Glimpse

by Stephen B King

  Rick shrugged, he could not deny the obvious. “That’s true, he may, sir, but I don’t think he will. My gut feeling is that he loves this. He wants to engage me in conversation, and if I do nothing, that may make him angry, and he kills her anyway. Not giving this to the press, may also piss him off if he is seeking recognition. He strikes me as being like a petulant child saying: look at me. If we don’t find him quickly this woman is dead regardless.”

  “Sergeant, we cannot afford that kind of defeatist attitude. I tell you what, why not ask Patricia Holmes what she thinks he might do if you take that course,” the commissioner offered.

  “With respect, sir, should we let this woman dictate police procedure, no matter how talented she is?”

  “No, Sergeant, we will dictate that. But she may well agree with you, and if she did, and it all blows up in our faces, we can say we did get psychological advice.”

  Rick nodded. He could see the wisdom in the words. “And if she advises against that tack, sir?”

  “Then your Detective Chief Inspector will give you guidance,” he said, with a brittle tone of voice. Rick knew not to argue further. He nodded again.

  ****

  Rick got home after nine, and Juliet was waiting for him. The smell of his dinner gently keeping warm in the oven made him realize how hungry he was, and he hoped it wasn’t too dried out. “Hi, Babe; that smells sensational.”

  She opened the fridge door and took out a can of beer for him and nodded for him to sit at the kitchen table. She opened the can with a pop and fizz but held onto it for a moment. “Call me stupid, and I’m sorry to ask, but I have to: you have been at work, haven’t you? Don’t get mad at me.”

  He smiled, understanding her doubt. This was the first time he had worked this late since moving back home; it was to be expected. He stood up and hugged her to him.

  “Jules I’m not mad. I’ve been at work, with no less than the assistant commissioner, Darryl Monkton himself, along with Tyler and the DCI.”

  She dipped her head and smiled “Okay. Sit down have your beer. I haven’t had dinner either so you can tell me all about it while we eat.”

  He took the offered drink. “I will, but you must promise to not breathe a word of this case to anyone else. There is a total blackout of information to stop the press getting hold of it. This is without doubt going to be the worst case I’ve ever dealt with.”

  “I won’t, I promise, Scout’s honor.”

  Two minutes later she was peeling the aluminum foil from the two plates and using her oven-mitts to shield her hands from the heat placed them on the table. She picked up her glass of Moselle and sat down next to him. “Okay, I’m all ears, why so hush-hush?”

  He explained in detail what had happened at headquarters, holding nothing back, while they ate. She listened in rapt attention.

  “Oh, my God, the poor woman. Why has he sent you a picture?”

  “Who can say? I think that it’s all a big game to him, and he feels uncatchable. He is no doubt intelligent, but he thinks he is so much smarter than us mere mortal cops. For some reason, he has latched onto me, the note was addressed to me by name, and I think he wants to play some sort of cat and mouse game, with this victim as the prize.”

  They ate in silence for a while, lost in thought. Juliet stopped with a fork on its way to her mouth. “Rick, you don’t think he knows you, do you, personally I mean? If he does, he may know Amy and I.”

  That was a something he hadn’t thought of. “Err, I can’t imagine that he does, how could he? He would have seen me on TV doing the press conferences, so he knew who to address the letter to, but he couldn’t know any more than that, even our phone number is unlisted. I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.”

  Chapter 6: My Memoir Entry - Life in Foster Care

  I stood in a daze for an hour or more. Well, it seemed that long but probably it wasn’t. When I came to my senses I knew I was starving hungry, and second, I realized I had to tell someone about Dad. I went back into the kitchen, found some bread in the pantry, and popped two slices in the toaster. While waiting for it to pop up I got the margarine out of the fridge and the strawberry jam and put them on the table along with a side plate. I also lit the gas under the kettle for tea. Then I went into the hall where on a sideboard cupboard was the phone. I dialed the emergency triple zero number for the police.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?” a snotty sounding female voice asked.

