Chapter Text
The room felt a lot colder as the information sunk in. Suddenly Malcolm was immune to the heat from the furnace consuming the room. The threat of death suddenly sounded good. Warranted.
Malcolm was overcome with those dark whispers in the back of his mind that he’d been taught to suffocate by his therapists. The ones he was told to bury, and ignore. They burst past the floodgate he’d assembled in his late childhood years and suddenly he was drowning in the dark voice.
The words reminded him who he was.
It always tied back to his childhood.
To his father.
Malcolm’s father had killed this man’s mother.
Martin Whitly was the MW Slasher’s origin story.
His father had made this man into the killer he was without even knowing he had. Another case of the families of the victims taking the brunt of the surgeon’s murderous deeds. It never was just the victim themself who’s live was ruined-- ended. It was those close to them as well.
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm breathed out. An apology was the least he could do-- all he could muster. It rolled off his tongue before he could stop himself. It wouldn’t mean anything to this killer, it wouldn’t bring back the man’s mother.
It wasn’t his fault; not in the slightest. Malcolm had been no older than this killer himself when his father had murdered the other’s mother. There’d been nothing Malcolm could’ve done.
He hadn’t even found the girl in the box until just after he’d turned ten. This man had been gone from his life years prior to that.
In reality, Malcolm knew it wasn’t really his fault-- It couldn’t have been--
But still it was.
It would always be his fault too.
The Surgeon had been killing under Malcolm and his mother’s noses his whole life. Malcolm could’ve stopped it all, had he disobeyed and looked through his father’s hobby room earlier. Why had he been too good of a child to snoop around through his parent’s belongings?
So, maybe he hadn’t handled the blade that killed this man’s mother. But he hadn’t prevented it either. It was unreasonable to be blaming himself, that small, overpowered whisper hidden in his brain told him, but he couldn’t help but drown under the bigger, louder voices telling him otherwise.
Malcolm tried to cling to Gil’s voice from when he was younger-- the man telling him you’re a hero, Malcolm and you saved a lot of people tonight, and even, you were just a kid, Bright. There’s nothing you could’ve done.
He tried to hold on to anything that could possibly reign in the raging voice in his head-- the accusatory whispers that people had died under Malcolm’s watch. That he hadn’t noticed fast enough, and others paid the price for that.
Sure, he saved a lot of people by calling the police that night, but what about the victims before that? Like the MW Slasher’s mother? Malcolm hadn’t killed them, but he still felt just as guilty.
Malcolm forced himself to take a breath, pulling himself from his thoughts.
The anger from the killer was gone now, replaced with a vulnerable frown as he stared into the flame. His hands wrung around the handle of the fire poker he was holding, and the room had faded to nothing but silence with the occasional crackle from the furnace.
Malcolm flicked his attention back down to his lap.
He still had so many questions. Some gaps had been filled in, but there was still so much to uncover-- and if by how the iron stamp was quickly heating for the branding to come, there wasn’t a lot of time.
Malcolm tried to focus his hazily concussed brain on the man’s face.
Where he knew it. When he’d known it.
They’d have been in, what? The second grade?
He managed to put himself back in that second-grade classroom; some snobby high class elementary school for the privileged. His mother’s choice, of course.
His mind shifted through his peers at the time, studying the blurry faces of his classmates; looking for anyone who fit the profile. Anyone who resembled the man before him.
He knew this man. Had when he was little. He remembered Malcolm, but Malcolm didn’t remember him. Why is that?
There was just one kid Malcolm had always wondered about.
One peer who’d been there on Friday, never to be seen again that following Monday.
The only kid his mother had sadly shaken her head at when Malcolm had questioned his friend’s whereabouts, hugging him close and whispering that his friend had moved away unexpectedly.
And his name had been--
“Donovan Michaels.”
The killer turned to Malcolm in surprise, eyeing him thoughtfully. His eyebrows furrowed and a frown tugged at his lips. The reaction was confirmation enough that Malcolm was right. That he’d figured out who this man was, and how Malcolm knew him.
The MW Slasher’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, so Malcolm added a concussion-slurred, “I am a profiler, Donovan. This is kinda my job. We went to kindergarten, first and second grade together, right?”
