“I’ll keep that in mind,”
“And have you got your chops for the gig in place?”
“I think so. I sure hope they’re forgiving here, Mitch. I mean, reading isn’t my forte by any stretch and I gotta admit I’m pretty nervous.”
“You’ll be fine, mate—just do your thing, have fun and sell some books!”
“Will do. See ya, Mitch.”
Sam disconnected and realized he was already wide awake. His little power nap had actually helped.
He ordered a coffee from room service, making sure to request cream and did a search for Jammy’s on his iPhone while he waited. The coffee came, sans cream, but he didn’t complain. He wondered if perhaps half and half or even whole milk were banned in the UK for some reason and decided to ask Mitch the next time he spoke to him. After adding the non-dairy powder to his joe he took a sip, grimaced, forced down half a cup and took a shower.
He put on a fresh pair of jeans, an OSU sweatshirt and a warm jacket before heading for the elevator. When he came out on the street he walked west, taking his time, enjoying the sights, sounds and crisp chill in the air. He reached Jammy’s and went inside.
The place was small and not very crowded so he headed over to the bar. He doubted if they had any American beer so he decided simply to ask for a pint of lager. The bartender came back with a mug that felt lukewarm. He thanked the man and took a sip. It was bitter and warm but actually tasted delicious.
As he nursed his beer, Sam looked around the bar, trying to listen in on snippets of conversation. He heard a pair of men discussing a recent soccer game and another older gentleman telling a joke to a young lady wearing a miniskirt. He noticed one man whose eyes were glued to the television across the room and Sam listened to the English accent of the announcer and for the hundredth time couldn’t believe that he was actually here in London. He felt as though he was in another world as he took in his surroundings and listened to the banter. It was calming, soothing, relaxing.
After another beer he left the pub and took a long walk. He paid no attention to where he was going, just going with the flow. Everywhere he went seemed like a brand new adventure. Feeling famished he eventually stopped in a small Italian restaurant and had a wonderful meal. He ordered spumoni and coffee for dessert and when the waiter brought him a small pitcher of cream, Sam felt like he’d died and gone to heaven.
He headed back to the hotel, thinking that he should do some work on polishing up his presentation when he got back to his room. Tomorrow promised to be a very eventful day.
Chapter 20
A month had passed since Inspector Clive Hogarth began his investigation of Sarah Clark’s assault and he had made virtually no progress in the case. Beyond what Ms. Clark had already reported, he’d been given a vague description of her attacker by one of the servers at O’Dowd’s. The woman who had served Sarah and her companion told Hogarth that the pub was crazy packed that evening and all she could recall was that the man was of average height and weight, possibly in his forties and had longish dark hair. Splendid, he’d thought. That should narrow the field down to just a few million people. Forensics had completed the DNA testing from Ms. Clark’s rape kit and it yielded absolutely nothing usable. Ms. Clark’s attacker had either worn a condom, cleaned up after himself or had not engaged in intercourse.
And then two significant events occurred that shed some much needed light on the case. The first had been just yesterday when Ms. Clark rang the station to say that she had recalled more details about her attacker while taking her morning shower. She’d experienced a sudden flashback of a man’s arms encircling her from behind while she was sitting in her bathtub, his hands on her breasts. His body was pressed hard against hers and she could feel his chin resting on her shoulder. He was singing something in her ear while he kneaded her breasts vigorously. This visual moment was fleeting, Ms. Clark said, lasting only a few seconds. But in that brief time she noticed something on the back of one of the man’s hands—a scar a couple inches long that ran along the back of his hand just below the wrist. And she remembered the song he was singing: Bobby Darin’s “Splish Splash.”
Hogarth had asked Ms. Clark if she could recall which hand the scar was on and she felt certain it was his right hand. When asked if she could recall anything else at all about the man she couldn’t, as the man was sitting behind her the entire time. She added that the flashback was absolutely terrifying and that it had taken her some time to recover from the trauma before calling the police. He thanked her for having the courage to make the call and encouraged her to contact him immediately if she remembered anything else.
Although he seriously doubted that the song the American was singing would help the investigation any, knowing that the attacker had a scar on his right hand could be a significant clue to his identity. But he would need a lot more than that.
And then a bombshell dropped earlier this morning. A woman had been sexually assaulted in her hotel room near Piccadilly sometime the night before. And she had apparently been a victim of date rape drugging as well. But unlike Sarah Clark, this victim was able to recall quite a bit about the incident and her attacker.
For starters, he had a scar on the back of his right hand.
The woman’s name was Iris Mathews and Hogarth was on his way to the interrogation room to see what more he could find out. Molly Higgins had been on the case since taking the woman’s call and had already briefed him on her preliminary interview with the victim. Hogarth was now looking forward to hearing what the woman had to say firsthand.
He entered the room and saw Molly Higgins sitting across the table from a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. She was attractive with blond hair and remarkably deep blue eyes. She appeared to still be quite shaken up from her ordeal.
“This is Inspector Hogarth, Ms. Matthews, who will be joining us,” Higgins announced.
“Thank you for your cooperation in this matter, Ms. Matthews,” Hogarth said taking a seat beside Higgins. He took out a small notebook from his pocket, flipped to a blank page and entered the time and date.
