by D C Vaughn
Table of Contents
HER MIND’S EYE
Unnamed
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
Unnamed
HER MIND’S EYE
© 2018 D.C. Vaughn
Published: February 2nd, 2019
ASIN:
Publisher: Fictum Ltd
The right of D.C. Vaughn to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
D.C. Vaughn Books
I thought that I’d seen everything.
That’s not unusual for a police officer. It’s not often the blood and gore of the movies. More, it’s the unusual, the bizarre, the way people live that you would never have thought possible; the fetid squalor of the poor and the addicted, the confused mess of the hoarder, the lonely darkness of the social recluse; worlds different to ours and yet on our doorsteps, perhaps just yards away from me, from you, right now.
But it gets worse when you’re a detective.
It’s just the way of things. During the course of an investigation, a detective delves deeper into the life of a suspect than anybody has ever done. In the obsessive hunt for evidence we can leave no stone unturned, for historically it is often the most innocuous piece of evidence that brings down the vilest of criminals, the cruellest of killers. There is always the truth, hidden behind the lies, for all lies lead to the truth. The law, the search for justice, is a beacon of light cast into a shadowy underworld that exists alongside us all and, although we don’t care to admit it to ourselves, inside us all. For a lifetime that beacon was both my guide and my saviour. And then, finally, it wasn’t.
People talk about the “perfect” murder. I lived my life as a detective believing that such a thing was not possible. The long arm of the law would always, inevitably, capture and convict the guilty and bring justice to the victims. Technology, persistence and confidence in one’s skills and in the system would always triumph in the end.
How could I have been so wrong?
I
Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital,
England
Awareness.
She existed again. The darkness was the first thing that she became aware of. She felt a sense that she had been a part of it for a long time, enveloped in its embrace and shielded from a universe beyond. She could hear her own breathing, distant and unfamiliar as though it belonged to someone else, a rhythmic hymn of life filling the darkness.
‘Just take your time.’
The voice emerged from out of nowhere and seemed loud enough to make her heart leap in her chest. A beeping sound intruded into her comfortable slumber, the sensation of cool fabric brushed against her skin, and of their own accord her eyes opened.
The brightness was intense, as though arc lamps were blazing above her and she squinted as she tried to move her arm to shield her face, but it moved barely an inch. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead, cumbersome, detached somehow from her mind.
‘Easy now, baby steps okay?’
The voice was a woman’s, patient and kind. She felt a gentle touch on the back of her hand as she blinked and tried to focus into the light. The vague shape of a room surrounded her, light coming from both the ceiling and in through a window to her left. She saw the shape of a nurse’s face above her, maybe some kind of matron, as she was an older lady with kind brown eyes.
‘That’s better,’ the nurse encouraged. ‘Can you tell me your name?’
To her surprise she could not remember it. That came as a shock but she barely registered the fact, her mind empty but for the room, the nurse and the new sensations coursing through her nerves. Breathing. Sheets. Skin. Cool air on her face.
‘Can you remember your name? It begins with an R.’
Something fired off in her mind, neurons zipping back and forth once more along long dormant highways in her brain.
‘Rebecca.’
Her voice sounded alien, from her but not yet of her, soft and dry.
‘Very good, and your surname?’
‘Kyle.’
‘Good,’ the nurse replied. ‘Can you move your fingers and toes for me?’
Rebecca thought for a moment and then tried to move them. It felt as though nothing was happening but the nurse nodded and patted the back of her hand.
‘That’s great,’ she said with another smile. ‘The rest of your mobility will come back soon. Just rest easy and focus on one thing at a time. The rehab nurse will visit you later but right now we have to go through a couple of important things, okay?’
Rebecca tried to nod but her head felt lethargic. A dull ache from her arm revealed an intravenous line connected to a saline bag beside the bed. Gradually her brain began to engage itself, reality returning in rhythmic waves in harmony with her breathing.
‘Can you tell me your date of birth?’ the nurse asked, peering down at her.
‘March twelfth.’
‘Excellent,’ the nurse enthused, patting her hand again. ‘Looks like you’re still okay up top, wouldn’t you agree?’
Rebecca stared at the tiles on the ceiling for a few moments and then the questions started forming in her mind, and before she could stop them they tumbled in a torrent from her parched lips.
‘What happened to me? Why am I here? How long have I been here?’
Sam. The name shot through the field of her awareness like a lightning bolt from a darkened sky. It coursed through her body and was launched from her lips like a javelin straight at the nurse.
‘Where’s Sam?’
Rebecca almost sat up in the bed as the force of her concern soared through her. Immediately a lance of pain bolted through her skull as though someone had driven a sword through her brain and out her right eye. She huddled over the pain, her head in her hands as she gasped. The nurse stood at once from the seat she had occupied alongside Rebecca’s bed and she pressed down gently on her shoulder to hold her in place.
