June put her bag down on the ground, “Hey, how are you doing, can I help you?” she asked, as the person turned around.
That was when she felt the razor-sharp point of the knife being held to her throat, and she realized she had been fooled. The person didn’t need crutches at all.
****
The list of dialed numbers made from the phone box totaled eighteen in the three hours preceding the call, and two within ten minutes afterward. A team of six detectives were sent to interview the recipients, and from there to question the people who had made the calls. There had been a serious assault on the street, was the cover story, and they were looking for witnesses.
When those interviewed stated they had not seen anything even remotely resembling an attack, they were asked to describe everyone that they could remember they had seen, along with any vehicles parked on the street. The detectives were hoping for a description of someone who looked out of place, nervous, or just hanging around. However, being forbidden to tell the truth of why they were asking such questions, only made the job more difficult. Most people are not very observant of the mundane, especially in busy city streets, and asking for witnesses to an assault that didn’t happen, only made the job more difficult.
Other than the phone users themselves, they had only a few scant and vague descriptions. When checked against the list of people seen at the shopping center and the garbage dump, it did not show anyone that warranted a closer inspection. Comparing vehicles was equally unhelpful. Even if a description was of the killer, they had no evidence; therefore everything was background information only. The best hope was that someone would show up more than once during the investigation that married up with a previous interview, or witness.
Rick and Tyler questioned the local business owners situated near the phone box. They said they were looking for someone who had used the phone to make a bomb threat hoax call to a school. That garnered more interest than an assault, but again, was not very successful.
The killer had used the call box the day previously at one-fourteen in the afternoon, a time when lunch breaks were taken. Rick and Tyler were at the phone box, at the same time, stopping people as they walked by to ask if they had been there the day prior and had seen anyone using the phone. That was when they had their first break through.
“Excuse me, Ma’am. Sergeant McCoy, West Australian police. May I ask you a couple of quick questions please?”
The woman was in her late forties, dressed in a business suit with white satin shirt under her blue pinstriped jacket, and was clearly in a hurry. “I’m in a rush, officer, what’s this all about?”
“I won’t keep you, I promise, I just need to know if you were here, about the same time yesterday?”
“Yes, I was, why?”
“That’s great, we are looking for a man who used that phone box about this time yesterday, he made a bomb threat, and we want to catch him before he does it again.”
She looked blankly for a few seconds before a light dawned in her eyes. “You know what? I did notice someone coming out. He seemed to time his exit with the lights going red, so the traffic had stopped. He opened the door and walked straight across the road, weaving between the cars toward Hay Street. That’s the only reason I noticed, I thought he had perfect timing.”
“And this man left the call box right about this time?”
She nodded and looked at her watch. “I have to be back at work at one thirty, so yes it would have been right around now; I’m never late. I work at the Commonwealth Bank building and have my lunch a Cissy’s Café back up the street there.”
Rick was taking notes in his book, trying not to get too excited. “May I get your name, please?”
“Yes, it’s Bridget, Bridget Schaeffer.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Schaeffer, can you describe the man you saw, please?”
“It’s Ms., not Mrs., however, I forgive you. I’m in a rush; I work in overseas transfers and can’t be late.”
Rick stood with pen poised, looking at her expectantly. “I understand, Ms. Schaeffer, but please, tell me as much as you can, it is important.”
She nodded. “Well, I didn’t see his face, he was turned just slightly to the side, and then he had his back to me as he crossed the road, but he had longish straggly blonde hair, and he wore sunglasses with thick black plastic rims. More like a women’s if I’m honest.”
“This is very helpful, Ms. Schaeffer—build, and height?”
“Hmm, well, he wasn’t anywhere near as tall as you, and he was much slimmer, not that I’m saying you are overweight, he was just more, I suppose what you would call delicate. Quite thin and maybe about this tall.” She held her hand up above her shoulder to show his approximate height.”
“If you had to hazard a guess as to how old he was, what would you think?”
“Gawd, no idea, maybe thirty-ish? But honestly he could be older or younger.”
“Did you notice what he was wearing, and how long was his hair?”
“Just slacks and shirt, could have been jeans, I suppose. Well, as I recall his hair was quite long, and thick; dirty looking, like he was at least three months overdue for a trim. That’s about all I can tell you, and now, I must get back to work.”
“Can I have your address and phone number please?”
She gave him her apartment address in South Perth.
“Ma’am I need a statement from you, would it be all right if either myself or that detective over there call on you this evening to get it, and if you could have a really good think during the afternoon, just in case you can remember anything else. I promise you anything at all would be very helpful.”
“Detective, okay, I’m intrigued, yes you can call on me after six, and I will give you a statement.”
She walked away abruptly, her stiletto heels resounding noisily on the pavement, and Rick watched her go, knowing it wouldn’t just be a detective that called that night. It would be a police artist as well. This was their first breakthrough, they now knew the height, build, hair color of their target, and that he wore glasses. They could now go back and re-interview previous witnesses to show that description, and picture when they had it. Perhaps they might get lucky, at last.
