‘Yeah, she was from out of town,’ replied Lance. ‘You notice anything or anyone suspicious around the church entrance to the park from the times of twelve thirty pm to three am?’
‘No, I was asleep at those times, as was Jose, one room down from mine. Don't you suspect that either of us was involved in this? I can tell you that it is fairly absurd if you do think that.’
‘No Sean, I don’t think it was you or the church’s caretaker but the only entrances or exits into or out of that park, come from one of four buildings and this church is one of them.’
‘But it is absurd, to think, that someone may have gained entry to the Church, only to access the park. And if someone did, then there would be an entire City worth of suspects.’
Marshall knew that he was talking some sense, but the unique geography of the park, meant, that it had to be an insider, or at least someone who knew someone with access.
‘The only people using this park are patients or staff from the hospital, cops from the station on their breaks, folks from the retirement home and happy couples that come from this church.’ Marshall said.
Lance felt that this could be the first place where he could tick off from investigating further as the only person who had the key to the churches entrance to Park Lane was Father Sean O' Driscoll. Once he ruled this building out, he would have no other reason to speak to the priest, and this greatly pleased the detective.
‘Well, I can only tell you again that I was asleep, as was my caretaker and the keys to the Park, were within my eye-line on my bedside locker.’
‘And what about your caretaker Sean, what is the story with him? You know much about him?’
‘Jose Dominguez is a good friend, a hard worker and most importantly of all, a devout Christian. I can vouch for his good nature.’
‘Good Christian eh? Just like you Sean.’
Father Sean went red in the face and felt this was an opportune time to close out this uncomfortable session of confession.
‘Now, if you do not have any more questions, I will have to go and prepare for the next mass.’
The detective stood up in the confessional and turned to the concealed priest behind the screen.
‘Thank you, Father, you have been most co-operative with both my wife and me.' With that, Lance walked through the small door and toward the front door from where he came in.
The young priest stood shaking on the spot and felt his chest flutter some more. In his mind, that had gone much better than he could have hoped for. The questions were as awkward as he would have expected but none that he had not anticipated beforehand.
He walked towards the altar and met Jose sweeping up around the carpet. The caretaker gave his boss a distrusting look that did not go unnoticed as he continued to sweep.
The devout Catholic Spaniard had grown to dislike this messenger of God and blessed himself quickly as Father O’Driscoll continued onwards past him.
WEST AND LIVELY POLICE STATION
In amongst the population of the one point one million citizens of Metro City, the small Police Station in the borough of West and Lively felt at times like the most densely populated area of the whole city. Located in what was called the more affluent area, in the South West area of Metro City, it’s walls were as busy as those in the livelier and more central City limits.
The downstairs space was where all the run of the mill street crimes would be brought to the desk sergeant at the big desk to be booked and processed. From there, the criminals, would either be questioned in the interview rooms on the same floor, or placed in one of three holding cell’s in the basement.
The term of endearment for those people was Vic-crims, criminals who themselves may as well be victims in time to come. West and Lively was one of those places.
Sometimes it was hard to tell who had been the victim of a crime such was the overspread of miscreants in the area. The second floor was mainly the paper room, and if you weren’t filing, you just kept on walking up the stairs, to the bullpen offices of the Detectives. It was on the second floor, that the fines could be issued, or files on the Vic-crims would be kept, and the reports were written up on both. The second floor, also housed the Police library, where, as legend states, more crimes of passion had taken place, than actual reading.
West and Lively Police station library which was as well-maintained, as any in the city, through mainly underuse, sat at the east wall of the paper floor. It was a favorite place to go if you were having an interdepartmental affair, as it was generally the quietest place in the entire building. It seemed that cops also could not resist someone in uniform.
Located on the top floor was an area, where few cops who dressed in blue dared to venture. It was here that the Detectives and the Chief of Police roamed and hunted from their small bullpen offices. The chief had his vast office at the end of the maze of little boxes.
The Chief had decided against having the men work at desks, as he had wanted his ‘troops,' to undertake secrecy in following up clues and solving crimes. This could also have been perceived, as a ‘do not disturb me and I won't disturb your policy.’ There were no cynics allowed here on the third floor.
The Chief of Police sat low in his leather chair and looked toward his closed blinds, and enjoyed the self-satisfaction of being implicitly able to trust his men. He stole a quick sip from the coffee that his new-found bloodhound had brought him and considered paging the young officer to come and join him.
Officer Brian Tomlinson was serving many purposes, and it wouldn't be long now until that favorable report went to the Mayor and everyone could get what they wanted. Chief Edwards thought of the Mayor's words again and smiled.
‘Martin, I will make sure that you succeed me. I am at an age now where I can appoint my successor, and who better to appoint than the Chief of Police.’
‘I will need a nomination though Mayor, it will have to be someone from within my department, and I can't be seen to be canvassing.’
‘You leave that with me Martin, I will see to that. With such an appointment of the Chief of Police to the role of Mayor, I will certainly be in a better position to run for President.’
