Free Son of a Serial Killer by Jams N. Roses

going quite hard on Summers, who had just announced that the police believed the killings of teenagers Ricky Robinson and Alexia White were down to The Phantom.
    A few members of the press were quick to state that, if this was The Phantom, this was the first time he had killed two victims at the same time, and also that the frequency of the murders was increasing. What was her planned course of action? What were the police going to do in order to protect the public?
    For all her brightness, Summers didn't have the answers they wanted to hear.
    She wished it was Watts fielding the questions; although she knew he'd never put himself in the line of fire. Or even Kite, if he could transfer his interviewing skills into the media room, then he could give the press a run for their money. She made a mental note of this for next time.
    A cocky journalist stood, working for a national tabloid, and asked a question that Summers knew would arise at some point, and ha d even practised a cool, calm response to.
    ‘ Can you honestly say, after the tragedy of The Phantom murdering your father, that you are the best person to lead this investigation?’ asked the reporter. ‘Can you remain professional, when this case has an obvious personal involvement for you?’ he continued.
    In her practised response, Summers had coolly played down her personal involvement in the case. Her father's death was a tragedy, a good man lost at the hands of pure evil. That she was going to put this criminal behind bars, not just for him, but for the families and friends of all the victims, and also to protect the innocent public from further atrocities.
    But she didn't react like that.
    The loss for words at the previous questions, the disagreement with her boss about the person responsible for the latest killings, her personal involvement, they all came into play. Suddenly, she doubted herself. And when she opened her mouth to give a reply, not one word came out. An incredibly awkward silence, for what felt like days to Summers, hung in the air until she turned away from the crowd and walked out of the media room, leaving the press buzzing amongst themselves.
    The radio pr esenter came back on air, clearly shocked by what had just happened at police headquarters, and added his two pence worth of opinion, branding the decision to give this case to a victim’s relative shambolic, and further bad management by the authorities in charge of solving these crimes and finding The Phantom.
    Mrs Green chuckled, and stared into the newspaper cut-out she now held in her hands. Dated six years earlier, the headline read, ‘Detective Summers murdered, Phantom strikes again.’

25
    Summers strode into her office, slammed the door closed behind her and sat down heavily behind her desk. She took a minute to work on her breathing exercises, as recommended to her from an old friend from back in her medical days, to help calm down.
    ‘ Oh, sod this,’ she said, as she gave up on the breathing and pulled out her hip-flask.
    H alf-way through her second gulp, the door to her office burst open and in walked Watts, closing the door behind him and sitting down in the chair the other side of her desk. He raised his eyebrows at her as she screwed the lid back onto the hip-flask and put it into a drawer. She wiped her mouth then gave him her attention, waiting for the inevitable disciplining she was about to receive.
    Surprisingly, it didn't arrive. At least, not in the way that would have been completely justified.
    ‘We always knew this was going to be hard. We discussed this. You told me this was the case you wanted, the reason you joined the force. Now, I'm going to ask you one last time, and that will be the end of it,’ said Watts. ‘Your personal involvement in this case is not necessarily a problem to me, you know that. But tell me, are your feelings being a hindrance? Or are you going to catch this guy and put him behind bars?’
    Summers sat up in her chair, took a