The Inspector's Shadow – Chapter IV
The Wound 🔞
⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: 18+ EXPLICIT MATERIAL ⚠️
This story contains graphic depictions of explicit sexual acts between consenting adult men. Reader discretion is advised.
The dawn fog did not lift from London's streets; it settled like a rotting shroud. From the Thames, a damp, musty vapor crept onto the wharves, mingling with coal smoke, the stench of rotting fruit, and the reek of horse manure. Sergeant George stood at the window of the Scotland Yard office, staring into the grayness. His hand trembled, but not from the cold.
Inspector Blackwood sat at the desk, his back rigid, reading the reports. Since they had returned from the Gilded Cage, he had barely spoken to him. The words whispered in that room — the kiss, the promise — seemed to have evaporated in the morning light. The Inspector was cold. Distant. As if the mask he had worn at the masquerade had now fused to his face.
"Another body, sir," George said without turning around. "By the old warehouses in Wapping. A sailor found him at dawn."
Blackwood slowly set down his pen. "I know. I've already been notified."
"And?"
"And we're going, Sergeant."
His voice was short, military. George turned and met his eyes. The Inspector's gaze avoided his.
"Victor..."
"Don't," the Inspector cut him off quietly. "Not here. Not now."
George nodded. His heart clenched, but he didn't push. He knew Victor was afraid. He knew that fear sometimes dresses itself in coldness. But the pain was still pain.
At the Wapping wharves, the fog was a yellowish brown, like opium smoke. The body was found beside an abandoned red-brick warehouse, on the cobblestones. A young man lay on his stomach, his arm twisted at an odd angle. A cut across his throat — a single, clean motion. The blood had already dried between the stones, congealing into a black pool.
George knelt beside the body. The stench — blood, river, the early sweetness of decay — hit his nostrils. He pressed a handkerchief to his face.
"The same hand, sir," he said. "The same cut. Left to right."
"Or right to left, if the killer is left-handed," came a familiar voice.
Dr. Thomas Sterling stepped out of the fog, bag in hand. His tall, thin figure floated through the grayness like a ghost. His left hand was wrapped in white bandages. The dressing was fresh, carefully wound, precisely across the palm.
George's heart skipped a beat. The Inspector's face did not twitch, but George saw his jaw tighten.
"What happened to your hand, Doctor?" Blackwood asked, his voice calm and official.
Dr. Sterling set down his bag beside the body. "Oh, this? A small accident in the lab. A glass tube broke in my hand last night. Nothing serious."
The Inspector nodded, but George saw his gaze linger on the bandage a second longer than necessary. "Please conduct the autopsy as soon as possible, Doctor. I want to know if there are any unique characteristics to the wound."
"Of course, Inspector."
Dr. Sterling knelt and began his examination. George watched his movements — the bandaged hand moved cautiously but confidently. There was no trace of nervousness on the Doctor's face. Only concentration, scientific coldness.
But George knew the wound was there. Precisely where a killer's hand would bear it.
The autopsy room was cold and white. On the limestone table lay the body, chest opened, ribs spread apart. The air was sharp with the smell of formalin and blood. George stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching Dr. Sterling.
The Doctor worked slowly, methodically. The bandaged hand trembled occasionally as the scalpel cut into flesh, but his movements were precise. George couldn't take his eyes off the bandage. With every cut, he thought: It could be him. This could be the hand that cut the sailor's throat too.
Inspector Blackwood stood on the opposite side of the table, notebook in hand. He didn't look at George. Not once.
"Interesting," Dr. Sterling said suddenly. "The angle of the cut differs slightly from the previous victim's. This wound curves upward, while the previous one was straight."
"What does that mean, Doctor?" the Inspector asked.
"Perhaps the killer approached from a different angle. Or used a different hand."
"Or it was a different killer," George said quietly.
Dr. Sterling looked up. His eyes met George's. "Possible, Sergeant. But the cutting technique is the same. The same pressure, the same depth. This is the same hand."
George's stomach clenched. The same hand. The bandaged hand.
The autopsy continued. Dr. Sterling removed the heart, weighed it, recorded it. The lungs, the liver, the kidneys. He dictated every movement into the record. George could barely watch. The tension sat in his stomach like a stone.
Blackwood finally looked up. His gaze met George's for a moment. No warmth. Only the cold, official stare. But George saw something else beneath it — fear. The same fear that gripped his own heart.
Then the door burst open.
A uniformed constable rushed in, gasping, his face white as lime. "Inspector! Sir! Another body has been found! At St. Katharine's Docks!"