Higgins said, “Ms. Matthews was just telling me how she first came into contact with her attacker. Perhaps you could repeat that for the Inspector.”
The woman was visibly pained to have to go over her dreadful experience for what probably seemed like the tenth time. She ran her hands through her hair and stared across the table at him with tired blue eyes.
“Like I was telling Inspector Higgins, things are still rather fuzzy but I’ll tell you everything I can remember. I’d been out for dinner with my sister earlier last night and decided to stop in my hotel’s pub for a nightcap before turning in for the night. I’m in town on holiday from Manchester to visit my sister and some old friends I know from up north. So I’m having a drink at the bar and this man comes over and introduces himself. He asks if I’d mind if he joined me and I said sure—he seemed harmless enough so why not?
“I could immediately tell he was American by his accent and when I asked what he was doing in London he said he was there on business. So we just chatted for a while and he bought me another drink.”
She stopped speaking and simply stared at Hogarth for a moment, as if trying to recall what to say next. Then she resumed.
“The next thing I remember, I’m sitting on the sofa in my hotel room. This man is standing over me, smiling, and it creeps me out. I want to leap from the sofa and run for my life but I realize I can’t move a muscle. It’s as though I’m totally paralyzed. He sits down beside me and starts running a hand through my hair. That’s when I notice he has this nasty scar on his hand. I try to scream bloody murder but nothing comes out. I feel like I’m about to pass out and the last thing I remember before going unconscious was the man leaning down in my face whilst sticking his hands inside my blouse.”
The woman fell silent again, clearly upset.
“Just take your time, ma’am. Would you like some water or a cup of tea?” Hogarth inqu
ired.
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. It’s just so—”
“We understand,” Higgins said comfortingly, patting her arm. “We could do this again later, if you’d prefer.”
“I’d much rather get it over with now. Then I’d like to go back to the hotel.”
“We will take you straight away after we get done here, Ms. Matthews—I promise. So could you tell me what happened next?” Hogarth said.
“I, uh, remember drifting in and out—as though it was some sort of horrible dream. I was lying down on the sofa and the man’s hands were all over me. He had removed all of my clothes—I could see them stacked in a neat pile at the foot of the sofa. He kept pawing me for what seemed like a long time. Then he—he got on top of me and—you know. It was so frightening!” she cried.
“It’s okay,” Hogarth said gently. “I know how difficult it must be having to recall such a horrible thing.”
She looked directly into Hogarth’s eyes and said. “No, you don’t.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. I don’t know nor can I even imagine. I apologize.”
“Please just continue when you’re ready, Ms. Matthews,” Higgins said.
“There isn’t much more to say—that’s really all I remember. I awoke this morning fully clothed on the sofa. He had apparently dressed me for some ungodly reason. I felt horribly hung-over and couldn’t recall a thing about last night at first. It wasn’t until I’d taken a shower and noticed the bruises on my breasts that things starting coming back to me.”
“When did you find this?” Higgins asked, holding up a clear cellophane package containing an ordinary black carnival mask.
The woman stared at the object as though it was cursed and looked away. “While getting dressed after my shower. It was in one of the bureau drawers.”
“And you’re certain the attacker left this?”
“Yes, definitely. I mean, I would know if I put it there myself, wouldn’t I? I’m not crackers, you know!”
“Of course, Ms. Matthews,” Hogarth said.
He took the mask from Higgins and examined it. As the inspector had told him earlier, the cellophane package was still factory sealed and appeared to never have been opened. The lab had dusted for prints and there were none except for Ms. Matthews’. So the man had made sure that the package was wiped clean and wore gloves while depositing it in the drawer, Hogarth assumed. After they finished the interview, the package would be returned to forensics so they could open the package and dust the mask for prints plus collect any available DNA. Hogarth already had a hunch the mask itself would be clean as well.
“Can you think of any reason why your attacker would leave this?” he asked.
“I have no idea, whatsoever. All I know is that when I spotted the thing I nearly fainted. It rather spooked me, I must say.”
“I can understand why. And you’re certain that the man never wore this or any mask at all while he was in your company?”
“I am as certain as I can be. But as I said, anything’s possible since I can’t recall everything that happened last night.”
“But you can give us a good description of the man,” Higgins added hopefully.
The woman shook her head. “Not really, I’m afraid. His face still isn’t clear in my mind’s eye. I think I was so terrified at what he was doing to me that I blanked him out.”
“But you can at least give us some idea of his appearance, can’t you?” Hogarth asked.
“Yes. I know he had thinning dark hair and a bald spot.”
“A bald spot as from a receding hairline or on the back of his head?”
“Both. His hair was combed straight back as if to hide the bald spot.”
Hogarth added this to his notes. “And how old would you say he was?”
“I don’t know—late forties or so, I guess.”
“Any facial hair?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Was he of light or dark complexion?”
“He was just a bit dark, I believe. Yes, as though he had spent time in a tanning bed or recently been to a resort.”
“And his size?”
“Average, I guess. Not particularly tall or short.”
“Was he fit?”
“I can’t remember. I don’t think he was fat, though.”