  “I want to report that my father has killed himself. He has slashed his wrists in the garden shed.”

  There was silence for a few seconds, during which I heard the toaster pop. “Can you repeat that please?”

  “My name is Paul and I live at 1606 Phillips Road in Mundaring, it’s the house behind the butcher shop. My father has killed himself by cutting his wrists in the back shed. My mother is in there too.”

  “She is in the shed with your father? Is she trying to stop the bleeding?”

  “No, she is in the freezer.”

  It was at this point, I began to see how funny this conversation was, and it reminded me of a kind of sketch you would see on a comedy TV show. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. “What is she doing in the freezer if you father has cut his wrists?”

  “She is dead as well.”

  “Dead? Did she kill herself too?”

  “No, my father killed her about eight years ago, he’s been keeping her in the freezer.”

  “Sir, you do realize there are serious consequences for hoax calls?”

  “I’m eleven years old.”

  “What?”

  “I’m eleven years old, there is no need to call me sir.”

  “I’m dispatching a police patrol car to your location, please stay where you are, do not go back into the shed.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going back in there, I’m going into the kitchen to finish my breakfast.” I hung up the phone.

  I admit that my thoughts were torn between sadness at the loss of my father, shock at finding my mother had not run away, and bewilderment of what it all meant for me. What was going to happen next? Was it selfish to be thinking of what effect events were going to have on my life? Probably, but what can I say? That was what I was feeling at the time.

  I was licking the remnants of jam off my thumb when the doorbell rang. That was quick, I stood up to let them in.

  I guess old habits die hard; Dad always told me if I was ever home alone to never just open the front door without knowing who it was, in case they wanted to rob the shop of the takings.

  “Who is it?” I called out through the door.

  “Is that Paul? This is the police, you called for us?”

  I twisted the key, undid the floor bolt, dropped the privacy chain, turned the old brass handle, and swung the door wide. Two uniformed policemen, with guns on their belts, stood on the concrete step. One was old and tired looking, a bit plump with graying tufty hair, but the other one was young; almost too young looking to be a cop.

  The young one spoke first, while the older one looked bored: “Hi Paul, I’m Richard, this is Ben. You called for us?”

  ‘Yeah, come in.” I stood aside as they passed by and entered the hall. I closed the door and led them to the kitchen. “Jeez that woman on the phone sounded real dumb.”

  “Did she now?” Ben said, and I knew he was being sarcastic.

  I thought I had some tea left in the cup and wanted to finish it. I sat down at my chair and picked up my cup. As I thought, there was some in the bottom, so I finished before it went too cold.

  Richard, who seemed much nicer than the old bloke, pulled out a chair and sat opposite me, while Ben took up station by the door; in case I decided to make a run for it, I suppose. “So, Paul please tell us everything, why did you call for us?”

  “Dad was a good man; I want you to know that. Yes, he has been getting crueler to me over the years, but he was a good man. He was in the war and got caught behind enemy lines. The V
iet Cong had him as a prisoner for months until their camp was overrun and he escaped. I think that was what caused his…problems. Anyway, I was about four when mum just vanished. He said she had run away, but after a while I was forbidden to talk about her. My dad always called her: Persona-non-grata, and he used to beat me if I asked when she was coming back. Now I know why; she was never going to be able to do that.”

  “Do you find this upsetting to talk about?” Richard asked, and I liked him for caring enough to ask that.

  “No, not really. I should, shouldn’t I? But for some reason I just feel, well, alone. I suppose, what I’m trying to say is, he wasn’t always like that, he had his good moments too, and he was my dad.”

  “So, it’s been just the two of you ever since? No other family?”

  “I’ve got an uncle, but he and Dad didn’t get on, so I haven’t seen him for years.”

  I saw them exchange glances and it dawned on me, they didn’t believe me! I nearly laughed at that, well they will soon, I thought. “So, Paul, where is your father now?” the older one asked.