‘Easy now,’ she insisted. ‘One thing at a time. Lots of memories will come upon you now, so you need to keep them under control until you’re able to process what’s happened to you, okay?’
Rebecca leaned back as the pain slowly subsided, and could hear the heart monitor beeping more energetically beside her as thoughts and images raced through the field of her awareness. In her mind’s eye she saw an apartment, clean and modern, and she realised that it was her home. Exeter. Near the river. A place that she shared with Sam. Samuel Lincoln. A surgeon. Tall, swarthy but a quiet, shy soul who preferred academia to the bustle of city life. Black hair, gentle smile and touch. A man who had been so terrified of asking her out on a date that three of their mutual friends had virtually manhandled him in front of her when their patience had finally run out, three years after finding out that he held a candle for her.
‘Sam?’ she asked again, not looking at the nurse but staring up at the ceiling, lost in memories that seemed both brand new and yet ancient at the same time.
The nurse sat back down in her seat and looked at her hands for a moment.
‘We should focus on making sure that you can use your arms and legs properly, to get you ready for standing up. You’d be surprised how three days horizontal can wreck your ability to walk anywhere and…’
‘Three days?’
Rebecca turned her head and looked at the nurse, whose nametag bore the name Sarah Christie.
‘Yes, Rebecca. You’ve been in an induced coma here at the centre for three days.’
Rebecca tried to process what she had heard but her memories seemed foggy, lost in a darkness that she could not penetrate.
‘How did I get here? What happened?’
Jenny reached out and took her hand.
‘You were involved in an incident. I’m afraid that I’m not allowed to say anything about it right now, because an investigation is still open into what happened. The police have asked to inform you of what occurred when you wake up.’
‘Police?’ Rebecca uttered. ‘Where’s Sam? What happened to him?’
The nurse glanced at the door, unwilling to speak, and in an instant Rebecca knew that Sam was gone. She felt grief well up even though her memories were not yet complete, intuitively understanding that something incredibly important and cherished had been torn from her life.
‘When?’ she managed to ask. ‘Please just tell me what happened?’
To Rebecca’s surprise, Sarah’s eyes welled with tears and she gripped her hand more tightly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said in reply. ‘You don’t remember me yet, do you?’
Rebecca shook her head fractionally, feeling a sense of shame that she could not recall who the nurse was.
‘I worked with Sam,’ Sarah explained, ‘here at the centre. We’ve been friends for many years.’
Rebecca stared at Sarah for a long moment. ‘If that’s so, then please just tell me what happened?’
Sarah sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, her other hand still gripping Rebecca’s as though it was an anchor to reality.
‘Sam was shot,’ she blurted.
Rebecca felt numb.
‘Who would want to kill Sam?’ she rasped. ‘Who shot him?’
Sarah squeezed her hand, grief and anguish and confusion warring for space on her features.
‘You did,’ she replied. ‘You shot him, Rebecca.’
***
II
Devon and Cornwall Police Headquarters,
Exeter
Detective Sergeant Kieran Russell strode down a long corridor, reached his office and sat down behind a stack of paperwork. The room around him echoed with the sound of ringing telephones and muted conversations as he glanced down at the imposing pile of work and lamented the fact that despite twelve years years on the job, the pile seemed never to have got any smaller.
Kieran had served for nine years in the Royal Marines Commandos before joining the police force. His time in the military had been considered valuable experience in his police work, and after working the beat for three years he’d quickly joined an Armed Response Unit, serving there for another five years before joining the Major Crime Investigation Team as a detective constable. He was close to forty now, but had managed to hang on to his hair and his sanity despite the rigours of a life of service.
‘Kieran?’
He looked up to see Detective Constable Hannah Marchant pop her head around the corner of the door. Ten years his junior, with auburn hair in a pony tail behind her head and bright green eyes, they had worked together at MCIT for two years.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘She’s awake.’
Hannah didn’t have to elaborate any further. There was no need to mention the name. Everyone in the MCIT, and that meant everyone, knew who Hannah was referring to. Kieran was on his feet in an instant, one hand reaching for his jacket, the other for a thick file on his desk as Hannah tossed him a set of keys. Kieran tossed them back to her.
‘You drive, I need to catch up on this one. What condition is she in?’
‘Stable, conscious, looks like she’s come out of the coma in one piece. They’re running some tests right now.’
‘When did she wake up?’
‘Doctor said yesterday morning.’
‘What?’
Kieran’s voice boomed like a cannon through the office, and for a moment it seemed as though time stood still. Dozens of eyes darted to him, conversations stopped, clocks seemed to stop ticking. Keiran reigned himself in.
‘Why the hell didn’t they call us sooner?’ he asked as they started walking again and the office bustle returned.
