Glimpse

  “Which one?”

  She held up a hand to quieten him, and he realized she would get to it in her own time.

  “Now, my question is this: Why would he bring it up in the newspaper, being such a public forum? He was not, apparently, a relation of the victim, if he was you could understand his outrage. The answer, again in my opinion, was that he wanted recognition for the crime and in so doing, could further show how pathetic the police were in not catching the murderer from a previous case, as well as the current ones. So, Rick, I think our writer of letters, is our killer, and that he killed this young woman after following her one night on her way home from her job.”

  She slid the last folder toward Rick, who, sat open mouthed; stunned at her understanding of the human mind. He slowly opened it and began to read the case notes about Carly Biddle’s stabbing.

  “Pat, she suffered a single stab wound to the chest? The investigators thought it was a sex crime, it’s nothing like our guy’s known M.O.”

  “They are not the same cops who thought Gordon Bridges murder was sex related were they? Rick, this wasn’t a sex crime; it was more like a crime of passion.” Once more she held up her hand to stop him interrupting. “I know what you’re about to say. You wonder how can I make that kind of leap. Well, looking at the case as a whole, and, following my reasoning with the other files, it fits. That’s all I can say. I believe it was done by someone who coveted her; who worshiped her from afar. In his warped twisted way, he wanted her, and she refused him when he made his feelings known. Then he struck out, a single stab wound, which killed her instantly.”

  “But her dress was opened.”

  “Not when she was killed it wasn’t; she was stabbed through her dress so it was closed. It was opened afterward so he could see the body he had idolized and wanted for so long.”

  “But the cops interviewed anyone and everyone who knew her, and everyone checked out.”

  “Of course they did, that’s what I’ve been telling you all along. Naturally the killer wasn’t wearing a sign that said I did it. Rick this is the case I was looking for, he is here, somewhere in the witness statements, hiding in plain sight.”

  Rick shook his head, he just couldn’t get it, there was no way it could be this simple. “Pat, how can you be so sure?”

  “Okay, let’s say it’s not our man. Who else would kill her and why? If it was done for sex, why not abduct her, take her somewhere and rape her. A single stab wound, to me says a crime of passion, he struck out in anger. There were no signs of a struggle, no screams heard, she had no skin under her finger nails, so she didn’t fight back, why? Because she didn’t have time. He struck out, and she died. Then her dress was opened so her body could be viewed, but there were no signs that he touched her indecently after death, so if it was sex related, why not?”

  “Pat, I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just having trouble getting my head around this. There is no evidence here, just your belief, and I must say your arguments are very persuasive. It’s the first time I’ve ever looked for clues to prove the theory, it’s usually the other way around.”

  “For me, the clincher is the letters to the editor. They were well over a year after Carly Biddle’s death, closer to two years! Okay, if it was your daughter, sister, neighbor even, then I could understand burning a candle for her. But this murder and the deaths of the two women at Lake Monger bear no similarities to each other at all. Therefore, the only theory that makes any sense at all to me is that the killer wanted people to know that he had struck before, and, that he had gotten away with it. There was a flurry of letters following his one, most even suggested that other unsolved deaths could be attributed to the same murderer. Can you not imagine how that fueled his ego? He’s got people talking about him, and while the general conversation was how awful this killer is, to him he hears adulation.”

  “So, you think if we trawl through the hundreds of interview statements for the four murders, you think we will spot our man, that his name will appear in each case as a witness?”

  “I do, unless he used a fake name, but, I don’t think he would have. He would have enjoyed knowing you were interviewing him and not realizing who he was. Plus, he believes he is smarter than you, so to him; he would have had nothing to fear.”

  “I know it’s a long time ago, but do you recall what name he used when he wrote to the editor?”

  “No idea. I didn’t read them, just listened to excerpts that were read out to me.”