  I sighed, loudly. Are all police this stupid? I wondered. “Sorry, but what part of this don’t you get?” That made the old guy cringe, and suddenly stand up straight, but the young one could barely conceal his grin. I liked him even more.

  “Okay. Look, my dad has been slowly going around the bend over the years and I think it started when he murdered my mother when I was four. He kept her body in the freezer in the back shed and told everyone she had left him. I could show you the old bruises from the beatings he gave me, but like I said a lot of the time he was good. Last night we watched a movie together, the video tape is in the player. It was about dead people coming back from the grave to haunt the living, and I think it must have played on his mind. When I got up this morning I couldn’t find him anywhere until I checked the back shed. He went out there to be with mum one last time and cut his wrists.” I shrugged. “I guess because he wanted to join her.”

  The old guy leaning against the doorframe suddenly stood up. “Stay here, with him. I’ll go and check.”

  “What school do you go to?” Richard asked, when we were alone.

  “Mundaring, I hate it.”

  “Why? I thought that was a pretty good school.”

  “They keep putting me in the wrong classes. They should put me up a year or two, I’m so much smarter than the kids in mine.”

  “Ah, I see. Yeah don’t you just hate it when that happens?”

  I felt a kindred spirit in him, though I did wonder if he was being patronizing, but he seemed to be genuine. “How long you been a cop? Can I hold your gun?”

  “Well, Paul, I wouldn’t be a cop any longer if I let you hold my gun, would I? I graduated from the academy seven months ago, I’m what’s called probationary.”

  Just then we heard the older cop yell out from the back garden: “Radio in, get the detectives sent out, there are two dead bodies out here.”

  “See? I told you so,” I said. Then I got up to put the kettle on again, I thought there would be lots of tea drinking going on.

  ****

  Richard stayed with me pretty much the rest of the day, and it was he who walked me to the car when I left to go to the foster home. I was to be a ‘Ward of the State’ doesn’t that sound awful? Well, it was awful, in fact it was a horrible place, but more of that soon.

  I was interviewed by detectives, but they kept Richard close. I was, after all, only eleven, nearly twelve. I believe they realized I needed a friendly face. When asked questions, I didn’t feel like answering, he would get involved and I found I didn’t mind responding to him. He was kind, and the others weren’t, at least that’s how it seemed to me.

  So, firstly, I told the whole sad and sorry tale again to Detective Wilson, then some woman turned up who said her name was Cynthia. Really? I mean who would name their kid that? She said she was head of children’s services and wanted to make sure I was safe. What a joke that turned out to be. Talk about the lion tamer delivering food to the lion.

  I had to tell Cynthia my story all over again, and by that time I was pretty fed up with it all, I mean seriously, how many times did they expect me to tell it?

  Richard was good to me, though; he made me a sandwich, and it was a good one too, with double polony and heaps of sauce. He could have taught my dad a thing or two about making a sandwich, that’s for sure. I asked for a second one, and he smiled and made me another. I could have hugged him.

  I watched through the window as they carried Dad’s body out on a stretcher to the coroner’s hearse-like vehicle, and it was shortly after that that I got a fit of the giggles that just went on and on and on.

  It’s funny how the mind can play tricks, isn’t it? Sometimes you see something, and you imagine things to fill in what you don’t see. I heard some muffled comments about how they couldn’t get Mum’s body out of “the fucking freezer.” That’s their words, not mine; I never use profanity. But, in my mind’s eye I could see them huffing and puffing and struggling as they tried to get a frozen corpse that had been in situ for seven years out of the chest freezer. In the end, they carried the whole damn thing out between four of them, power chord dragging in the dust, and put it on the back of a police Ute. And that’s how they transported my mother’s body to the morgue.

  Shortly after that Cynthia said it was time to leave, that she was taking me into care. Richard walked with us to her car, a yellow station wagon, and held the front passenger door open for me. Once in, he squatted down by my side and gave me a piece of folded paper.

  “Hey, buddy. That’s my home phone number. If you ever find yourself in danger or trouble, I want you to give me a call, will you do that?”