‘The first twenty–four hours are a crucial assessment period,’ Hannah explained, clearly quoting whichever doctor she had spoken to on the phone. ‘They weren’t willing to let her be seen until they felt certain she’d remain stable.’
Kieran huffed and mumbled something that even he didn’t understand, venting his fury. They’d been waiting three days for Detective Constable Rebecca Kyle to regain consciousness. For that time the entire department had been under the watchful eye of the Police and Crime Commissioner, who himself was under the watchful eye of the media.
Kieran got into Hannah’s car and opened the file he’d grabbed from his desk as she started the engine. He quickly ran his eyes over the case as Hannah drove them out of the parking lot.
Detective Constable Rebecca Kyle, aged thirty–two, born and bred Exeter girl. Kieran smiled as he looked at the image in the file, dark hair and eyes, a soft smile, the same green eyes as Hannah but with a hard edge to them. Rebecca Kyle wasn’t what anyone would call the typical police officer. She’d joined at nineteen and served with an almost manic fervour, joining MCIT after just four years. There she’d proven herself as a stellar detective, someone with a real eye for not just a crime scene but the person behind the crime, even when there was little evidence to go on. Rebecca was no analyst, no psychologist, she just had a feel for things, something special that Kieran had encouraged in her from the moment she joined the team. Rebecca’s empathy was off the scale, and it seemed to be that sense that had led her to the door of one criminal after another.
Then, one evening four days ago, her fiancé, a man named Samuel Lincoln, had been shot on the river walk near Okehampton Street in the city. There had been no witnesses other than Rebecca herself. Rebecca had been found lying on the towpath, the left side of her skull bloodied at the temple from a gunshot. No weapon was found at the scene, and Samuel Lincoln’s body had also not been located despite the river being extensively dredged.
The problem was that gunshot residue consistent with being the shooter had been found on Rebecca’s right hand, wrist and her coat collar. To the disbelieving shock of her colleagues, it seemed to detectives who had attended the scene that Rebecca had shot her fiancé and then turned the gun on herself: a classic murder–suicide.
Kieran leafed through the pages of the file and felt awkward as he did so, once again rifling through Rebecca’s life as he had been required to do in the wake of the shooting, while she lay fighting for that same life in hospital.
The investigation that he had conducted into Rebecca, in order to try to ascertain whether she had a motive for murder or a reason for taking her own life, had thrown up a number of questions about her mental health. There were no major markers, no evidence of psychosis, but she did have one undisclosed condition: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, for which she took medication.
The discovery had surprised Kieran at the time. Rebecca had never shown any sign of suffering from OCD, but then Kieran had soon realised that he himself was somewhat ignorant of the condition. He’d just assumed that it meant Rebecca stacked desk items in perfect order or had to whistle some tune every hour, on the
hour, to get through her day. A little research had revealed the complexities of the illness, the random and unconnected thoughts of violence or shame, the signatures of anxiety and loneliness, of reduced self–worth and self–confidence. Kieran had realised that he knew nothing of the real Rebecca Kyle, and that had troubled him from the moment the investigation started: if he didn’t really know her, how could he be certain that she wasn’t capable of murder?
Kieran had switched to the victim of the shooting, Samuel Lincoln. That had presented its own set of difficult circumstances due to Sam working for a company involved in classified contracts for the Ministry of Defence, limiting Kieran’s ability to cast light into every corner of Sam’s life. Neuray Solutions, Exeter, was involved in the development of neural and spinal implants, which as far as Kieran could make out were on the cutting edge of technological advancements designed to help the blind see and the paralysed walk again. Although he had spoken to the company’s CEO and a number of Sam’s work colleagues, much of Sam’s work had been covered by the Official Secrets Act, and even in the light of a murder investigation there was only so far he could pry into the company’s inner workings.
Hannah pulled into the Royal Devon and Exeter hospital and parked before they walked together inside the hospital. Rebecca was being treated in a private wing, everything being paid for by Neuray’s accounts despite the uncertainty over Sam Lincoln’s death, if he was indeed dead.
‘Of course he’s dead,’ Hannah whispered as they walked, Kieran looking at a picture of Sam. ‘It’s been four days since the shooting and he’s not been seen or heard from since.’
‘If there’s no body, then technically there’s no homicide,’ Kieran replied reasonably. ‘We just don’t know what happened out there on the tow path. Maybe it’s Sam we should be looking at as the shooter?’
Hannah inclined her head. When the scene of the shooting had first been discovered, it was the assumption of the MCIT that Rebecca was the victim and her fiancé the shooter. It would explain both Rebecca’s gunshot wound and Sam Lincoln’s absence. However, ballistics didn’t lie and the gunshot residue on Rebecca’s clothing, plus blood splatter found on her coat which was identified as Sam’s blood, pointed directly at her as being the one holding the gun.