“Hmph,” Donovan gave an almost impressed nod, “you’re the brain of that little police operation of yours, aren’t you? How could I forget that?”
“Well,” Malcolm forced the small, fond smile off his lips at the thought of his team, “I wouldn’t go that far. I am quite good though. I’ve been told I’m very good at getting in the mind of killers.”
“I’ll bet, with who your father is,” Donovan snarked. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you were his protege or something, Whitly.”
Oh! I like him, my boy! I would’ve loved if we’d worked together! You really should’ve taken more of an interest in my hobbies. You did spend a lot of time in my hobby room.
Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance as his father’s fond voice echoed forward from the back of his mind. Malcolm dropped his attention to his lap, frowning hard before he piped up; just barely audibly, “I’m not a killer.”
He wasn’t sure if he was saying it to Donovan, or his father-- or possibly to convince himself?
Donovan gave a hum of acknowledgement, not turning back from the furnace, clearly not convinced in the slightest.
Malcolm couldn’t help but keep his profile going. At this point it was more so for himself than to really solve the case. This was more personal than he’d first believed.
He hadn’t even thought to link the MW of the branding stamp to Martin Whitly, or even to himself, Malcolm Whitly. It was absurd that twenty years later and the Surgeon’s misdoings were still ruining Malcolm’s life.
Malcolm shook away the hate for his father burning in his heart, forcing himself back to Donovan.
His school-friend was experiencing bouts of extreme emotions, Malcolm noted. Intense anger, to sadness, then a quick jump to indifference. A mask when he realized he’d let his emotions slip.
Malcolm was sure Donovan hadn’t planned on digging his nails so deep in Malcolm’s forearm that he’d torn the skin in five small, deep nail holes that were now bleeding down Malcolm’s arm. He’d been quick to withdraw, leaving blood-smudged fingerprints beside the wounds as he pulled back.
Malcolm’s thought process stalled on the possibility that Donovan had severe Borderline Personality Disorder; which would explain a lot of his mental thought process now. The abusive farm he’d been raised on after his mother’s murder, a sense of abandonment from losing his mother and his home at a young age.
The farm had even come into play with not just his murders, but how he’d kidnapped Malcolm as well; how the killer branded his victims with the horse brand, to how he slit their throats like one would slaughter livestock. Even to the knots the killer had keeping Malcolm restrained-- popular with keeping pigs neutralized.
It was all there.
Malcolm didn’t mention his findings quite yet. Last thing he needed now was to anger Donovan into another bout of uncontrolled rage.
“This is almost ready for you, Whitly,” Donovan called, and Malcolm dragged his attention away from his lap to see the other man spinning the iron stamp in the furnace. “I can’t wait to hear you scream; I’m sure your little cop buddies will enjoy the show. I hope Arroyo likes listening to you plead for it to stop-- the girls all did that too.”
“They can hear this too?” Malcolm’s breath stuttered in his chest. He’d thought it was just a visual, he didn’t see a microphone of any quality. Just the thought that they were listening made his heart hammer fearfully in his chest.
“Of course, they can hear; the screaming’s the best part.”
He suddenly couldn’t breathe-- it was one thing for them to be watching, but another for them to hear any sounds of pain from Malcolm; the weakness and vulnerability clouding his pained screams and-- wait, Malcolm froze as his brain finally caught up to the second part, wheezing out a panicked stammer of: “Arroyo?”
More questions raised in Malcolm’s head.
He could understand the grudge on the Surgeon, as well as the grudge he had on Malcolm due to family relations. If the guy couldn’t get to the Surgeon who was tucked away peacefully in Claremont Psychiatrics', then his kin would be the next best thing.
But Gil? What had Gil done?
“What did Gil Arroyo do?” Malcolm asked as calmly as he could manage, “he brought the Surgeon in, didn’t he? He saved so many lives, Donovan. He brought the Surgeon to justice, put him away where he can’t hurt anyone else.”
“He did it too late,” Donovan snarled, “fat lot of good Gil Arroyo did for my mom. He made it big off the Surgeon though, all those promotions that took him from officer to Lieutenant in the snap of your finger-- what a hero, collecting fame off a monster like the Surgeon.”