George's heart stopped. Blackwood froze. Dr. Sterling looked up from the autopsy table, the scalpel still in his hand.
"When?" the Inspector asked, his voice sharp.
"Now, sir! Found ten minutes ago! A dockworker in the water!"
Blackwood and George looked at each other. Then at the Doctor.
Dr. Sterling stood by the autopsy table, scalpel in hand. The bandage on his left hand. He had been here. The entire time. Throughout the whole autopsy. He could not have left the room.
"That's impossible," George whispered.
The Inspector's face was expressionless, but his eyes — his eyes suddenly lit up. Relief. "Doctor," he said slowly. "Please finish the autopsy. Sergeant, you're with me."
They rushed out of the room. In the hallway, the Inspector stopped and leaned against the wall. His hand was trembling.
"It can't be him," he panted. "He was here the whole time. The whole time."
"I know, sir," George said. "But then who?"
The Inspector met his eyes. The coldness that had characterized him all day suddenly vanished. His eyes were wet. "My God, George. We almost... we almost fabricated evidence. We almost destroyed an innocent man."
George grasped his arm. "But we didn't. The news came just in time."
"And if it hadn't? If the Doctor is innocent, and we set a trap for him? If we become the guilty ones?"
George didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew how thin the ice was that they were dancing on.
The site of the second murder was at St. Katharine's Docks, by a narrow canal where the water was black and oily. The body was found under a bridge, half in the water, its clothes soaked through. An older man, with a gray beard, the same cut across his throat.
George stood on the shore, watching as the body was pulled from the water. The fog was thinner here, the wind having torn it apart, but the stench — river, rotting wood, sewage — was unbearable.
"It's the same hand," the Inspector said, kneeling beside the body. "Look at the angle of the cut, Sergeant. The same."
"But if Dr. Sterling is innocent..."
"Then the killer is still at large. And we have no idea who it is."
George looked at the Inspector. His face was tired, dark circles under his eyes. The cold armor he had worn all day was beginning to crack.
"Come," George said quietly. "Let's finish here. Then let's get a drink."
The Inspector hesitated. Then he nodded.
The pub was near Scotland Yard, on a narrow street where the lamps gave off a dim light. The "Black Swan" was a low, smoky establishment with oak tables scarred by generations of beer and brawls. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, the smell of cheap ale, and the sweat of men.
George returned to the table with two pints of ale. The Inspector sat in the corner, his back against the wall, his gaze lost in the distance.
"What's wrong with you?" George asked, setting the pints on the table.
The Inspector looked up. "Nothing, Sergeant."
"Don't. Not now. There's no Inspector and Sergeant here. Only you and me."
Victor grasped his pint and drank deeply. Then he set it down and began tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop. "I don't know how to behave, George. I don't know how to be with you. Before the Gilded Cage, everything was simple. You were my sergeant. I was your Inspector. Now..."
"Now what are we?"
Victor met his eyes. "I don't know."
George took a drink. The ale was bitter, but it felt good. "I know. I love you."
Victor's face twisted. "Don't say that."
"Why? Because it's true?"
"Because it's dangerous."
"Our lives are dangerous now. The killer is free. We almost fabricated evidence. We could be exposed at any moment. And you're afraid of loving me?"
Victor didn't answer. He just sat there, staring at his ale.
The noise of the pub swirled around them — men laughing loudly, tankards clinking, the crackling of the hearth. George let the silence speak. He knew Victor needed time.
After the third pint, Victor suddenly spoke. "Do you know what I thought about all day?"
"What?"
"About how you were that night. Under the mask. Your body. Your voice. The way you whispered my name."
George's heart began to beat faster. "And?"
Victor took a long drink, set down his tankard, and began tracing the wet ring of ale on the table with his finger. "You were wonderful. The whole thing... it was wonderful. The best I've ever felt."
George didn't speak. He just watched Victor, the words coming slowly, painfully, as if each one caused him pain.
"But I'm afraid," Victor continued quietly. "I'm afraid that if I truly open up, I'll lose you. Or you'll lose me."
"We could both lose each other," George said. "But if we suppress what we feel now, we've already lost. Before it even truly began."
Victor looked up. His eyes were red, but not from fatigue now. "What do you want?"
"You. Completely. Not just behind the mask. Not just in secret rooms. Here. In reality."
Victor looked at him for a long time. Then he smiled — the first real smile George had seen all day. "You're stubborn, George."
"I know."
"Headstrong."
"That too."
"And completely impossible."
"That as well."
Victor stood up. He placed some coins on the table. "Come. Let's go home."
