A Killer Among Us

by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Charlie was dreaming again. But he wasn’t dreaming of the crash. For the first time in what felt forever, he wasn’t dreaming of the crash. He was dreaming of the piece of paper. Of the body.

  Charlie had the phone pressed to his ear, listening, searching desperately for a pen. Anything to write with and something to write on. He found a scrap. He would only repeat it once more.

  Out past the range. At the corner of Precinct and Rains.

  She won’t see again.

  Charlie saw the words floating in the air as he watched himself writing them again. He saw the rain falling outside, like bullets coming down. Then he was out in it. Digging in the mud, feeling it between his fingers as he scratched at it and crying as he dug. He had to dig. Had to. He couldn’t fully remember why, but he had to. L

  The voice echoed through the dream. Do you want redemption from all this Charlie? I can tell you where he is, he might still be alive. You might still have some time.

  Clumps of dirt ripping up now, deeper where the water hadn’t got to. He pulled at it. Screamed at it. Screamed for her. Called in the storm that he would save her. He knew she was there. And then she was. He found her, always in his dreams he had. He remembered that. But she was already dead. Had always been. Charlie crying now, kept falling back into the grave as he tried climbing out. He lay with her in the washing rain and felt his heart screaming.

  Charlie awoke, tossing and the sheets down at his feet. His legs lay as they always had. Someone knocking at the door. It opened slightly.

  Breakfast big fella, Percy said. He came in carrying a tray of bacon and eggs. Got ya something a little bit different this morning. He set it down on the table by the window and opened the curtains. Man you’re sweating, been running in your dreams?

  Light flooded into Charlie’s eyes and it was as if they were burning. He nodded blindly. Something like that, he said. The dream escaping him. Flying into the light and to the sun. Yet it felt to him like it were a reality that had once been. Maybe in the pre-crash life? But as was the common phrase uttered to him, Did he remember the crash? Life before? Always whoever asked him emphasised the before part. He could never answer them. It was all fuzzy. Always.

  Carn big fella, lemme help.

  By the way he was treated Charlie sometimes had a distinct feeling that a breakthrough had happened. Of course he’d had memories come through a few times, a few dud feelings as they turned out to be. Dashed when he was informed that said session had been a few weeks after the crash.

  Percy got under Charlie’s arm, lifted him with ease from the bed and into the chair. Wheeled him to the window. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the window, wound it out for the breeze to come in. Just a sec, he said, heading back to the door. He returned a minute later with a second breakfast tray, this one with two drinks. Cutla cups of coffee mate.

  Charlie watched him set it down and then drag the visitor’s chair over. It made a horrendous screech and he held his ears. When he opened the black man was taking a drink of his coffee, nodding at Charlie to do the same. Charlie sat there staring at the breakfast, then the black man across from him. He was grappling with a thought, a ripping thing, vicious in his mind like a dog gnawing at meat. Who was this man? Yet he knew him? He was vague in his mind, like a memory remembered incorrectly. He looked at the name tag, saw the name. It was like a shape he knew. Then he stared at the man. This man that had ripped his curtain open and forced breakfast on him.

  Try it chief, it’s good stuff. Still hot. Brought it directly from the kitchens. Just like you said you always had.

  Charlie looked at the meal again. Bacon and eggs. Like he always said he had. Well he might’ve said that, but every birthday Eve had cooked him that meal. She wasn’t cooking it this time because, well it was fucking obvious. But this man, nametagged Percy, said it like they did it often.

  Hey look, Percy said, Rocko’s here. There’s his truck.

  Charlie looked out of the window. Smelling the breeze and slight hint of eucalyptus. Bark chips on the air too. A gardening truck was reversing on the opposite side of the large lawn and gardens. Someone got out and went to the back of the truck and began sorting through tools and putting on a pair of gloves. Charlie did know him. He was Rocko. He’d seen him a few times over his time here. Always happy, smiling and waving up at him and the other rehab people. His nose piqued at the smell of breakfast and he came back to the room. Saw Percy across from him.