“Eye color?”
“No idea. Sorry.”
“How about his voice? Was it low or high or in any way distinctive?”
She thought for a moment. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “He was singing!” she cried.
Hogarth glanced over at Higgins.
“What was he singing, Ms. Matthews?”
“I don’t know. I just now remembered that he sang when you asked about his voice. He had a high, rather sing-song voice. Like he was affecting how a young child might sing.”
She suddenly shivered. Her eyes glazed over.
“Is anything the matter?”
“I just remembered; his singing was, evil somehow. Like he was taunting me in some perverse, hideous way.”
The poor woman was starting to lose it, Hogarth sensed. She had become pale and her face was drawn.
“Can you expound on that?” Higgins asked.
“No, I’m sorry—I think I just need to lie down for a bit.”
“Very well—I think we’re done here for now. We’ll have somebody take you back to your hotel, Ms. Matthews,” Hogarth announced.
“Thank you.”
He took out one of his cards and handed it to her. “Please call us if you can think of anything else to add. We appreciate your time and I promise that we will do everything in our power to catch the person who did this to you.”
She accepted the card, glanced at it and nodded.
Back at his desk Hogarth sipped tea and looked over his notes. It didn’t take a genius to see that whomever had assaulted Ms. Matthews was the same man who had assaulted Sarah Clark. For one thing it seemed much too coincidental that both attackers had a noticeable scar on the back of his right hand. But singing to the victim? What were of the odds of two separate American men with scars on the back of their hands date raping two women in a pub within a couple of weeks’ time and singing to their victims?
It appears that we have a serial rapist in town. And an American at that, no less.
But what about the mask? Was this the attacker’s calling card, and if so, what did it mean? And why was it only left with his latest victim and not the other one? It could be that the scoundrel had just recently decided to add a signature to his crime, which would explain that. But what the mask had to do with his actions was more difficult to grasp. Neither victim recalled his wearing a mask during the execution of the crime. The man had in fact had done nothing to conceal his identity—at least for certain in the case of Ms. Matthews. Ms. Clark hadn’t been able to recall her attacker’s face.
So we’re left with an unused, sealed mask stashed away in a drawer for no apparent reason other than to confound the police. And perhaps that was his intention, although he doubted it.
Inspector Higgins appeared at his desk. “So what do you think, Clive?”
“I think we have a repeat offender.”
“I agree. One thing that puzzles me about these cases is why one victim can barely remember what happened while the other has a much clearer recollection. Makes me wonder if the attacker used the same drug on both women.”
“I’ve done a bit of research on these so-called date rape drugs and studies show that the degree of memory recall can vary appreciably from person to person independent of which drug is ingested. The main differences among the different date rape drugs have more to do with the speed with which they take effect on the victim and how long they last.”
“I see. So what is your take on the mask? That has me stymied.”
“Me too. Clearly the attacker left it purposely as a means of personalizing his crime in some fashion—his signature for lack of a better word. It’s almost like
the taking of a trophy in reverse—let’s leave a bit of something behind for the victim and the authorities to mull over in lieu of taking something of the victim to remember her by.”
“I get that. But why the bloody mask? What could it possibly mean?”
“Let’s consider the possibilities. What is a mask used for?”
“To conceal one’s face, or one’s identity.”
“Precisely. And as far as we know, the attacker didn’t actually wear a mask. If he had, it would mean he didn’t want to be seen by the victim. So what does that say about him?”
“Just what it implies—that he doesn’t seem to care if the victim knows his identity.”
“Which suggests that the attacker is so confident that he’ll get away with his crime that he needn’t worry about the victim possibly making an ID of him in the future.”
“And the reason for that is the fact that the victim won’t remember the crime in the first place because of the nature of the drug he’s slipped her,” Higgins added.
“Right. And this abundance of self-confidence suggests something more about the attacker. That he is either dead certain that the drug will work exactly as prescribed so to speak, or he is perfectly willing to take the risk of his victim’s ability to recall the crime and thus his identity, as is the case with Ms. Matthews. Which would suggest that he isn’t very bright.”
“Which do you think it is?” Higgins asked.
“Neither one. I think there’s a third angle to all of this—I just don’t know what it is. First of all, we know this man isn’t stupid—to the contrary I should think. He has pulled off two virtually perfect crimes thus far leaving us very little to go on. Granted we have the scar on his hand and some basic features of his appearance but nothing set in stone. We will of course persuade Ms. Matthews to work with a sketch artist but between you and I, do you feel she’ll be able to add much more beyond the fact that he was average, tanned and balding?”
“No, I don’t.”
“As for the scar and his penchant for song, neither gives us a whole lot to run with. This man is quite clever and hasn’t made any major mistakes—at least thus far. And if he is indeed that cunning, it suggests that he has planned out both of these crimes quite effectively in advance. So far only one person recalls seeing him in the pub where he first encountered his first victim, which is amazing in and of itself. Granted we haven’t questioned Ms. Matthews’ hotel pub staff yet and that could change, but I have a feeling we aren’t going to get a lot out of them. This man seems to know how to lay low and fly under the radar from what I can see.
The May Day Murders Sequel Page 17