Glimpse

  Here goes; it’s show time. “May I call you Paul?”

  “It’s my name, why wouldn’t you?”

  This has not started well. Concentrate; win him over.

  “Paul, I did not come here to treat you like an idiot, I came here with a proposition. I admire you; you’ve done what a lot of us would like to do but lack the courage. I would like to live the rest of my life vicariously through you, write your story, make you famous, that is of course, if that’s what you want.”

  He shook his head. “May I call you Pat, or is that what Rick calls you, in which case I will call you Patricia.”

  “My friends and family all call me Pat, but Rick does call me that too.”

  “Well, Patricia, there is an old saying, ‘Don’t bull shit a bull-shitter.’ I don’t believe you, and even if I did, why would you think I need the likes of you?”

  “Paul, irrespective of what happens tonight, what you think of me, or whether you kill Juliet, Amy, and me, tomorrow morning, they are coming to arrest you, and they will be armed. Do you know why they are coming for you?”

  “Because I’ve given them enough clues?” He waved the knife in the air.

  “Rubbish.” She shook her head emphatically. “You haven’t given them any clues, you’ve taunted them, and hid clues. Brilliantly, I must say, but, at no time did you make it easy for them. But then again, why should you? They’re slow, so bloody slow, and you are fast on your feet. If they hadn’t brought me in, you could have kept ahead of them for years. I’m sorry for that, but realistically, it’s time this all came to an end. You should enjoy the fame that your deeds deserve.”

  “So let me get this straight, you are saying they will capture or kill me tomorrow because of you? And, you came here to tell me that? You don’t think I will kill you for causing that. Are you mad? I’m told a lot of psychologists do in fact go mad.”

  “Really? Now who is bullshitting a bull-shitter?”

  He grinned, and Pat realized it was his way of smiling, but being so socially incompetent a grin was the best he could manage. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

  She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Let me clarify that. Am I scared you will kill me? Yes, I don’t want to die, who does? Do I think it’s likely you will kill me? No, I think not, because I hope I can make you see that your reign has come to an end, but how it ends is up to you. You can be shot dead, like Bonny and Clyde, or live on, and bask in the glory of all you’ve achieved, like Charles Manson. Do you know how many followers and fans he has? My God he has women by the hundreds who want to marry him and have his babies. Every time he comes up for parole the whole world sits up and takes notice. You, Paul are an Australian Folk Hero, like Ned Kelly. What I would like to do is tell your story, from your perspective. Everyone is interested in serial killers, and we’ve never had one quite as clever as you.”

  “Why has it come to an end, enlighten me.”

  “Because of me. You are a great killer, probably the cleverest serial murderer in Australian history. I’m sorry, but I discovered who you are by looking at your footsteps in the sand, as I call it.”

  Before she could blink, he was upon her. He flew across the room, straddled her lap, lifted her head by grasping her hair, and held the knife to her throat. She felt her skin being nicked and a trickle of blood run down her neck. She wanted to scream, to fight, and struggle, but deep down, she realized this was bravado, like a small child who doesn’t get his own way. She forced herself to smile at him, and the seconds dragged by.

  “Patricia, I asked you to enlighten me, not brag. No doubt you are a very clever woman, But, don’t try to make me feel like I am stupid, I warn you for the last time. Now tell me why has my reign come to an end, as you so eloquently said?”

  She knew, because he had not murdered her, he was posturing. Yes, he was dangerous, yes, he had no conscience, and would lose no sleep if he killed her, but he was also intelligent, and egotistical. This was her chance to stand up to him and win him over. She put on her coldest voice, the one she used with her husband when he annoyed her.

  “Paul. If you are going to kill me, kill me. If you want to talk, then take that fucking knife away from my throat! I am not some young woman you’ve abducted and terrorized. I came here to meet you. Now, stop fucking about, I am more than happy to tell you why they are coming for you tomorrow, but I will not respond to threats, or a knife pressed to my throat.”

