Page 23 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Eventually, curiosity overruled protocol. She took Aaron’s name, logged them both onto the scene register, and handed over two Tyvek suits. Kenny, accustomed to this routine, slipped into his without hesitation. Aaron, less practiced, fumbled with the unfamiliar folds until Kenny stepped in to help, guiding him through the process.

“Where exactly was he found?” he called to DS Parry.

“Under the tree.” Parry led them towards the forensic tent. “Facing the high street. Early discovery. Dog walker. Scene’s been preserved but obviously compromised a bit. Bodies don’t stay pristine in open spaces overnight, hence the tent. Forensics have already taken samples, but we left staging intact for you.”

Kenny nodded. “Who covered him?”

“A junior. He was already gone. No signs of struggle. Cause of death’s pending, but ligature marks at the neck.”

“Time of death?”

“Rough estimate puts it evening. Between eight and midnight. It’s quiet here then. People are home from work, dinner, school runs done.”

Aaron’s breath misted beside him, uneven in the cold. Kenny had brought people to crime scenes before. PhD students, sometimes visiting specialists. But not often. And never anyone likehim. Back in Ryston, he’d preferred to work alone. It helped him stay inside his own mind, or rather, step insidetheirs. The killer’s. The one who had been here. Moved here.Placedsomething here.

Victimology mattered, of course. Understanding the victim was how he built the map backwards. How he traced what need, obsession, or rage had led to this moment.

But having Aaron here altered the landscape entirely.

His presence heightened everything. As if some buried part of Kenny’s methodology, something instinctual and human, had been dormant until now. Aaron wasn’t a disruption to the process, but a necessary axis. A perspective that didn’t support his insight butamplifiedit. The cold seemed sharper now. The scene more intimate. As though bringing Aaron into it had transformed it from evidence into something personal.

They approached the tree. Parry stepped aside without being told, giving him space. She’d worked with specialists before; she knew a forensic psychologist would want the first sweep in silence, before the volley of questions began and Kenny’s breath slowed, pupils narrowing as the scene began to take shape. Not in the sterile terms of evidence collection, but in the darker architecture beneath. The intention. The need. The psychology stitched through every choice the killer had made. And without thinking, he slipped into the old rhythm: the professor guiding the seminar, the question posed, the test of comprehension.

He glanced sideways. “What do we always start with?”

Aaron didn’t have to look at him. Kenny could hear the eye roll in his tone. “Why here? Why now? Why him?”

Kenny let the quiet hang for a beat, then turned his head to catch Aaron’s profile. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth. “Good boy.”

Aaron’s eyes cut to him, sharp enough to slice the air. “You know exactly what that does to me. Don’t ever say it here.”

For a beat too long, Kenny held his gaze. Then he inclined his head, no argument, no pushback. Acceptance.

“Noted,” he said quietly, steady as a vow. Then, softer, with a warmth meant only for Aaron, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

A flicker of fondness tugged at his mouth, enough to soften the edges of the moment. Because whatever rhythm he’d slipped into, whatever lines he’d blurred, Aaron wasn’t just his priority. He was the point. Always.

Parry cleared her throat, a pointed reminder of where they were, so Kenny turned back to the scene, pulling his focus back to the body beneath the blinking tree lights.

The boy appeared to be late teens, and he’d been posed, not dropped. Legs straight. Arms folded like a doll. Hands placed together, a childlike mimicry of innocence. Deliberate, almost mocking. The Santa suit was synthetic, cheap, and zipped up to his neck. There was a stain on the white trim where his head lolled sideways, jaw slack and barely visible beneath the shadow of the hood. The belly was stuffed with newspaper, distorting the frame into something cartoonish. A parody of Santa. Of gentleness.Safety.

Kenny crouched.

Not too close. Never closer than necessary.

Aaron stood behind him, arms crossed.

“See the hands?” Kenny pointed at them for Aaron’s benefit. “No defensive wounds visible. That either means he trusted his killer… or he was unconscious before restraint.”

Aaron swallowed. “Or didn’t fight.”

Kenny glanced up at him. “Maybe. But even passive victims flinch. Defensive behaviour is a reflex unless chemically interrupted or deeply conditioned out.”

He turned his attention back to the body.

“The costume’s not dressing, either. It’s part of thepresentation. Red, white. Iconography. Cultural shorthand. They didn’t dump him. They displayed him. The gift tag proves that.”

Aaron stepped closer. “So it’s for show?”