That’s how it had begun, thought Edwards. Mayor Tomlinson had wanted to appear tough on crime. And who better in that case to appoint Mayor, than the current Chief of Police. Tomlinson's demons and mistakes were of his own doing, thought Edwards.
‘Are you there, Officer Tomlinson, come in?’ Edwards called into the small radio mic on his desk.
‘Yes Sir, I'm just on the paper floor looking into the coroner's report from that woman in Park Lane. It's quite interesting Sir; it turns out that the crazed knife attacks, were indeed that. He just stabbed her at random after she had died.’ Tomlinson replied.
He was following up on the coroner's report of Annie-Ann Richards, and the results had validated what Lance Marshall had said.
‘For God sake,’ barked Edwards. ‘That's Detective Marshall's case, let him do the donkey work.’
‘Yes, sir, would you like me to stay here and continue reading?’ Tomlinson asked.
Edwards mulled over in his mind if he still wanted his lackey to run on endless goose chases? The young officer’s eager mind to solve a case was not helping in the Chiefs attempts at hindering Marshall’s investigation.
‘Leave all of that and come up to my office. I have a new assignment for you.’
‘Yes Sir, I will be right up.’ The radio microphones went silent again as both men clipped theirs to their belts.
He wanted to hinder Marshall for him to fail, but he couldn't be obvious in his attempts. Lance Marshall was a sly dog of a detective and wouldn't be beyond using private methods in solving crimes. Plus, he had a crack team of detectives, who would be assisting him on the case. The Chief wondered if he could help him along into running down some dead ends. If he assisted Officer Tomlinson at the same time as sending Marshall on some wild goose chases, he could solve the crime indirectly and disgrace Marshall.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ He smiled.
There would only be one avenue of investigation for Lance to follow and it would lead him back to the station house, thought Edwards. The station shared its lane with Park Lane, but only a fool would even think of investigating cops.
Lance had a history with this.
Martin Edwards remembered this now and for the first time, smiled about the incident.
He got up on his feet and walked to the door of his office. His white shirt was clean and pressed, but still, he straightened himself up before he reached the door. Edwards ran a finger through his few remaining grey hairs and opened the door.
The bullpen of detectives continued to hum and buzz with chatter and phone calls. It was a busy metropolis of law-men and women and had come through it now towards the Chief, the only man in blue allowed onto this hallowed floor three. Brian Tomlinson walked and kept his stare straight in front of him as he exercised his free pass through the Lion's den.
Edwards looked left to the last pen at the edge of existence at where the outcast sat at his station. It was here that the disliked and the unwanted were banished to work in silence. The other detectives still looked upon him with distrust and anger, and the chief felt as proud as he could ever feel, as he tasted the distrust of him in the air.
Cops who investigate other cops.
Lance Marshall was the un-forgiven pariah of the department for things that he had done over two years ago. He sat in his bullpen and didn't care that he wasn't liked. Hell, even he didn't want himself to be liked on most days. Lance read over the coroner's report one last time and wondered. Was there any significance in a random heinous act? The knife wounds appeared to be struck at random, but things about it didn't make sense. Why had she pointed herself to four different locations? He examined and re-examined a crime scene photo and immediately dismissed his theory.
The coroner’s report was one thing, thought Lance, but I will have to see the body again. To be sure of something. But he also needed a team, of detectives that he could trust.
Marshall looked across the Bull-Pen and thought about who could help him on this one. There was Rodriguez, Donnelly, Evans maybe? He looked around, and caught the steely brown eyes of Lindsay Dawn urging him to ask her to help. Of course, you are in, he nodded towards her.
Ed Johnson, three rows up, had his head down, and was combing the ground with his eyes, looking for anything but work. Marshall coughed, and gave Ed the nod. Then there was Pete Brandt. Pete, sat at the opposite end of the floor, and had been moved there by the Chief, to separate Marshall from his only friend. They hadn’t spoken all that much of late. Pete had his own problems of late, and had been distant with everyone. But for this, Brandt was in, no question.
Lance felt some of the other eyes upon him and contemplated looking towards them and making the angry face he had perfected for the colleagues who hated him. Instead, the forty-two-year-old detective picked up his tan jacket and walked toward the door.
Don't give them what they want Lance, just keep walking. He repeated to himself, over and over.
The most hated man in the whole department kept walking. It's not always what he did, but Lance was saving his punches and his battles. This tired old detective had a couple of more rounds left in him.
A STEADY RED RIGHT HAND
He tutted and tucked his lips at the radio which played from behind the room sized plastic drip sheet that covered the entire section of the room where the fanatic now worked. No effort was being spared, to shield the pieces of art from the risk of any contamination from the outside world.
The muffled sounds of the Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds song, Red Right Hand played in a hushed tone.
He ran his fingers across the top of his latest creation and blew across it, clearing it of the dusty element, which sat atop the structure. The work was nearly completed, and soon another masterpiece would be ready.
In the half-light, his naked broad shoulders remained hunched over the messy, and yet precisely placed workshop bench. Scores of half-used paint tins, new but filthy paintbrushes and new tins that were yet to be opened, littered the entire area. To the un-initiated it was chaos, but to the craftsman who was so exact and so meticulous in his methods, he knew that everything had its place.