  The seconds dragged again, but he did not slash her neck, and the pressure on the razor-sharp tip eased. “Well, you’re quite the potty-mouth, aren’t you? I don’t like woman who swear.”

  “And I don’t like a knife being held to my throat. Let’s make a deal, you stop threatening me, and I will stop swearing.”

  It was bizarre, on so many levels. A man was kneeling across her lap who had murdered God alone knew how many people, yet he was dressed as a woman. And, she had to admit, quite an attractive one. He had the ‘look at me’ mentality of a child, yet would kill her without blinking an eyelid; an eyelid that was covered in make-up.

  “Do you really think we can be friends?”

  “I’d like to be, but friendship is a two-way street, it takes two people to become friends. Do you think we can be friends?”

  “I have a scrap book, you know,” he said as he lowered the knife to his lap.

  “You do? That will be very useful, Paul. How far back does it go?”

  “To when I was five. Please tell me, how did you discover me.”

  “I will, but please get off my lap. I am married, and my husband would not appreciate another man sitting across me, and I don’t like it either. Friends yes, but please don’t take advantage of that.”

  Slowly, he climbed off, head bowed low. “I apologize, Patricia, in my life I have not had many friends.”

  “Good job I came along then.” She smiled her very best smile, and watched him dismount and sit alongside her, but still held the knife, pointing at her. He shrugged, waiting for her to begin.

  “Paul, I’m not being egotistical, please understand that. But I am very perceptive. I have also made it my life’s work to study people like yourself. I got my Master’s degree in criminal psychology and a doctorate in psychology and psychiatry. When I finished at university I won a six-month internship with the FBI’s Criminal Behavioral Unit. I have always wanted to work with the police as an advisor, or profiler because of people like you, Paul. Serial killers fascinate me. I’m saying all of this because at first the attraction was assisting in your capture, but the further I dug, the more I wanted to write your story. I thought, that the best way to do that was approach you before the cops come rushing in. When they come, their adrenalin will be high, accidents happen in situations like that, suspects are shot. I can tell you that once your name is confirmed tomorrow morning as being one of Gordon Bridges Trustee clients, they will send the Tactical Response Group to raid this house. In doing so, they may well shoot first because they believe you are armed, and because you have hostages. The DNA samples the police took during the Carly Biddle murder, have also been found. They are being tested as we speak. You were tested when you were questioned over Carly’s murder, and you’ve left samples galore more recently. Because I dug up your old cases, you have been discovered.”

  “Who told them I was armed?”

  “I did. Well, let’s face it you do have a knife, who was to say you don’t have guns as well?”

  “But, how did you find out about Mr. Bridges?”

  “Paul, this is what I do. I was asked to advise when you sent your first note. I looked at the Body in the Suitcase murder, and quite frankly I saw your brilliance. But I knew you didn’t just start there. I asked to look at unsolved murder cases where the victim was killed with a knife. Lo and behold I saw your signature, the one you displayed with Bridget Schaeffer, and it was the same with Gordon Bridges. I knew it was a personal murder, not random. His client files were never requested at the time, but, they will have them e
arly in the morning. Next, I looked at Carly Biddle’s murder. I saw someone who cared for her, and again it was a very personal killing. So, I knew your name would pop up in both cases. I asked the senior investigating police officer who had stood out in his mind as being a very good actor that showed arrogance and intelligence. Detective Barlow remembered you Paul, he didn’t like you but he couldn’t prove anything. Then there were the Lake Monger murders, I felt sure you would have been a witness, that you would want the fun of being questioned about your own crimes, yet I was wrong then.”

  “No, you were right, but I was dressed like this, the stupid cop couldn’t even pick he was talking to a man. I enjoyed myself.”

  She smiled and nodded her head. “That makes good sense, Paul, lots of joggers are, after all, women. The letters to the editor though, Paul, that was a mistake. I understand that you wanted some recognition, I totally get that, but you made two mistakes. Firstly, you pointed the finger at yourself for Carly’s killing, and secondly you signed them PPP. What does that stand for, by the way?”