  He took his Nokia phone from his pocket and dialed a number. “Boss, it’s me, Rick. Can you send Tyler, or one of the others guys to the West Australian? You remember The Lake Monger Murders?”

  ****

  What a fucking dump. Clive Peppercorn thought, as he rapped on the wooden door, painted a horrible shade of green, for the second time that day. This time he could hear a noise from inside so he knew the man he had come to interview was at home.

  He took his I.D. from his inside pocket and raised his eyebrows at the colossal waste of time his day had been. As he looked up, he noticed the reams of spider webs across the alcove ceiling which made him jump. If there was one thing that gave him the absolute-fucking-willies, it was spiders. That was yet another thing to piss him off, and all he wanted was to go home and have several beers, with scotch chasers.

  Right, I am not fucking going any closer to the fucking door. He took two good sized paces back, which took him down the large stone steps. A particularly nasty looking black bugger was in the process of weaving its way down a silken thread. Probably to see what the fucking knocking on the door was all about. Good job I saw the fucking thing; if that fell on my head I’d shoot the fucker.

  He had been re-interviewing witnesses who had admitted to being at the Midland dump. This was his last call then he could go home. The whole case is fucked up. Fuck me, how many times am I supposed to ask the same bloody questions, to the same fucking people?

  “Yes, who is it?” Came a nervous sounding voice from inside.

  “It’s the police, Mr. Rankin, it just a routine follow up to a statement you made a while back.”

  “Oh, is that so? Umm look, just hang on, I must wash my hands, I was peeling vegetables. Won’t be a minute.”

  Yeah, that’d be fucking right. You take your fucking time; I’ve got all fucking night to wait around under spider fucking city.

  Several minutes passed, which seemed like half an hour to the increasingly irritated detective. Eventually, he heard draw bolts being pulled, and locks being turned. Oh, for fuck’s sake, is this Fort-fucking Knox?

  Eventually, with a squeal of unoiled hinges, the door opened to show a slim-looking man, wearing a thick polo-necked woolen jumper and black track pants that looked like they hadn’t been washed in months. “Sorry about that, this door doesn’t get opened much since I shut the shop down; you caught me when I was busy.”

  Right, that’s all I fucking need, a fucking faggot. “No worries Mr. Rankin. I did call earlier, but no doubt you were at work.”

  “Yes, that’s right, I’ve not long got home, and was preparing my tea, would you like to come in and join me? What’s all this about? It’s exciting to have a policeman call on me in the evening.”

  Oh, yes sunshine, you’d love my truncheon shoved up your arse, wouldn’t you? “No thank you, sir, little lady at home with a cold beer and bowl of spaghetti with extra chili waiting for me.”

  “Sounds delightful,” he replied as he leaned against the doorframe, still wiping his hands on a tea towel. “How can I help you, detective?”

  That fucking spider is only inches away from his head, but I’m not going to say a fucking word. Fuck me it would be funny if it dropped on him.

  He held up his I.D. “Detective Clive Peppercorn, Mr. Rankin. I’m just following up on the report you were good enough to make about being at the dump on the day the body in the suitcase was found.”

  “That’s an interesting name; Peppercorn. Do you think your distant family were
farmers?”

  “Fifth generation Australian, so probably convicts more than farmers.” This guy gives me the fucking creeps, like he is undressing me with his eyes. “Sir, in your statement you said you were at the dump in the late morning, is that correct, or could it have been later?”

  With a flick of the wrist, he swung the tea towel onto his shoulder, then folded his arms. The spider inched ever closer to his hair, and Clive could barely conceal a grin.

  “Oh, now let me think, it’s such a long time ago, isn’t it? I remember I got up late, had my breakfast, and got stuck into the gardening. It was long overdue. I have this lemon tree that was just so overgrown. Anyway, I pruned the heck out of it, mowed the lawn, well I call it a lawn, but it’s more weeds, if you know what I mean. Then I took it all to the dump at Midland. Now, maybe it might have been twelve or so, but it wouldn’t have been much later than that.”

