SH01 - An Easeful Death

by Felicity Young

  De Vakey spread newspaper over a portion of the carpet. He seemed to know what Stevie was doing, although Monty had no idea.

  ‘James got me thinking about your presumed fall from grace,’ she said as she hefted the garbage bag and tipped out the contents. Empty jars, cans and cartons clattered onto the newspaper. De Vakey reacted quickly with more newspaper to protect the carpet. Monty pushed a beer can back with a bare foot then knelt down to examine it, holding the towel around his waist secure with one hand.

  He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe I did this.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t,’ Stevie said, sniffing at another empty can.

  Monty followed suit. ‘Sour beer, what are we supposed to be looking for?’

  De Vakey handed him an empty carton of tomato juice, its corner cut for pouring. Most of the juice had leaked onto the floor, but a few drops still remained in the bottom of the carton.

  Monty put it to his nose and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, has it gone off? I can’t tell.’

  ‘Considering the amount of chilli you use, I’m amazed you can taste anything.’ Monty was usually sharper than this. Stevie was surprised to have to spell it out for him. ‘Jeez, Monty, don’t you see? You were probably drugged!’

  Monty stared open mouthed from one of them to the other.

  ‘Was this a new carton last night?’ De Vakey asked.

  Monty squinted at it as he tried to remember. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it was already open. I took it from the fridge.’

  De Vakey ran his finger around the carton’s cut corner, ‘I’m no connoisseur but this juice looks a bit darker than it should.’

  Monty looked into the carton and shrugged. ‘Yeah, maybe it is, I was busy with other things last night, I didn’t notice.’

  ‘These days, because of date rape, an additive is put into Rohypnol tablets to make the liquid they’re put in turn blue in order to alert the drinker,’ Stevie said, examining the dregs in the carton for herself. ‘It doesn’t show in dark drinks though, so I’m not sure if it would dramatically alter the appearance of tomato juice.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But if it was drugged, it would have to be by someone who knows your drinking habits, right?’

  ‘They’re no secret, it’s common knowledge I’m on the wagon.’

  ‘Keyes and Thrummel?’

  ‘I never met them before today, but I suppose word gets around.’ He sighed. ‘But let’s just get me in the clear first before we start pointing any fingers.’

  Stevie put the carton on the coffee table. ‘I’ll bag this up and send it to the lab for tests. I think this’ll go a long way to getting you off the hook. Has anyone been in your flat recently?’

  Monty collapsed onto the sofa with his head in his hands. ‘No. Yes. I can’t remember.’

  ‘What about a spare key?’

  ‘My neighbour to feed the fish when I’m away.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Wait on—there was a plumber. Mrs Nash opened the flat up to a plumber yesterday. She left me a note about it.’

  Without moving from the sofa, he made a futile scan of the flat as if he might come across the note. Stevie could see it was a delaying tactic, as if his foggy mind needed time to grapple with the implications.

  When his eyes drifted back to hers his voice was hoarse. ‘Of course, that has to be it, but why would someone want to drug me?’

  ‘It has to be linked to the watch, to putting you in the frame,’ Stevie said.

  Monty shook his head and sighed. ‘There was a moment when even I thought, maybe...’ He paused, cleared his throat and shrugged off his self-doubt. ‘Never mind, this explains a lot. Thanks guys.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Nash in the morning,’ Stevie said. ‘Hopefully she’ll be able to give us a description of this so-called plumber. Meanwhile you need to get dressed. I’m taking you to the hospital for a blood test.’

  15

  Often the killer will have his own bizarre language of symbols. For example a hair fixation, as interpreted by Freud, can be seen to represent a fear of the adult female’s sexuality.

  De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

  After the blood test, Stevie and Monty returned to the flat to find that De Vakey had had a lot more success fixing the TV than Monty had. Jeez, Stevie thought, was there anything the man couldn’t do?

  ‘Before I saw those files,’ Monty said, settling deeper into the sofa next to Stevie, ‘I thought it was the posing that linked the four crimes. Now I see the link as the cut hair or shaved heads.’ A different perspective on the previous night’s events had strengthened his voice. His colour had improved too, Stevie noted.

  ‘You’re right, the missing hair is much more of a concrete commonality than the posing alone,’ De Vakey said. He rose from his seat and turned off the TV.

  ‘The hair could easily be our unsub’s fetish,’ he continued, ‘something that triggers memories he has a compulsion to destroy, something to do with his mother most likely. It’s the timing that has me confused, though. I would expect him to escalate as his compulsions grew, but this pattern is hard to understand. There were three weeks between the deaths of the prostitutes, a jump of several years to Royce, then only a matter of days between Royce and Birkby.’ He gestured to Monty. ‘Have there been any other reports of these kinds of staged murders over the last few years?’

  ‘No, not unless he’s been overseas or inside.’ Monty said.

  ‘I’ll put someone on an Interpol search tomorrow, also check out recently released sex offenders,’ Stevie said.

  De Vakey was deep in thought. ‘Unless Michelle Birkby wasn’t part of the original equation. Unless she needed to be killed.’

  ‘She was up to something, she as good as told me she was. She’s been like a dog with a bone over those KP murders,’ Monty said.

  His slip into the present tense made Stevie’s heart ache for him; she knew his marriage to Michelle had not always been a loveless one.

  ‘The pattern’s asymmetrical in other ways, too.’ She leaned towards De Vakey. ‘The prostitutes weren’t gym members, but the last two vics were. We’ve got prostitutes to ordinary women, none of them bearing any physical resemblance to each other: black-haired, red, blonde and now brunette. Object rape to no penetration at all, unpainted victims to painted victims magnificently staged with a Keats’ quotation—I mean so much of it just doesn’t make sense.’