  “Are you saying I am not smart?”

  “No, not really, I’m not saying that at all. If the police hadn’t brought me in, they wouldn’t have a clue. You were right, they are a pretty dumb lot. But I’ve spent years studying people like you, I knew where to look, the early signs, the mistakes made in learning your craft before you got as brilliant as you are now.”

  The silence was deafening, as she could clearly see he was thinking about things, but his face gave no indication of which way he would go. She lowered the tone of her voice, to nearly a whisper. “It’s over Paul. I’m sorry, but it is. The only question left is how you want it to end, as a hero, alive, letting me tell your story, or a dead martyr to a lost cause who will be forgotten in weeks.”

  “You asked me where PPP came from. One of my earliest memories is visiting a friend who lived up the street. He was older than me and he had a broken leg. He was getting everyone to sign the cast, but I was too young to write, so I drew a pirate. He nicknamed me Pirate Prince Paul. Of course, he moved away, eventually. Everyone I ever liked either ignored me, or moved away.”

  “I won’t move away, Paul.” She reached out and gripped his arm.

  “I was going to give myself up anyway, but Rick must pay. He knew I went into care, and he pretended to like me. He just abandoned me there, at Harkerville, and it was awful, Patricia. I wouldn’t send a dog there. I was eleven years old, my father had just killed himself after murdering my mother years before. Rick was one of the cops who answered my call, and I thought he cared, but, he didn’t. I could have turned out differently, I could have been someone and not ignored by everyone I met. It’s his fault I turned out like this.”

  “He has suffered, Paul. He is a nervous wreck now. I could see in Juliet’s face she doesn’t love him anymore, not after I admitted he made passes at me. Let her live, and Amy, then she will leave him; he will be alone. I will write your story, and tell the world it was his fault. I will do that for you.” She gently squeezed his arm, trying to make him believe her sincerity.

  “No, you don’t get it. He took away my life, now I’m going to take away what’s his, see how he likes it. I deserve that.”

  She was losing him, she could tell. He was staring down at the knife, twirling it in his hand. How to get him back on side?

  “Paul if you kill them, I believe Rick will kill you. He is a cop after all. He will think he could have won Juliet back, but for you. He will get to you in the cell, fake a hanging, or pay someone to knife you in the shower. He is a nasty piece of work; you were right all along about him. It doesn’t surprise me he was a rat back then after the way he treated Juliet. But if he kills you, you won’t see the fame I will create for you. If you let them live, he will lose his family anyway.

  He sighed a long drawn out sigh and shook his head. “I suppose you’re right. Will you visit me in jail?”

  “Every chance I get. Especially if you let me tell your story. I will be your editor, working with you on your book.”

  Suddenly, there was the deafening noise of a smashing window from the front of the building and the sounds of approaching footsteps over broken glass.

  “You too? You lied to me?”

  As if in slow motion, she watched him turn toward her, his face showing his rage. His right-hand travel in its arc through the air, and the knife blade disappeared into her stomach.

  “No, please no, I didn’t…”

  But the knife was yanked out and stabbed into her again.

  ****

  Rick raced through the shop without a glance at the cool room, not realizing that was the prison. His footsteps scrunched over broken shards caused by the rubbish bin he had thrown through the glass entrance. He kicked open the door leading into the house with gun drawn, hell bent on getting to his wife and daughter before Rankin could do anything to them.

  He turned the corner into to the living room and saw a scene from a horror film. A woman stood over Patricia Holmes, hand raised with a knife in it about to stab again. There was blood everywhere. Rick, acting on instinct, fired his gun twice, as he had been trained, without realizing he had pulled the trigger.

  The soft nosed bullets took Paul Rankin high on the right-hand side of his torso, which spun him around so he fell back onto the couch, alongside the bloody mess that was Pat. He tried to inflict more stab wounds on her, but Rick saw he couldn’t lift his arm; the bullets must have smashed his shoulder. Still holding the gun ready to fire again if needed, he crossed the room and snatched the knife from Rankin’s grasp.