****
Within thirty minutes the two detectives realized the window of opportunity had gone for people who were passing by at the same time as the day before. They re-visited the shopkeepers they had spoken to earlier with the new description. They also crossed the road in the direction of Hay Street, the direction Bridget mentioned, to ask if anyone had seen the man. They knew the chances were somewhere between slim and none.
Rick had also passed the news on to the officers tracking down phone users, to be wary if one of them had overly long untidy blonde hair, because he could well be the suspect. Also, had the users seen anyone hanging around who matched that description?
Once Rick had called the news into the DCI another team was sent out from headquarters to the people who had admitted to being at the Midland dump, and the shopping center where Melanie had been abducted from.
An hour later, the detectives were dejected. It was as if the Gods had given them a glimpse of the killer, and then drawn the curtains back down. For the first time since the first day of the suitcase murder, Rick wanted a cigarette.
His mobile phone rang.
“McCoy.”
“Sergeant, it’s Assistant Commissioner Monkton.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ve arranged for you to meet Patricia Holmes at five thirty at her home in Applecross, it’s 223 Mountsview Crescent. I’ve authorized as much overtime as any of you need, we must try to save the victim. We have a probable MISPER report; we think her name is June Daniels. Four nights ago, she stopped to shop at her local supermarket, and never came home.”
“You realize she is probably dead by now, don’t you, sir?”
“Not necessarily. His last victim he kept alive for around three weeks before he killed her, we have to h
ope, he will use the same method again.”
“God knows what state she will be in, even if we do find her alive.”
“Well, Sergeant, that’s your job. Make sure you get to her in time. One last thing. When you meet Patricia tonight, try to keep an open mind. I got the distinct impression you were against her involvement.”
“Yes sir, I will.”
But what he thought, when he hung up the phone was: bollocks.
Rick, like most detectives of his age, had little time for psychologists, or lawyers whose job it was to keep killers out of jail. When a defense lawyer used a psychologist to testify that a murderer should be freed because of his or her state of mind, it made him feel like punching them. But, that night he had to consult with one, to him it was akin to consorting with the enemy.
****
At five-thirty he rang the ornate doorbell and heard the chimes from deep within the home. The house was grand, with a large sweeping driveway and steps leading up to the front door, underneath a huge veranda supported by carved stone columns. Typical, my whole house could fit in her front garden; I’m in the wrong job.
Mentally he cursed the intrusion into his personal hours for what he was sure would be a complete and utter waste of time. He had called Juliet to explain why he would be late and exactly whom he was seeing; of course, she had been fascinated despite his annoyance.
The door opened, and the woman who greeted him was nothing like Rick had imagined she would be. She was slim, yet full bodied, with very neat short black hair, and he had to look very closely to gauge her age which he put at late thirties. She was well dressed, in an opaque cream shirt with lace slip underneath, a mid-thigh black skirt, but had bare stockinged feet. The air she gave was that of a sophisticated, intelligent woman, not at all the mousey, bespectacled professor he had imagined.
“You must be Rick. Come in, I’m having a red wine, care to join me?”
“Umm, well, thanks, but I’d prefer a beer if you have any.”
“Oh, I think I can manage that.”
She led him through the cavernous entrance hall, with intricate parquetry flooring and a curved staircase off to the left leading to the upstairs area. “Pop yourself in there in my study, while I go and find you a beer.”
Rick walked into a huge room that reminded him of a library. Every wall housed book shelves, even the wall with an open fireplace had crowded shelves on both sides and above. On the mantel above the fireplace were family pictures: mother and two daughters, who looked like twins, wearing graduation robes. Another when the girls had been younger, and one with whom he assumed was her husband wearing a tuxedo, and she in a glamorous ball gown.
Classical music played softly in the background, but not enough to be intrusive. Rick was more of a rock, or blues man, but the sound of a full orchestra was relaxing, he had to admit.
The desk was neat and tidy, though clearly used, two chairs in front of it, and an old red leather chesterfield couch which looked inviting, facing the fire place. Being that it was the tail end of summer, the fire wasn’t lit, but it would be a lovely place to be in winter.
“Rick, if you don’t mind I’d like you sitting at the desk. I’m happy to give you some preliminary thoughts tonight, but I want to record everything you tell me, then give it a lot of serious consideration over the next day or two in hopes I can be more specific. Will that be all right do you think? Here’s your beer, I hope this brand is okay?”
Rick smiled. It was a secret favorite that he rarely indulged in.
He took the offered glass and sat on an antique chair, also with red leather and curved, carved arms. She sat opposite him and put her glass down, so she could open her drawer and take out a portable cassette recorder. She ferreted around and came out with a green covered tape cartridge, wrapped in plastic film. With practiced ease, she peeled it off, opened the cover, and slid the tape into the deck. She pressed the button for record, then picked up her glass of wine. She curled her legs underneath her, which gave just a hint of her thighs, and sat back in her chair cat-like. She sipped from her glass and licked her lips. “God, I needed that, it’s been a tough day.”
Rick almost burst out laughing. In this luxury house, which he would never be able to afford, she seemed so damned normal.
