Page 49 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

“Camera timestamp reads six-forty-two,” she said. “Before the carousel turns off for the night.”

Kenny leaned in. “How far from the body?”

“About a twenty-five-minute walk. If you cut through the river path, it’s isolated. No traffic, no witnesses.”

He didn’t react outwardly, but he logged it. A placesomeone might choose. Or lead someone to. Quiet enough to disappear.

Parry flipped to the next image. “This is where it gets a little… surreal. The only person caught approaching him was Santa.”

Kenny raised an eyebrow. “Santa?”

She nodded grimly and turned the image around.

A second figure approached the boy. Bulkier. Taller. Dressed head to toe in red velvet and fur trim. White beard. Black boots. Kenny picked up the photo. Studied it.

It wasn’t a disguise.

It was arole.

And whoever was playing it had done so with intention.

His thoughts spiralled, brain already piecing together the shape of something ritualistic, symbolic.

“Santa.” Kenny almost tutted. “Of course it is.”

“As there’s no sign of struggle and his body was clean, it suggests an approach, not an abduction.” Parry waited for Kenny to look up. “There’s… some suggestion he might’ve been engaging in survival sex work.”

Kenny raised a brow. “Confirmed?”

“Not directly. The shelter had concerns. Staff said he disappeared then returned and there’d be bruises.”

“Could be drugs?”

“Could be. But the shelter said he’d been seen with older men.”

“So…gay?”

“We don’t know. Not officially. But… maybe. What they did say was he seemed… careful about how he moved. How he talked. Like he’d learned to edit himself.”

Kenny’s stomach curled. A boy who didn’t make noise. Didn’t ask for help. And gotgoodat being invisible…

“But there’s no evidence of struggle or defensivewounds,” Parry continued. “Pathology report is pending, but early signs suggest a fast-acting sedative might have been used. Possibly in a drink. Possibly ingested voluntarily.”

Kenny flipped to the pathology report, reading the summary.

Asphyxiation by ligature. Time of death placed somewhere between seven thirty and eight p.m., give or take half an hour. Long enough for the body to cool in the winter air. Long enough for the lights on the Ventnor green to blink across his face like a parody of peace. Ligature marks at the neck. Fine-gauge wire or possibly strong synthetic cord. Something deliberate. Quiet. Not a belt or scarf or blunt trauma in panic. No, this was calculated. Methodical. Intimate.

Kenny inhaled sharply.

There were no defensive wounds. Not a scratch on his knuckles. No skin under the nails. Nothing to suggest he’d fought his attacker. Which could mean sedation. Compliance. Or maybe a submission that came not from trust, but exhaustion. Boys like Luke knew when resistance meant nothing. There was bruising on his upper arms. Not aggressive. No finger indentations. No dislocation or swelling. Pressured. He’d been held. Lifted, probably. Arranged.

Of course he had.

The suit told Kenny that.

A novelty Santa costume, zipped up post-mortem, cut for a larger man’s body, supermarket grade. The fabric fibres matched a cheap plastic bag from the Co-op recycling bin two streets over. A stray thread of synthetic white trim had been recovered from his hair. A red velvet smear clung to his palm.

That same palm had held a peppermint sweet.