  “This-was-all-your-fault, Rick,” he mumbled. He slowly slid down the couch to lie prostrate over the arm. Unconscious or dead, Rick didn’t care.

  He dropped his gun and bent over Pat. Carefully he slipped one arm around her neck, the other he reached under her thighs and in one motion lifted her. He turned and dropped to his knees and gently laid her on the floor. Next, he removed his jacket, balled it up, and held it over the wounds in her stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  One handed he took Juliet’s phone out and dialed the emergency number. “This is Detective Sergeant Richard McCoy; a woman has been stabbed and is bleeding profusely at 1606 Phillips Road in Mundaring. I need an ambulance with para-medics now.”

  He dropped the phone to use both hands. “Oh, Pat. What have you done? What are you even doing here?” Her eyes fluttered open. “The ambulance is on its way, you’re going to be fine, Pat. Stay with me, don’t you bloody die on me.”

  “Cool room, shop, Amy, Juliet. Alive.”

  He looked up, torn between staying and slowing the blood loss, and getting to them.

  “Go. Tell Juliet, I was lying to Rankin when I said you made a pass. Was trying to get his confidence…” Her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.

  “Pat. Pat.” He touched the side of her neck; there was a very faint pulse. She was going, fading fast.

  “No damn it no.” He began CPR but realized as he pushed down on her chest, he was not stopping the blood loss, and he could see it oozing out from under his jacket.

  He moved so he sat across her, straddling her stomach, using his weight to push the jacket over her wounds, then concentrated as he counted the compressions. Minutes passed; he had no idea how many. Suddenly, he was startled by hearing Colin Harris’s voice echo down the passageway.

  “This is the police, we are armed and coming in, lay on the floor and do not move.”

  “In here,” he screamed. His sweat dripped from his forehead, and he heard their footsteps across the smashed shards of glass in the shop.

  “Jesus Christ what’s happened here?”

  “Help me with her, she’s dying.”

  It was then he heard the welcome sound of the ambulance siren, as it split the night.

  Afterword (Part 1)

  It was a very pale and drawn Patricia Holmes who lay in her hospital bed holding her husband’s hand, listening to yet another litany from him
as to why he never wanted her to work with the police again. She was far too weary to try to explain to him, for the twentieth time, that while she had been wounded, the experience of being on the front line of the hunt for a serial killer, she would not have swapped for anything. Ironically, she realized, she had never felt so alive, right up to the time she had nearly died.

  She feigned tiredness and asked if he would leave her for a while to get some sleep. It was so much easier than arguing with him. He said he would come back that night, and quietly left her alone with her thoughts.

  She had been very lucky to survive; she knew that. She had been told it was Rick’s CPR, and stemming of her blood loss, that had saved her life. Overall, she would describe herself as being confused about her feelings for Rick. She believed had he not burst in when he had, she would not have been attacked, and would have got Paul Rankin to hand himself in. She sincerely believed that he wanted that. He thought she had lied to him when Rick broke in, and hence the attack.

  But, she had to consider Rick’s state of mind, after losing his daughter and wife to a man who had intended to murder them.

  It was…complicated. She kept trying to explain that to her husband. There was no simple explanation; it was all if’s. If Rick, hadn’t smashed his way in, if she had a few more minutes to get the knife from him before Rick broke in. So many variables. Not that he wanted to listen, he just wanted to tell her not to do it again, that she owed it to him, and their children. One day, she thought, she would tell him she didn’t owe him anything. That her life was hers to decide how she would live it. But, that day hadn’t come just yet. She had no doubt that it would though, especially if he told her one too many more times, that she owed it to him to stop.

  What she didn’t try to explain, and never would, was her feelings of attraction for Rick. That was the most confusing thing of all. They were from different walks of life; they were both married, and they should not ever be any more than friends or work colleagues…yet deep down, she wanted more. She wanted to live again, she wanted to feel wanted, valued, and loved.