“What?” she asked, taking another sip of wine. “You don’t think we psychologists can have tough days? I have a psychiatric degree as well and have two long-term patients in the high security wing of Graylands Mental Hospital. One cooked his wife and child before eating their organs, and the other murdered three random strangers because, he says, God told him to do it. Trust me; digging around in their minds constitutes a tough day.” She shuddered.
“I’m sorry Pat, I meant no disrespect.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did. But, I’m guessing you feel like you’ve been press-ganged into coming here, haven’t you? You believe using psychology to try to understand why someone would do horrible things to another human being is a waste of your evening. You’ve a wife, and probably a couple of children at home you’d rather be with, don’t you?”
He blushed, knowing she would tell if he tried to lie, and he found himself, against his earlier intuition, liking her. “Just one child, Amy, she’s five years old. Pat if you could just jot down this killer’s address for me, I would think you were amazing. But it’s going to be long hours of painstaking, often boring police work that tracks this guy down. When we’ve caught him, you can analyze him to death, I just want him off the streets.”
“Fair enough, we know where we stand. But, did you know that a high percentage, and I do mean a very high percentage, of serial murderers had been previously interviewed by police, sometimes more than once, during an investigation? They are often let go, unsuspected, to kill again before they are eventually apprehended. Now I’m not saying great police work didn’t catch them eventually, but, had the cops had access to a good, insightful criminal psychologist, maybe, just maybe, they’d have him locked up earlier, and innocent lives saved.”
Rick nodded, thoughtfully, then raised his glass in a silent toast to her and took a sip.
“So, let me guess, you think you better be nice to me, because Darryl and I went to university together? You think if you speak your mind, I will dob you in to him?”
He blushed again, just maybe this woman is indeed insightful.
“Pat, I know you went to uni with the boss, because he told me. I am an old-fashioned cop who believes in what I do. This is a hideous case, with clearly a deranged murderer who takes delight in abducting, raping and torturing women. If we don’t stop him, he will keep going because he likes it. Believe me, I’m willing to take any help from you that will get me closer to this guy.”
“He’s not deranged. He just sees things differently than you or I do. To him his behavior is normal, and you cops are the abnormal ones. That’s probably because of his upbringing. Tell me everything you know, let me try to get a feel for this guy, Daryl has already told me quite a lot, but I want your take on the facts. I will tell you one thing I think already, he lost his mother at a very early age. I think she went out to the shops and never came back. She abandoned him, that’s why he selects his victims from shopping areas.”
“Oh, come on, how can you know that?”
She uncurled her legs and leaned forward on her desk. “My role, if I am to be any help at all, is to theorize. To observe the facts and make deductions from them. It would be fair and reasonable if I were wrong twenty percent of the time. I could live with that; eighty percent is good for this kind of work. Our man abducts women, from supermarkets, therefore he does it for a reason and not by random chance. By him replicating that, it would make sense if he is hurting his mother for leaving him. Rick, people who commit these sorts of crimes don’t do it just for fun, although often they enjoy the act. They can feel driven to do it; it satisfies an urge or need that they have. Psychopaths hear voices, which tell them what to do and how to do it. But Sociopaths have no c
onscience, they don’t feel guilt, and you can’t argue with them logically. They often will feel incredibly superior, and they will lord that over you; tease and taunt, just to show how clever they are. They will shift the blame so if you don’t stop them it’s your fault, not theirs. Rick, this is my field, I’m not going to be able to tell you where he lives, because I don’t use a crystal ball. But, I might be able to tell you the kind of place he might live in, the sort of up upbringing he may have had, and most importantly, the kind of things to look out for if you interview him. I’m only offering to help you, so, please, tell me everything, don’t hold back; what do you have to lose?”
He nodded slowly and took a long draft of his beer. She’s right, what do I have to lose?
After a few seconds, Rick gathered his thoughts and began, and didn’t stop until forty-five minutes later when he was about to divulge the description they had received that day.
“Stop,” Pat said suddenly, and held a hand up.
“Why?”
“Let me tell you. He is small, almost, some would say, diminutive, possibly effeminate, but not necessarily gay. He’s been bullied in some way or another most of his life, well, ever since his mother abandoned him. Your witness, didn’t see him full frontal, I’m guessing side on or from behind. Because he let her see him, and that was all he allowed. He was probably wearing glasses and his hair, straggly or over long, probably an unusual color or style. That would be a wig. If it’s not that, then he wore something distinctive, like a bright yellow jacket.”
Rick closed his mouth, which had been open in shock. “Did Monkton give you the description?”
“No, he didn’t, Rick.” She shook her head emphatically. “Look, if this were a ‘normal’ murderer, I’m sure you would have caught him before now. But let’s be honest, you have nothing. I believe he wanted you to get this description, because it’s false. There are two possibilities I can see. One: he paid someone to make the call and leave in such a way that you had a convenient witness, or two, and this is more likely, he wore some sort of disguise so he would stand out. A wig and glasses, or sunglasses, more likely. Was the wig blonde, or red, something distinctive?”
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