remembered the banker. No visible damage from the venom. The only thing had been the wounds and bruises from…the door.

A train of thought started forming in Holden’s mind. They’d all been abused after death. The banker had a door dropped on him. The truck driver got a wardrobe on his head. The wife got her head bashed into the bottom of the chest. And the cheerleader was hit so hard, so many times, that the bat splintered.

Richards was looking at him, again intently.

‘You’ve realized something?’

Holden didn’t say anything, deep in concentration. He was missing something here, he’d felt like now every time he was close to finding a new clue in the Bellis-case. All the items hurting the victims were damaged…

And then, something clicked.

‘There were splinters missing!’ he almost shouted.

Up until this point, Richards hadn’t looked taken aback, confounded at any point in the conversation. Not any longer.

‘Splinters…?’

‘The bat, the door, the wardrobe, and the coffin; they had “traumas” too, they splintered! I bet the splinters were missing from the crime scenes! He collects wood for some reason.’

The bewilderment had disappeared from Richards’ face after the first sentence. Slowly, it had transpired into a feeling featuring a big grin.

‘The first step on the way has been taken,’ Holden declared. It was a wonderful feeling, again something he hadn’t felt since working with the Bellis-case.

‘Yes, yes, very well done,’ said Richards. ‘Very-well-done…’

Holden tried calming himself. There was a very long way to go.

‘See, I knew you were on to something when you started talking about the post-mortem injuries.’ Richards were pointing his index finger at him, grinning. It bopped up and down in the air. He looked like a guy compliment a pal on something clever, a gesture that screamed “ooh, nice one!”

‘The quirks,’ he continued. ‘that’s what it’s always about.’

Holden couldn’t help it. He was all smiles.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ said Richards, suddenly. ‘I need to call Sean Griffiths. He was the guy dealing with the shrinks.’

Holden gave him a thumbs up, and just savored the moment. This was what he was living for, and how he’d missed that feeling.

‘Yes, well done, well done, well indeed…’ said Richards, hanging up. ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘it’s good that I always have my thermos ready. You never know when a special occasion comes along.’ Richards were leaning up against his desk.

Holden’s euphoria turned to amusement and disbelief. Stale coke was the thing for special occasions? He had to be joking. And Richards did indeed look shrewd, a subdued grin on his face, narrowed eyes as he looked at Holden.

And, looking back at the captain, a wild idea hit Holden; a new train of thought started forming in the young detective’s mind.

Stale coke, fan of snakes, fascination with snake venom…

Richards’ expression hadn’t changed a bit, and Holden knew there had to be a very confused expression on his face.

It couldn’t be. It was ridiculous to even think it.

‘Tastes good, doesn’t it?’

He’s just a strange, strange man, Holden thought. But he swallowed hard.

‘I’ve got a secret ingredient.’

It felt like an ice cold anvil had fallen from his stomach to his bowels. But it couldn’t be. He gave a nervous laugh.

‘Ah, I see. Good one, captain!’

Richards ignored it, the smug smile still there.

‘You look kinda pale…Something wrong?’ said Richards. ‘Not feeling well? Maybe you ought to sit down.’

Holden felt nauseous now, and he was sweating. He remained standing, his body rigid.

‘I think you need to sit down,’ Richards repeated. His smile faded. He made a little jump to seat himself on his desk, where he grabbed his falcon sculpture. He held it tight. ‘Splinters..,’ he said, stroking the bird. ‘It’s too bad, really.’

Richards’ words while he dealt with the falcon made Holden sure he was right after all, and panic kicked in. He made a sudden movement, aiming for the door, but Richards managed to trip him. Head first on the floor, Holden’s nose broke. He didn’t feel it, the panic blocked the sensation, but he sure heard it.

Richards picked him up as easily as he’d pick up a rag-doll, and dropped him down on the sofa. ‘You shouldn’t do that, you’re not in any shape to run.’ Then, he tilted his head and fixed his gaze. ‘Wow..,’ he said, slowly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that pale before.’

‘Please…’ Holden almost whispered. His blood was dripping on the sofa. Richards didn’t seem to mind. Holden tried pulling himself up, to flee again, but it was no use. He felt so bad, he had no energy left.

‘Please what?’

‘Don’t do this,’ Holden whispered. The lower half of his face was covered in blood.

‘Already have,’ said the captain. ‘Anyway, you should know, before it’s over, that I’m impressed, I really am. Brilliant.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Ah, perfect timing,’ said Richards, and jumped down from the desk. He opened the door in one swift movement. ‘There you are, my good friend, Sean! How good to see you!’

Griffiths looked at Richards, confused. ‘Here’s the confess -’

He didn’t get further before he saw the ghostly white man laying on the sofa.

‘Jesus, what the fuck is this?’ Richards was laughing. Griffiths looked nonplussed. He looked at Richards and then at Holden. Something was dawning on Griffiths’ face. His gaze darkened.

‘Oh, fucking hell, Harry! What kind of sick joke did you pull this time? What have you done to this poor guy?!’

Joke? Holden thought.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ Richards laughed. ‘His sickness is fear! He’s the biggest scaredy-cat I’ve ever met!’

Griffiths looked closer at Holden, who was now regaining some of the colour in his face. Griffiths continued yelling at Richards.

‘Look at the man! This ain’t funny at all! What did you do to him?’

Richards’ expression changed. He seated himself, again on his desk. He crossed his arms and pouted. He looked like a small child who’d been denied what he wanted.

‘I thought you were a better detective than that, Sean…’ He raised his voice when he continued. ‘Think! What did I ask you to bring? Who is he? What happened this morning?’

Slowly, the truth dawned on Griffiths. His clenched fists loosened, and his arms fell down by his sides. He sighed deeply.

‘You tricked Holden James into thinking you are the Sydney Snake Sadist…’ 

Richards clapped fast, again like a child in his happiness, and did a little bow for his colleague. ‘I knew you’d figure it out, old friend.’

Griffiths looked sad now.

‘Unbelievable…’

Richards ignored this, and Griffiths addressed the young man instead. The colour on Holden’s face had gone from white to red.

‘I’m sorry about this. He has had a fondness for playing practical jokes on people for a long time, but lately, especially after his wife died, they’ve gotten cruel. But he’s never done anything close to this.’

‘It was perfect!’ said Richards. ‘He prances in only an hour after the killer turns himself in, and he knows the case! It was meant to happen!’

The captain had a mad gleam in his eyes.

‘Come on, Sean! When you hear the whole story you’ll agree. I had to do it, all the cards were there, and they were played right into my hands.’

Griffiths, only sadness in his eyes now, turned away.

‘This means the end of your career, Harry.’

Holden, embarrassed and raging, screamed at the captain.

‘What the HELL is wrong with you!?’

Richards ignored them both. Then, he grabbed his thermos and drank greedily. He wiped his mouth and turned towards Holden. ‘Aah, disgusting. Cold coffee and coke does the trick!’ Richards shot his madly grinning face towards him in one jolting move.

‘It’s a cruel world! Gotcha!’