Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix by phill syron-jones Page B

marks?” McCall asked him, was stumped by what he may have seen, something they might have missed. Even Tina looked confused.
    “There were no marks on the body, only those he made himself,” the ME growled, furious at the accusation she had missed something.
    “What I mean is, all the areas of body remaining had some sort of mark or fault,” the Englishman said. “Vic One had a tattoo on her back—that’s why he only took the front part of her body. Vic Two had scars on her one leg and one arm, also she had piercings and, well, Vic Three was pretty clean so—”
    “That’s why the most was taken from her,” Tina finished the sentence, catching on to his theory.
    “What, you mean our guy is seeking out women for body parts? For what?” McCall’s patience was thin and this guy was stretching it to the limit.
    “Look, you said you could help,” McCall continued. “But frankly if all your ideas are as half-assed as this we are better off without you. I’m sorry.” And with that she stormed out, not because the idea was wrong, no. It was more maddening than that.
    What really annoyed her was the possibility that he could be right and she had failed to see what he had.
    The newcomer walked up to Tina and took her right hand. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion, Madam,” and, so saying, he gently raised her knuckles to his lips and planted a small kiss there, then left. Tina grabbed for the side of the table as her knees gave way. All she could say to herself was “WOW!”
    As he got out of the elevator he saw the chaos of the office. Phones were ringing, computers flashed with information, and detectives were running here and there with documents in their hands. He stepped off and looked round to find McCall attacking a vending machine. Tooms and Tony were going through paperwork and arguing about what should go in a filing system, while the Captain was on McCall’s phone yelling at some poor SOB about press at the crime scene. A smile crept over his face, as he nodded to himself reassuringly, deciding that it was time to tell them who he was.
    The stranger walked up to the Captain and whispered into his ear, and the other man stood bolt upright as though a sudden shock of electricity had been passed through him. He said something in return and beckoned the others to follow him into a small briefing room. The tall mysterious man was already inside, and as they came in, he asked them to sit down. Shutting the door, he moved to the centre of a wall on which there was a large map of the city.
    He took stock of the situation and held his two pressed-together index fingers against his lips, as if planning what he was about to say. Describing him as nervous and uncomfortable would have been an understatement.
    “My name is John Steel,” he began. “At this present moment I am assigned to your department to assist with these homicides. Unfortunately I cannot disclose any more information than that at this time. I understand that my presence will cause some issues with our working relationship, however details about what I am working on is classified information. Thank you for your time.”
    He waited for some comeback, a snide comment or remark, but there was nothing. Everyone just left the room as though nothing had happened, simply nodding in acknowledgement, leaving a somewhat puzzled Englishman.
    Steel walked over to McCall’s desk with a sheepish look on his face, that turned into a smile.
    “Look I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot, but—”
    She cut him off in mid-sentence by raising a hand. She shuffled through some paperwork, searching for something, then standing up they both moved across to the information boards.
    “He isn’t done yet, is he?” She looked at him with saddened eyes; John Steel shook his head, the bright fluorescent lights in the room glinting on his sunglasses.
    “No, he’s not finished. But we will catch this guy,” he said, turning back to the board. “We have