‘Oh hello there, we did well, didn’t we? I can’t believe you looked so well.’ He spoke to his creations, and tried so very hard to maintain the persona, that he was very much enjoying in its cultivation.
He brushed some dust from his bare thigh onto the floor, and enjoyed the feeling of some of it, as it clung to his hairy legs.
‘Oh but that’s going to be nothing compared to the new one. We are going to make them talk when they hear of this one.’
There sat in a corner, a bucket of water, and a yellow sponge, which was store wrapped in plastic covering. There were two more sponges, similarly wrapped, which lay on the ground, beside the bucket. Upon finishing, the mad man could wash the dust and fibres from his naked body, and exit the solitude that the plastic sheet had been offering him.
For he was not always thus. But in the moments, of relative peace, which tended to visit him less and less so, he was beginning to transform into a man, he felt he should have always been. Killing before, had felt so greasy, and distant, but last night was different.
He had crossed the precipice of madness, and had fallen down into a deep hole, where all he remembered was the joyful, shick of the knife as it penetrated the young woman’s side.
The mask looked up at him, and glistened a little, from the pearing, and shaping. It’s cover was tailored over many hours to fit around a person’s face and was almost ready to be sprayed with its final coat of paint. The polymers expert was neatly qualified in forming these plastic face-masks, having given such long and distinguished attention over many years to mastering his hobby.
He also shared another qualification, in delivering death.
CUTTING THINGS APART
‘Ah Goddamnit, the smell down here is ridiculous Alvin. What gives? You gotta use bleach all of the time?’ Lance held his nose and recoiled as the powerful chemical stung the nostrils. He had not been to Metro City’s chief pathologist in many years and as such, the curator of it, Dr. Alvin Randall was quite friendly with him.
‘What can I say, Lance, I like things down here to be clean.’ The balding, fifty-one year old smiled.
The two men walked from the double doors, that separated the front office space, where Alvin had met Lance, towards the back examination rooms.
They walked closely and were as close to friends as either had in the department.
Alvin was a smallish man, not blessed with looks, but also, not unattractive, despite his hunched shoulders and wispy dark strands of hair at the front of his head. His eyes, were strikingly blue, and for a man his age, he was remarkably fit. He loved bodies, his own and other people’s bodies, and this didn’t preclude him from maintaining close physical relationships, but it was his fascination that disturbed others, his fascination with dead people’s anatomy.
In his way of thinking, he owed it to the poor souls that found their way under his scalpel. To do whatever he could to uncover how they died. This one didn’t need too much investigating into its cause of death, however.
‘Ok, Lance, here she is.’ Alvin approached the body, covered by a white sheet.
‘Twenty-nine-year-old female, the name of Annie-Ann Richards of West Chest South, Metro City,’ He continued to speak, as he moved closer towards her body. ‘She was so beautiful.’
The sheet was removed from Annie’s face and chest, and right down to her lower abdomen, where the Doctor folded it neatly.
Her pale blue and cold body sat in silence as if it were a wax-work dummy. She didn't seem real to Lance, even though her hair looked full of flame and vitality. Her face looked peaceful, and though her injuries were visible, it did not look like it was a problem anymore for Annie, she looked content. She was taking this in her stride.
Lance pinched himself that she was dead.
‘I can never get over how she looks Alvin. You could almost swear that she is alive.’
‘Oh this one is very much dead, I can assure you Lance, a deep horizontal wound across her throat with a depth of three inches is as close to a cause of death as I can pinpoint. The wound is an inch wide, and there was significant blood loss from the deep cut. The attacker also managed to cut her windpipe and this prevented any screaming.’
Dr. Alvin was leaning in close to the body, pointing out these consistencies to the detective.
‘Thanks Alvin, you don't have to use the small words with me, the epiglottis is fine.'
‘Ok, as I said, this is the probable cause of death but not instant. The attacker would have wanted to slice through her spinal cord to cause sudden death. My guess is by the depth of the cut, is that he or she knew how deep to cut.’
Lance was a little disturbed to hear this now, having thought it was just clear to everyone that it was just her throat, alone which had been cut in a random slash. He wondered what kind of precision the killer would have needed to strike such a blow and make that cut? The Doctor read this question from Lance's mind as he had asked himself the same one upon the initial examination.
‘I know what you are thinking Lance. To make that kind of cut, you would either have to be very lucky or else to have had some training in the depth and pressure of a cut. To my mind, only a person of military background or a specialist with a scalpel could make that cut.’
‘And the other cut?’ Lance saw the jagged shank that had been driven, into the side of Annie-Ann Richards.
‘More brutal. A surgeon meets a hunter. The knife was a bowey hunting knife. I can tell by the serrated edges.’
Marshall didn’t have to ask, as Alvin had begun to show him some video from a few years back, of the tests that pathologists had conducted on the hides of dead hogs, to see what made, what kind of mark.
Marshall Law Page 3