  “Sir, we now believe the person who left the suitcase is of slight build and drives a white colored van. Did you see anyone who could possibly resemble that description?”

  “Slight build, what, you mean short and skinny? No, I didn’t see anyone like that. I did see a big burly guy who was hairy, and when I say hairy, gawd, he was like a bear. He had his wife with him, but I don’t think she was as hairy.” He laughed at his own humor, which made Clive’s skin crawl.

  The spider was only two inches away now. Fuck, I need to keep him talking and see if it lands on him. “Did you notice anyone else at all, or notice a white van?”

  “Can I be honest?”

  “Please, being a policeman, I appreciate honest answers.”

  “Well, I’m one of those people who just doesn’t look at vehicles, I wouldn’t know a Ford Commodore, from a Holden Falcon.”

  “It’s umm, the other way around, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ford Falcon, Holden Commodore.” Fuck it. The spider started back up its strand, away from the cupcake’s head.

  “See what I mean? No, I didn’t see a white van, sorry. And I didn’t see anyone I would describe as slight in stature. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in for a while?”

  Clive Peppercorn shook his head and stepped farther away. “Thanks, but no thanks. That’s all I need to ask. Good night, sir.”

  He walked back to his car, shaking his head, and resisting the urge to vomit. He didn’t realize that in stepping back, and down the step, to avoid the spider, Paul Rankin was standing higher than him during the interview. That made him look taller. Had they been on the same level, he would have realized if anyone could be described as diminutive, it was Paul Rankin. Then, if Clive had asked what type of vehicle he drove, he may have discovered it was a white van.

  Chapter 15: My Memoir Entry - Incandescent Rage

  I am not usually susceptible to rage, dear reader. Apart from when I killed Carly I don’t recall ever feeling the kind of anger I felt when I saw the news conference.

  I mean seriously, how dare he feel sorry for me? He wants to sit down over a beer and have a chat to see if he can help me? And then jail me? How dare he condescend to me like that. He had his chance to help me, and did he? No, he did not. He abandoned me to a fate worse than death. It was his fault I became what I am, he could have helped, as he promised me he would if ever I needed it, and boy, I needed it then, and where was he? Nowhere to be seen, that’s where.

  Well, now they’ve done it. The instructions I had given them were clear enough, they were to acknowledge I existed, not try to belittle me. I would tell them in no uncertain terms whose fault this was. The kid gloves were coming off.

  But, that was to be just the start. I knew it was time to begin stage two and turn the heat up on Rick himself. I had been plotting this affair for months, and I had plans and counter plans, and counter-counter plans for all sorts of eventualities. He had no idea I knew where he lived, his dumb wife’s name and habits, and, where his daughter went to school.

  ****

  I know I have skipped over some months, but there wasn’t too much of great note to tell. I wanted to do some serious planning on my next victim and out of the blue realized that the key to fame was not in the abduction and play time with the victim, but in the way that the body was found. The two women at Lake Monger were very good cases in point, people stopped going to the park, like some people stop going to the ocean to swim after a shark attack.

  Suspending the bodies in a tree in a frequently used park had been lapped up by the media and my adoring public. I must add here that in hanging them upside down I used a pulley and winch system. After all they were far too heavy for me to lift. The ropes I had bought, using cash, from a very large hardware type supermarket in a different suburb. The winches I found in a salvage yard. Knowing the police would try to back track them, I stole them, and covered it by buying a chain saw. At the time, I knew I would find a use for that later when I pruned the lemon tree.

  Everyone had been talking about the murders, so it made sense that my next unfortunate would need to be even more public. I needed something to not only shock but hold everyone’s interest. I needed inspiration.