Donovan paused, shooting a disgusted look back at Malcolm, “I’ve been watching, you know. You Whitly’s, and the cop to bring in the Surgeon. You all just love the spotlight, don’t you? I spent my childhood being the last thought on anyone’s mind, while you were constantly making headlines.”
That explained the killer’s flamboyant flare when it came to his murders. The placement of the bodies in popular areas to be found almost instantly. He wanted them to be covered on the news. He wanted his work to be seen-- he wanted to be in the spotlight, even if his face wasn’t.
“Do you think we wanted to be on the news constantly?” Malcolm spoke before he could stop himself. He hated that that’s what people thought. They’d suffered, but all anyone could do was make a story out of it. To exploit them and their pain for views.
That’s really smart right now, Malcolm. You know, back talking the one who holds your life in his hands? Real clever.
Malcolm gave an irritated growl. “You’re right, the Surgeon is a monster. He ruined your life; he ruined my life. He ruined my mother’s life, and my sister’s life, and about twenty-three other victim’s, at least, and their family’s lives as well. Martin Whitly is a monster.”
Hey, that’s offensive! Be careful, Malcolm, you’re letting your daddy issues show again.
“You want sympathy from me?” Donovan’s face hardened into a glare that bore into Malcolm’s soul, “the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, Whitly.”
He’s got a point there, my little apple.
And Malcolm wanted to scream.
“Of course not,” Malcolm tried to stop himself from snapping. Snapping wouldn’t help anything-- if anything it might speed up the process, which Malcolm didn’t really want. “I don’t want sympathy from anyone. My father’s a killer. I’m not a victim. We’re not the same in that sense, I know that.”
Malcolm didn’t bother bringing up the fact that his life had been in shambles from the time he’d hit double digits and up. That he’d had the psychological aspect of having a serial killer for a father weighting over him before his pre-teen years, and that he’d literally had to change his name to get a moment’s peace from who he was.
Donovan was far past the ability to comprehend any sort of alternate explanation to the one he’d been paving out from himself for years. Watching from the shadows as his anger manifested. Seeing only what he wanted to see and nothing else on the matter.
Donovan didn’t say anything beyond that, turning his glare back to the furnace.
Malcolm stared long and hard at the killer’s back. Studying him. Building his profile. Trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. He’d gotten information, but nowhere near enough to piece it all together.
“So, do you prefer Donovan, or the MW Slasher?” Malcolm finally breathed out, tearing his attention away from the killer. The man didn’t say anything, nor turn to even glance at Malcolm, which silently irked the one tied to the chair, “you know, I don’t understand this.”
“Understand what?” At least that got the killer’s attention. That he was finally humoring him.
“I don’t fit your taste.” Malcolm told him honestly, “you’ve taken seven girls. And they fit a specific profile-- a taste. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. I don’t fit that. I’m not a woman, and I don’t have blonde hair. The eyes I can see, but the rest? It doesn’t line up.”
“You’re right,” Donovan turned to Malcolm, stepping to lean against the wall behind the camera. “Malcolm Whitly had disappeared from everything when you, what? Fifteen? Just… poof, and he was gone. But he wasn’t dead. That would’ve made headlines-- the Surgeon’s Prodigal Son dead.”
Malcolm gave a wary nod of understanding, because it certainly would’ve. A lot of people probably would’ve been happy to see the serial killer’s son gone-- Donovan certainly wasn’t the only one who was skeptical of Malcolm’s innocence.
“I still kept tabs. On Gil, on your mother. On that cute little sister of yours--”
Malcolm froze, mouth drying out at where this was going. Donovan didn’t even have to finish it-- in fact, Malcolm would very much prefer he not finish what he was saying.
It was clear now… who all the victims suddenly resembled. Malcolm felt bile rising as he envisioned his little sister’s face on the bodies of the victims they’d found.
Ainsley dead, with their father’s initials scorched on her wrist.
I don’t know how much I like him now that I know he was going for my little girl…
“You figured it out, huh?” The killer grinned, “you really are a profiler, I guess.”
He paused for a second, poking around at the coal, “it wasn’t hard to find her. Quite the little reporter she is, isn’t she? But then… then I found you again. That stupid alias didn’t disguise you for very long, Whitly. You haven’t changed much, grown up a bit, maybe. Working with Arroyo too, figures. It was easy to put that together.”
