"Who would have thought," Richard Poole states dryly as he crouches down near the corpse of the murder victim. A rather brutal murder from the looks of it. "That working for the St. Marie police would be so deadly, hmmm?"

He looks up at Camille Borday who gazes down at tied up and now quite dead body of DI Pigface. Or, as his actual name turned out to be, "Rudolph Red?" Camille reads over the shoulder of Fidel who's gone through the man's pockets to see if anything is missing.

"Rudolph Red? Really? What sort of cruel parents did that man have?" Richard shakes his head as he gets up and strolls around the rather luxurious hotel apartment. "How did he afford this on a police Chief salary? I don't understand, I couldn't even afford a small air-conditioning in my shack!"

As the former chief of the Honoré police slowly makes his rounds through the room and peers onto the adjacent balcony, Fidel and Dwayne carefully comb through every inch of the apartment. They talk quietly to themselves, Camille only listening with half an ear. She's studying the man's body, looking for something specific.

"Richard, come look. There it is," she point at one of the man's bare arms. Massive arms, she might add. "If you stand away a distance, there's a pattern of bruises. See?" She leans back and points as Fidel stretches the man's limbs out to take photo's of the various wounds.

Former DI Pigface, aka Rudolph Red was found by the maid. Laying on the ground in a pool of blood which was soaking into the carpet, only wearing a pair of boxers, disturbingly adorned by various animals. Who, upon closer inspection, are doing thing they should not be doing on a pair of boxers, Richard had decided after a firm 'Good god!'. Or indeed any piece of clothing, he added firmly.

Following is sergeants suggestions he steps back and stares at the outstretched arm. Where one would usually expect to find the marks of fingers, having bruised the arms by holding the victim down, are in fact dots. Which can only have been deliberately placed there by pressing one finger viciously into the man's arm to create the pattern.

"What does it say?" Asks Camille, tilting her head as Richard does to study the colorful bruises. He mutters under his none breath, correcting himself a few times as he tries to decipher the morse code. By now they read up on it so much he's able to recognize a few letters.

"An A at the beginning and one at the end. A C and that's an E. So Ace something A," he murmurs, tapping a finger against his chin.

"Acedia, " Camille murmurs, looking up at him. "Sloth. That's... Yeah, I guess that's fitting for him," she winces at that, not sure if she should feel guilty for thinking that it /does/ fit. The man was dead after all and he was a co-worker, even if posthumous.

Richard raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "That means whomever is doing this? Is escalating."

This time it's Camille who raises an eyebrow. "Why do you think that?"

Resuming his round of the hotel-room, he pauses and shudders when one of the ambulance personal steps /through/ him on his way to the corpse. "I hate it when that happens," he growls, skirting out of the way of the rest of the people.

"Because," he continues, standing to the side to watch the proceedings. "They have been killing by some pattern. I'm not sure if it's some moon or sun or star constellation or some special day in some religion, but it's always been six months apart. That's probably why no one noticed the pattern."

Camille narrows her eyes, mentally going over the files she's been reading over Fidel's shoulder. "And the Cook was murdered a week ago. So the next victim wouldn't have been until six months from now. So what made him or her kill so soon?"

Moving out onto the balcony, Richard looks around there for any clues, his keen eyes not missing any details. "Him. I think it's a him. You need strength to leave precise bruises like those. Unless we're dealing with a particular strong woman, which is a possibility, I suppose. Maybe the corner can tell us more from the shape and form etcetera of the bruises."

Camille nods, stepping out of the way of the medics as they carry the late DI Pigface aka Rudolph Red out of the room. "Maybe it was just too good an opportunity to resist?"

As he steps back into the room, Richard gives her a puzzled look. "How do you mean?"

"Well," she gives him a one shouldered shrug, "/We/ can't have been the only ones annoyed by the man's lazy comportement that..."

"English please," he interrupts her, making her hide a grin.

"/Attitude/" she gives him a look before continuing. "It must have been noticeable by others. I mean, if I were a serial killer, I'd be keeping my eyes on the police, oui?"

That earns her another look. "/Yes/, that sounds logical. But then again, this sort of people aren't know for their logical thinking. Still, it makes sense that's how they noticed the man who's supposedly in charge... didn't show any interest."

Camille frowns. "But that would make most criminals happy, wouldn't it?"

Pointing at her, Richard makes an aha sound. "Unless they are the narcissist sort. The ones who take pride in their murders. They are known to build shrines of them, collect paper clippings, that sort of thing. Unlike this one, the other murders seem to have been given far more thought. For that he would have had to be observing his victims for a while."

Camille nods. "So all we gotta do is find out who's been asking about them, been seen around more and most people wouldn't know!" Enthusiastically she starts toward the door.

"Uh, Camille, where are you going?" Richard looks at her perplexed. "Are we going back to the precinct?"

"No," she shakes her head, making a motion with her hands which is the equivalent of 'duh'. "To talk to the people who knew the other vicit... " Her face falls when realization hits. "Oh."

Giving her a sympathetic look, Richard lets out a unneeded sigh. "Oh indeed. We have a different problem, though."

Camille furrows her brow and looks at her boss puzzled. "What's that?"

Richard points at where the victim was moments ago. "Where does all that blood come from It's soaking the carpet, yet there wasn't a open wound on him. At least not one which bled so profusely."

Camille opens her mouth, closes it again and then blinks. "Merde."