  Completely out of the blue, one day I had been wandering around the Midland Park shopping center during my lunch break. I saw a woman coming out of a shop called The Bag Shop. It was an establishment selling all sorts of women’s handbags, briefcases and, you guessed it: suitcases. The woman concerned held no appeal to me, she looked to be Vietnamese, and I have previously mentioned I have no time at all for that race of people after what they did to my father. Anyway, she was quite short, and the suitcase she was wheeling out of the shop looked huge in comparison. It was bright red, with castors on the bottom, and I remember thinking: Hmmm, I could cut her up and fit her inside that suitcase!

  Anyway, I kept walking having a bit of a laugh to myself how much fun it would be to literally do that to her. And then it struck me, what if I did do that to her? I stopped suddenly as the enormity of that thought hit me. An old aged pensioner riding one of those motorized buggies with the long orange flag reaching up to the sky for visibility’s sake, ran into the back of me.

  Bloody hell! I thought, and the idea went right out of my head as the back of both of my legs hurt. The old bloke was decent about it, very apologetic and all that, though he did blame me for stopping suddenly, which, to be fair, I had. We had a bit of a laugh about it all while I rubbed furiously to get the circulation going again.

  Later that night, I was watching a new horror movie I had rented from the Video Crash shop in Mundaring called Psycho Cab Driver. It was one of those Spaghetti horror films, made in Italy with dubbed English voices, and featured lots and lots of blood and gore. I have always enjoyed those sorts. The cabbie was helping a woman with a suitcase, and he was intending to murder her. Suddenly the memory of the woman with the suitcase returned to me.

  And so, the plan was hatched. I found and abducted Melanie from the shopping center car park, which was child’s play using the crutches I had bought from the chemist shop. I feigned a fall near my van as she was walking across the carpark, no doubt leaving her children at home, as they all do. Of course, the stupid bitch came over to help, and I held the knife to her throat and she came quietly.

  Oh, dear reader, did we have some fun? She tried so hard to please me, she was priceless, my favorite by far. But all good things come to an end, and naturally enough I did tire of the constant: “Please let me go, please let me go,” when clearly that was never going to happen.

  Leaving the body at the rubbish dump, I thought, was another genius idea of mine. I had the suitcase inside the rear of the van and I had pruned the lemon tree in the back yard using my chain saw, for some branches to obscure it. I was lucky when I arrived as there was no one else at the tip face, so the case was the first thing I jettisoned, then I quickly dumped the branches and was on my way out before someone driving a car with trailer full of their own pruning’s, came along. I turned my head away as he passed.

  I
figured that a brand new looking suitcase would be too much of a temptation for someone, and they would have to look inside. I know if I were at the dump and saw one, I would wonder what it contained.

  I lapped up the publicity over the following few weeks. The papers and TV news were full of me, again, though this time it felt different. The Lake Monger Murders was more outrage and indignation, but the Body in the Suitcase was more, dare I say, grudging respect. And then they had the re-enactment for when she disappeared from the shopping center and naturally I wanted to watch it because I wanted to phone in and be a witness, and that’s when I saw my old friend, Richard.

  Dear reader, I cannot adequately describe how I felt when I saw him. He had come a long way from his constable days. He was a Detective Sergeant in charge of the case, pleading for help from the public to catch me. But, where was he when I needed help? In a flash, I saw my life as it could have been. If he had come to help me, I never would have been in the situations I had suffered through, as I had.

  I wanted him to be the one to come to me, and yes arrest me, put me on trial so I could tell the world my story, find the fame I deserved. And, in that fame, I could also make sure he was ridiculed. Everyone would know those people would not have been murdered if he had only kept his promise and came to check up on me.

  I had had another, some might say, bizarre fantasy, many years ago. What if Richard had himself adopted me out of that hideous place? He could have been my surrogate father, and I know I would have liked that. I could have been safe from Stubsy, my uncle, and Gordon bloody Bridges. Richard would have taken me shooting, I would have liked that too. I’ve never fired a gun and would like to know what it feels like. But all those opportunities were taken away from me, by the one man who could have saved me.