Most knives aren’t made from pure steel, they’re made from mild. Most weapons are made in bulk in East Asian countries. This, however, is pure British metal. Tough as granite.”

“At least that narrows it down,” said Tyler.

“No,” said Dr. Hawkins, “I think you’ll find that might make your job a little harder. No weapons are made from this type of material; certainly not knives.”

Cael and Tyler exchanged a look of confusion.

“In fact, I believe this type of steel is really used only in the construction industry. Oil rigs, mega-structures and the like. However, it’s used in most construction industries.”

The half-body of Stephanie Brady lay on a metal gurney in the middle of the room. A plastic sheet covered most of her body except for the area showing her mutilations. It was one of the most undignified death poses Cael had seen in a long time.

However, as he visualized the impact of her wounds, he couldn’t help but notice a familiar image form in his mind. He couldn’t go there, not yet. He needed to know a few more things first.

“He used a machine,” said Cael.

“Looks like it,” replied Dr. Hawkins.

“A death machine,” said Tyler. “What kind of person owns a death machine?”

“Only the most committed psychopaths,” said Cael.

“Or could he have used an ordinary machine from the construction world? A CNC, maybe?”

“I doubt it. He needs privacy for this kind of stuff. If he owns a business that gives him private access to that type of machinery, he’d be too smart to use it for murder.”

“Alright. Let’s check out this girl’s history. Thanks, Doc, you’ve been a great help.”

“No problem, boys. See you soon.”

The detectives left the Royal London Hospital with more questions than answers. As the cool midnight air enveloped Cael, the image of Stephanie Brady – a vibrant, young, magnetic beauty – being torn in half seemed so horrific, yet so normal. Something wasn’t right about this picture. An abnormality was present. Hopefully, Stephanie Brady’s home would shed some light on the matter.


7

 

 

Stephanie Brady lived in a modest apartment in the Gloucester Road area of London. The apartment complex was a gated, high-security area, one rung below what many people would consider luxury.

“What do we know about this kid?” asked Cael as the two detectives made their way through the halls to Stephanie’s middle-floor residence.

“Twenty-three. No employment records. Has a boyfriend a few towns over.”

As they reached apartment number 36, an elderly gentleman met them outside their destination. He extended his hand to greet them.

“Mr. Mayweather, my condolences,” said Tyler.

“Thank you,” he said with a deep breath. Mr. Mayweather was the owner of 36 Apollo House.