  Oh Perce, when’d you get in?

  Morning shift today mate. Chewing noisily. Grease at the corners of his mouth as he wiped at it with a serviette. His plate near empty. Thought I’d bring us some food for ya. Bit of a celebration for ya birthday.

  Cheers, Charlie said. He took the coffee and held it up in salute, Percy took his and they clanked cups. Except they didn’t clank, they barely did anything, they were foam. An odd thing Charlie thought about the hospital. Nevertheless. Rocko’s out early, he said.

  That he is, Percy said. It’s a stinker today. Absolute boiler. Sends his regards by the way.

  Charlie nodded, took a sip then began on his breakfast. It was a bit cold but he didn’t mind. He understood that it was hard for meals to get around so quickly. It was tasty enough. The eggs perfect. He remembered he’d always liked eggs. Always liked food. Used to write about it a lot. Well, not it, he utilised the usage of food in his books. The sharing of meals between characters, what this then represented in the greater structures of storytelling and character development.

  Not bad aye chief?

  Not bad at all, Charlie said. You know I used to write before the crash.

  Did ya now?

  Yep. Was gonna be a writer. Well, I did write. Maybe I should say published writer.

  Fair enough, Percy said. Reclining back now. Arms crossed. Boulders with sleeves. What’d you write about?

  I wrote a lot of crime stories. I was working on a book actually. But I can’t remember when that happened. Charlie scrunched up his face, trying to picture it. But I always enjoyed writing about food, or using it in a story.

  Percy nodded. Sounds like you enjoyed it mate. We could always do some writing while you’re here? Easy enough to organise.

  No no, Charlie said. Don’t want to put you out. Plus I won’t be here too long. Rehab’s going pretty good. I want to focus on that.

  Percy nodded, adjusted his position, coughed. Finished his coffee.

  But yeah. Used to write a lot. Of course that was after I was a psychiatrist.

  Yeah right, Percy said. Not a psychologist?

  No no, I could prescribe the drugs. He smiled, this was often the joke. The funny part at barbeques. He’d do the wink. As in, I can help you out if you want. Except it wasn’t that funny now, nor did he wink or Percy laugh.

  Yeah I remember talking about that with a doctor here. Talk therapy they call it.

  That they do, Charlie said, wiping his egg onto a slice of bread. Then using the bread as a mop to collect the spilt yoke. But you know, some people are just beyond talking. No matter how much you tell ‘em, or they talk, they just can’t be fixed. They’ll just round in circles. So you gotta help ‘em out. Either take the edge off, or tone them down.

  At this Percy said nothing, nodding sadly. A truth he probably saw more than ever working in a rehab clinic. It was at this that a small word floated to the surface of Charlie’s mind. Secrets. In a way he, as a well as all carers, were secret keepers. Secrets of spoken and unspoken things. Of course Charlie had made his job in wading through these secrets, getting to the heart of these pits of problems. If he could find the heart, plug the hole and shine the mirror of understanding on the patient, then maybe, maybe they could help themselves. But of course for that to happen the patient had to want for that to happen. This didn’t help when your patients were criminally insane or plane old insane. He’d known what that looked like from a young age. You only saw it pass once, and if you weren’t looking, weren’t seeing it, the
n you never would. That was what divided all people that worked with problems of the mind. You either knew who was salvageable and who wasn’t. For the ones that weren’t all you could do was dim their bulb. Stop them from committing a crime on themselves or the larger society.

  Well mate, rounds to do. Thanks for the company.

  Charlie came back to the room. The man collecting two trays of food, two cups, smiling at him and leaving. His name was Percy, Charlie thought he remembered.

  After Charlie dressed and went to the bathroom. Got himself back in bed. Sat and thought for a bit. About his legs. About his family. Sometimes he’d sit there wondering when they’d come to visit, but after a few minutes of this he’d remember the accident. A thing he couldn’t remember, but it acted like a full stop to a large proportion of his life. It had been pressed upon him enough that it got through to his fuzzy brain.