  I nodded; I thought it was nice that he would care enough to give me his phone number. “Thanks, Richard. Will you ever let me hold your gun?”

  “I tell you what, if you can stay out of trouble, when you’re eighteen, I will take you to the gun club, and teach you how to shoot, how’s that?”

  “Deal.” I held out my hand, and he shook it. Then he stood up, adjusting his gun belt as he shut the door, and I tucked the piece of paper in my jeans pocket. He stood and watched as we drove away with me waving through the window.

  It is distressing to recall what happened between the age of twelve and eighteen. My dad had been a brute to me, but he was also loving when he wasn’t in a mood. No one was loving to me after he died.

  ****

  Cynthia took me to Harkerville Children and Youth Services Center. The people who ran the place were a mixture of nuns, and government staff, most of whom seemed to me to care about us. Some of the kids there had been abused, abandoned, or had serious mental health issues. Some were short term stays; others were long termers. A few, having escaped an awful past, were delighted to live there, while most hated the place with a passion bordering on insanity. One lad hated it so much he ran away on a regular basis. The police would eventually bring him back, then within a week or two he would disappear again. I asked him once how he survived on the streets, and he told me, quite graphically how he gave old men head jobs for money so he could buy hamburgers to eat. That turned my stomach, but he just shrugged and said it was better than being in Harkerville.

  After Cynthia introduced me to Sister Kate, I was handed over to one Jeremy Stubs, a fourteen-year-old ‘inmate.’ He was to show me around, where I was to sleep, where I would eat, crap and shower and say prayers. It felt like I was in jail.

  It all started well enough when we were in front of The Sister and Cynthia. They had explained until a family member came forward, or they could place me in a private foster home, this would be where I was to live. The complex was hidden behind a fourteen-foot-tall brick wall with iron gates.

  Jeremy, or Stubsy, as all the other kids called him, I was to find out, knocked and entered the room. “Paul, this is Jeremy. Jeremy this is Paul, he’s a new boy. Will you show him around please? He will be in the Wattle dormitory with you, s
o you can keep an eye on him, and make sure he settles in.

  He smiled broadly and shook my hand, like an adult. “Hey, man, welcome.”

  “Jeremy, why don’t you show Paul where he will sleep, then take him to the dining area, he might like a sandwich or something?” Sister Kate said.

  “Sure, no worries, Sister, come on man, I think you’re going to love this place.”

  So off we went, and he smiled and joked, and stupid me, fell for his crap. We wandered around and turned a corner into a corridor flanked by brick walls on both sides, and a strong breeze blew down it. Jeremy suddenly stopped.

  “Oh, hey man, just one thing you should know.”

  That’s when he punched me in the stomach. Now, I had been punched by my father when he was in a dark place, but then I was expecting it so I could clench my muscles. There is nothing as bad as a full-blown punch in the solar plexus when you don’t know it’s coming.

  The pain was excruciating. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see for tears that sprung to my eyes, and I fell to my knees vomiting bile and the remnants of my polony sandwiches. I felt him rummaging through my pockets while I tried to catch a breath again. The one and only thing I had was the scrap of paper with Rick’s number on it, and I saw it disappear after he looked at it and threw it away. The strong breeze picked it up and it flew out of sight.

  Next, he grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head up to punching height. “Now listen here, fart-face. I run this place, not them. Any money you get, you give to me, any smokes you get, ditto, and if there is even a hint of a foster family showing interest, you make sure they don’t pick you. Get me, dick features?”

  A random thought filtered through my foggy brain: fart-face, dick features? This guy was an idiot if that was the extent of the insults he could come up with. I grinned, unintentionally, and he punched me in the face, hard. I was vaguely aware of my nose crunching, sickeningly, and gushing blood.

  I think even he realized he had gone too far. My hands were cupped over my face, and I watched the blood cascade through my fingers down over my T-shirt. In one of those flashes of memory that seem to come out of nowhere, I recalled the girl at the fairground, all those years ago, when I was five years old, and I guessed I looked the same.