Malcolm swallowed, unable to stop thinking about Ainsley sitting in his current position. Her hands and ankles bound to the chair, with the threat of the hot iron stamp waved around threateningly.
“You were the obvious choice though-- I mean, three birds with one stone, right? The Surgeon’s son kicks the bucket and he gets to feel that pain while he rots away in his cell. I set up this little live stream for Lieutenant Arroyo to watch you die; to suffer knowing he can’t save you like I worried for days when my mommy didn’t come home. And, well, I don’t think I ever did like you, Malcolm. Too much of a know-it-all, even when we were little.”
“Three birds with one stone,” Malcolm croaked in reply.
“I could’ve gone for Ainsley, had planned too since you’d dropped off the radar. It probably would’ve been easier too, but I couldn’t resist you. I couldn’t resist making the police suffer watching their friend--”
Some friends they are, leaving you here for so long. It’s been what? Over twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? Are you not priority to them, my boy? Remember how they treated you?
“I don’t have friends,” Malcolm snapped. “They don’t even like me, Donovan. You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist.”
“Arroyo likes you though,” Donovan grinned, “I could care less about the girl cop, and that other one you hung around with, this is all for Arroyo. It’s just a bonus that they’ll be watching their profiler die too. I consider it a win.”
“They don’t care about me,” Malcolm let his chin drop against his chest. “How… how could they? I’m my father’s son.”
Why not say that with a bit more pride next time, my boy.
“Glad you see it my way,” Donovan clucked his tongue, “it doesn’t matter if they care or not, they’ll get to watch anyways. I don’t care about you, but I still wanna see you die.”
Malcolm’s eyes fluttered shut as his mind was clouded with incriminating thoughts. He forced a breath. Then a second, before he was looking back up, blown eyes glazed over with a haunted expression.
He drew his thought back again.
“Your furnace is very old.”
Donovan blinked at the abrupt change of conversation, but strode over to the furnace to look it over with a raised eyebrow anyways. He shifted the iron rod that was certainly hot enough to melt skin now, but he still didn’t seem happy with it.
Malcolm tried not to wince.
“They’re illegal now,” Malcolm informed factually, “they were…” Malcolm searched for the words, brain feeling fuzzier than before, “a f…ire risk. They’re only built into… old buildings. Ones constructed prior to the eighteen-hundreds, right?”
“Probably,” Donovan shrugged, looking the furnace over. “Why?”
“Just curious,” Malcolm’s eyelids drooped, but he carried on. “Old builds are very interesting. Built far better than anything modern, especially if it’s still standing to the current date. It’s hard to believe with all the resources we have these days-- the world is just cheap nowadays, I suppose… And that furnace really is beautiful, it’s definitely newer than the building itself, but it still predates anything current.”
Malcolm paused, resting his eyes, “and I can only imagine the smoke that beauty creates.”
Donovan gave Malcolm a curious look. Malcolm forced himself to sit up as much as he could manage in the chair, and if his hands weren’t restrained, he would’ve waved off the other’s curious look, “oh, I have a fascination with old relics. Usually swords, and axes, but I can get behind a good furnace as well. And old buildings, ooh, don’t even get me started on those--”
“So, you’re still weird then, huh Whitly?” Donovan curled his nose up at Malcolm.
The space between Malcolm’s eyebrows creased as he frowned. He chose not to reply to that. Not a whole lot in Malcolm’s life could even be considered normal-- he’d never be anything other than weird.
“You know,” Malcolm said instead, “you never did tell my how you found that string of women who all fit your taste. I mean, it would’ve been hard to just find a new girl, several days in a row, on the street who caught your eye-- even harder to kidnap them under the radar. So, how’d you do it?”
Donovan blinked at Malcolm, clearly trying to decide what he was playing at. “And why should I tell you?”
“A dying man’s last wish?” Malcolm prompted, shoulders lifting, only to slouch by down in a heavy shrug. His body was getting heavier by the minute. “My team’s good, but they’re not good enough to find us-- especially not with me gone. I just want to know how you did it, to give me just a bit of peace of mind before I... y’know...”
Donovan hesitated for a second longer, eyeing Malcolm from the pale, sick looking complexion, to his concussion lidded eyes. “…Tinder.”