  He felt like reading, and he knew there was a book in the side drawer. He opened it and found not only a book, but also a slip of paper. He picked it up and a dim light came on in his mind. A memory of having seen this, a dream of having known it. He held it, looked at the writing, knowing it to be his own. Read it. Made no sense. Read it again. Still nothing. The dim light flickering, trying to get brighter. He put it aside, obviously some poetic musing he’d written back when he wrote. It made no sense to him now. Maybe an idea that had struck in the early hours, when clarity was a glass plane with all things seeing and seen explaining themselves with crisp precision. Ideas came fully formed. You just had to take note and write down everything said. The problem with this though was that in the day hours, where clarity was about as good as mud and ideas as bright as a broken bulb, you often saw your own idiocy in full swing.

  He picked up the book. Flicked through it a few times. Couldn’t remember reading it, but there were a few slights in the pages, maybe bookmarks. He flicked through again quickly and a razor shot out, catching his thumb.

  Ow shit, he said. The razor had fallen into his lap. His thumb shed a bright tear of red and ran down his skin. Blinking like a speck of gold in the running waters of a stream. He felt that he knew it, knew blood. Remembered his stories. The story, the opus he had been writing. The thing that would make him—

  His phone began ringing.

  Charlie jumped at the noise. Forgot that he had a phone in his room. It sat silently in the corner of his side table most of the time. Little thing. Now flashing lights and big buttons. No dialling out. Not really little at all. He picked it up.

  Hello?

  Charlie, a voice said. The old familiar voice.

  His guts became ice and for the briefest flicker, he swore bloody cold sheets that he could feel his legs. Sweat immediately on his back. Heart in his throat, punching at his teeth, trying to buck free. There was no brief flicker in the darks of his mind at this voice. This was a full blown explosion. A blinding light like that of God, knowing and knowledge distilled into a silky rasp. The doors were blasted wide and he saw it all. Everything. For the briefest flicker his life flashed into overdrive and he saw his past. His family. His lies. The accident. But like any bright flash, it was blinding. The brain only able to process so much. Then it became mere memory and he could only second guess himself at its existence.

  How are you? It’s been so long, they said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Charlie stood out on the front steps of the building, everyone around him smoking, him too. Back at it. Fifteen years gone just like that. Even with the accident he hadn’t, but this? He was meant to catch a taxi to meet Roger. They were reviewing a pub. Something Charlie didn’t think very much likely, and from what Carl had said, this was more a second interview. The real review was tonight. But he thought of none of that.

  When he’d come in this morning, just before eight to get his admin filled out, he found the building was already full and buzzing. People running back and forth, the board of directors were in a meeting with Carl. He announced himself to Stacey in between calls. She nodded at him to take a seat, gave him a clip board, all while answering several different lines in.

  What’s happened? he asked.

  Just a minute—The Adelaide Courier, please hold—You don’t know?—Adelaide Courier, please hold—A girl was murdered overnight, gruesome—Hello Adelaide Courier, please hold? She didn’t say anymore, swatted him away and made him fill out his forms. He sat balancing the board on his knees, filling out all the meaningless information when a pair of police officers walked through the door. They went up to Stacey and she pointed them in the direction of the meeting currently happening. He came back after they walked off, gave the forms back.

  What’re they here for?

  The murder.

  Was someone here involved?

  No, honey. No one. But there’s things we can report and things we can’t. Those officers are just your everyday, making sure we don’t publish anything too lurid.

  But isn’t that censorship?

  Something’s need censoring. Stacey answered the phone again, this time it was someone interesting because they were transferred to somewhere else in the building.

  Charlie hadn’t been given any details on what to do after his admin finished. He knew he was meant to meet with Carl but that obviously wasn’t going to happen now, so he drifted inwards to the desks. Stacey called. Go find Roger, or his desk at least. Charlie nodded and was off, looking at the names and in and out trays.

  The policemen were in the meeting, currently talking to the men and Carl. Who was stood arms crossed, shaking his head. Journalists hung around the door and others further back at their desks leaned forward to hear. A woman was handing out pages to all the men, she then stood at the front of them and began talking. A detective.

  Pretty crazy huh?

  Charlie turned, he was standing by an older journalist, sitting at his desk typing up notes.

  What’s going on? Charlie asked. The receptionist said something about a murder?

  He exhaled smoke and stubbed out the cigarette in his ashtray. Murder is someone shooting someone. Someone stabbing someone. This is sickly.

  What happened?

  You really haven’t heard anything? Aren’t you wanting to be a journalist?

  I got kids, Charlie replied. My mornings are very different.

  Fair enough, the journalist sat back, folded his hands in his lap. A girl was murdered, probably a few days ago. But they only found her yesterday morning. The police, and with this he gestured at the meeting. Guess she was dumped Saturday night. She wasn’t killed where she was found however.

  Why do they guess that?

  You haven’t seen the pictures?

  Pictures? Charlie’s face of disgust betrayed him.

  The journalist sat back and stood, nodding. Guess you better see then. It’s uh, something else. He lead them away from his desk.Welcome to the newspaper by the way. You’re the new guy, Charlie Gardner. He shook Charlie’s hand and they continued walking.

  The journalist’s name was Ralph. He’d written Roger’s column for a few years, before deciding he’d had enough of reporting on shitty restaurants. It was, as Roger was using it, a retiring position. Now he reported on sports and was happier for it. He loved footy, he said to Charlie with the hope that Charlie too loved it back. Charlie shook his head, not a sports man. They came to the throng of people at the meeting just as it was dispersing.

  The detective Charlie had seen speaking to the people was partnered with another man, he was watching Charlie. Then when the two officers came over began talking to them with his partner, the woman running the investigation. She looked at him too, having done a double take. Another person that had remembered him.

  Carl was talking with the board of directors now but also waved in the journalists. Ralph shrugged and they entered with the others.

  Alright, Carl began, hands on hips. I can’t see Roger, someone page him. If he doesn’t call in, call him. Okay, he began pacing. He was stalling, finding words. As I know you’re all
fine journalists, you can see we’ve just had the police here. I have no doubt you all know why. Those that don’t, at this he looked at Charlie. It will become obvious soon. Yesterday the body of a girl was found. Sad, however nothing too big. He looked at the Directors. This morning however, each major paper in the city received an unmarked letter. Inside said letter was a picture of a body and a single letter. He held up something from the table that Charlie couldn’t really see. The detectives are still contacting other papers to see if they’ve missed anything, but as if now it remains as this, the photos and words spell out a word. The photos themselves are a portfolio, in my opinion. There was silence from everyone. The pictures, Carl went on, or I should say one of the pictures, is of the poor girl from yesterday morning. However it’s not the same place as where her body was found. These pictures, which is why the police were here, were taken before. Or during, depending on your view. The other girls as of yet haven’t been found.

  Next to Charlie Ralph was shaking his head. What’d it say? he asked.

  Carl looked to who had asked the question. He was silent for almost thirty seconds, everyone staring at him and waiting. It spelt out a name, he said. Whether it’s one of the girl’s names or not, isn’t known by the police yet. They’re having trouble identifying the bodies as it is. These though, Carl opened a dossier. Are the photos. They don’t want us printing them or running the story in full. But fuck ‘em.

  The journalists near the front turned away, looks of disgust on their faces. Others remained looking, shaking their heads in disbelief. Charlie looked around at the other journalists, he saw a few women that looked nervous. Is this a serial killer then? Out of nowhere? Someone asked. How did you get all the photos?

  What do you think? Carl said. Every paper called each other this morning, faxed copies around as soon as possible. At this the Directors flinched. The police are looking after themselves, he said to them. Yes they’re wanting to solve the murders, potentially more, but they don’t want to cause hysteria. We however, while not wanting to cause hysteria, must acknowledge as reporters for the people, that we have a duty.