“Ah, Tinder,” Malcolm gave an understanding nod.
It lined up.
He could single in on girls, swipe through their profile pictures and photos-- chat them up in the messages section of the site. Donovan was a good-looking guy, so Malcolm doubted he had trouble reeling in dates.
Just another reason Malcolm tended to stay off the site--
“So you just--”
“Enough questions,” Donovan narrowed his eyes. He turned swiftly away from looking at Malcolm, towards the furnace where he grabbed the handle of the iron stamp. The tip glowed a bright red, and Malcolm found himself wincing at the colour.
Donovan inspected the stamp, looking between it and Malcolm, seemingly deciding if the stamp was to his liking yet-- “Guess what time it is, Whitly?” --which, it apparently was.
Malcolm did his best to shift away as Donovan came towards him with the stamp. The chair only had so much give, and Malcolm didn’t get anywhere before he was flat against the back of the chair.
He couldn’t pull his wrist away, and no matter how much he tried to fight Donovan off-- he was no match. He was tied to a chair, and his limbs were already weak from lack of circulation. His hands were the palest of blue at this point, and he was sure his feet weren’t much better.
Donovan cursed under his breath as he forced Malcolm’s forearm against the arm of the chair, putting enough pressure on it that if Malcolm moved just as much as an inch off the armrest, his arm would likely snap under the weight.
“Please, please, Donovan-- I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what my father did. You didn’t deserve it, your mother didn’t--”
“Shut up!”
“I’m sorry.” Malcolm didn’t stop. He pleaded desperately, “you don’t have to do this, I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t--”
Malcolm felt every fiber of his skin ignite into flames as the iron touched down on his wrist. He held off for about… maybe half a second, before he was screaming his voice hoarse.
The scream ripped through his mouth before he could really try to contain it for his team’s sake (should they even really be watching). He begged and pleaded through pained tears, thrashing to get away which was not help at all with his wrists restrained, and Donovan’s weight holding him down.
It was the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life-- and he had the highest pain tolerance of anyone he knew. The pain shot up his arm, and down to his fingertips, and for a moment Malcolm was glad he’d already lost so much feeling in his hand in fingers, or he was sure it would’ve been tenfold worse.
He sobbed at the pain, unable to do anything more than endure it. To let it happen.
His cells sizzled against the hot metal, and the smell of the hot iron sinking into his skin made Malcolm gag between his desperate sobs of pain. Burning flesh wasn’t a pretty scent. It was almost as bad as the pain searing along his arm.
Donovan kept the iron down for five seconds at least; a sick, twisted smile curling onto his lips as he watched the skin surrounding Malcolm’s new branding blister angrily. Satisfaction crossed Donovan’s face as Malcolm’s body finally submitted to the pain, going completely lax against his restraints.
He watched as Malcolm’s head lulled down as he passed out from the pain. He’d lasted far longer than any of the girls who he’d branded before. It didn’t surprise him.
Donovan finally pulled the branding stamp off, staring down at his handy work with a smile. It wasn’t as pretty as the others he’d done, but then again, this wasn’t bait. This was his revenge for his mother’s sake.
He’d known as he let the stamp heat far beyond what would been necessary to leave a shallow branding on skin. The stamp had been hotter this time than any other, far hotter. Special for Malcolm.
Besides, a dead man can’t see what’s on his wrist anyways. He didn’t need to make it look pretty; all he’d needed to do was make sure Malcolm had his rightful branding on his wrist. That he’d die knowing who he was: Malcolm Whitly, the Surgeon’s son.
Donovan returned the stamp to its home beside the furnace. He put out the flame now that the work was done. The iron was still bright red, but the concrete walls wouldn’t catch on fire.
He spared a glance back at the table holding his blade-- the one that had taken several lives before Malcolm, before his eyes settled on the Surgeon’s son. He’d killed all those girls while they were unconscious, it was far easier to make it look nice when they weren’t moving.
It would be quick and easy if Whitly was unconscious.
He’d wait.
Donovan moved towards the camera, leaning in close to smile at the viewers, “I hope you liked the show, Lieutenant and team. It’ll be more fun to kill him when he’s awake and begging for his life again, so you enjoy these last few hours with him still alive, alright?”