  Monty pressed both palms into his eyes before focusing a bleary gaze on Stevie. ‘My notebook has gone along with the case files. There are hazy spots in my memory, but one thing I do remember thinking is how the victims were total opposites. Could his selection be a deliberate attempt to throw us off track, to go against the norm? With all due respect, De Vakey, you profilers base your suppositions on research and statistics. There’s not room for much flexibility there.’

  De Vakey shrugged, ‘Nothing can be carved in stone. A profile is about a type of person, not a specific one. But when you’ve studied patterns of aberrant behaviour for as long as I have, you can’t help but notice certain persistent constants.’

  ‘I know what Monty means, though,’ Stevie said. ‘Look at the Linda Royce case. It’s as if he deliberately tried to make her different from the others: the paint, the elaborate posing, the quotation on her thigh.’

  De Vakey looked from one of them to the other. ‘Yes, but fundamentally it’s still the same crime. You’re correct, Monty, when you see the hair as the common link. The man is out to depersonalise the victims, and what better way to do it, especially with a woman, than to cut off her hair? This is the one thing he cannot help doing because it is rooted in his deepest fantasies. It is something he cannot change, no matter how clever he thinks he is. As for the Easeful Death quote, perhaps in his own warped way he thinks that by killing them he’s doing them a kindness.’

  ‘But it wasn’t written on the prostitutes at all,’ Monty said.

  ‘Four years have passed, the line might have come to his notice in the meantime,’ De Vakey replied
. ‘Who knows what he’s been up to since then. Maybe he’s pursued further education in an attempt to curb his impulses, and maybe it did for a while, until something sparked him off again. The KP murders were a crude attempt to shock; these later murders smack of a much higher level of sophistication.’

  De Vakey’s tone was almost one of admiration. Did he regard this murdering animal as a worthy opponent? Stevie shivered and drew her legs tight under her body.

  ‘Whatever it was, he’s had a huge increase in confidence since the KP murders,’ De Vakey continued. ‘Prostitutes are low-risk victims. They put themselves in harm’s way each time they take on a client. Linda Royce and Michelle Birkby, on the other hand, were high risk; they would have been reluctant to put themselves in any kind of dangerous situation. They have family, friends and loved ones who would miss them immediately. This fact would increase the buzz for our unsub and give him an even greater high when he got away with it. The next victim will probably be even more of a risk to him, and I predict that she will turn up sooner rather than later.’

  Stevie met Monty’s worried glance.

  ‘This man will only stop when he’s caught,’ De Vakey answered their silent question. ‘Think of the worst case of drug addiction you’ve ever known and multiply it by ten. The whole of his psyche has been taken over by these urges. When he’s not physically committing these crimes he’s fantasising about them or preparing for the next one.’

  ‘Have you any idea when that might be?’ Stevie asked.

  De Vakey shrugged. ‘I predict the next murder could be within days.’

  Stevie stiffened and looked at Monty who stared back at her, speechless.

  ‘When is the re-enactment of the Linda Royce walk?’ De Vakey asked, forcing an end to the shocked silence.

  ‘Sunday,’ Stevie said.

  De Vakey rubbed his hands together. He seemed animated, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Not only will this reenactment serve as a memory jogger for the general public, it may even lure our killer out. His toying with the police is as important to him as the murdering of his victims. The toying, in fact, has escalated to another plane with the murder of a police officer’s ex-wife. He won’t be satisfied with anything less now.

  ‘This re-enactment will be hard for him to resist. We need a press release which will list his characteristics, something like...’ he drew quote marks in the air and spoke rapidly, ‘Fit white male twenty to forty years old, intelligent, compulsively neat and tidy. May drive a dark van and own a German shepherd dog. He probably comes from a dysfunctional family and suffered childhood abuse. A history of lighting fires, bedwetting or cruelty to animals and/or younger children.’ He paused. ‘Has anything been mentioned to the press about the absence of sexual assault?’

  ‘Nothing one way or the other, no comment,’ Monty said.

  ‘All the better then, we’ll say he’s impotent or gay.’ De Vakey looked at Stevie as he explained his rationale. ‘This may hit a nerve and could quite possibly be correct. It may goad him into wanting to prove us wrong. If we get him angry, he’s more likely to slip up.’

  Stevie felt the sofa move as Monty shifted his weight. ‘You think he might target Stevie?’

  De Vakey appeared not to have heard Monty’s question. He leaned towards Stevie with his elbows on his knees, as if they were the only people in the room.

  ‘We can go on to say that the killer feels inadequate with women, could be a closet homosexual or impotent for some reason, the victims are merely an outlet for his rage. My assessment regarding this re-enactment is that our unsub would love to be there, though maybe not in an obvious way, maybe not with the rest of the crowd. It would be a private moment for him. I’ve walked the area, I’ve studied the maps. If I were in his shoes, I’d hide in the alleyway just down from the bus stop. While in hiding I would fantasise about the female police officer. I would imagine her continuing her walk down to where I was and I would see myself grabbing her, from right under the cops’ noses. Now, if this was only in his head, how would he feel if it really happened, if she really did come down the alleyway? He would see it as something that was meant to be and he’d throw caution to the wind. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.’

  Stevie glanced at Monty. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the sofa’s armrest were white. She sensed what was coming.

  Monty spoke before the De Vakey could continue. ‘I don’t like your plan. We’re talking about life and death here, not a day trip to Rottnest Island.’ The challenge in his tone was unmistakable.

  Stevie wondered how De Vakey would respond.

  His animation faded, he was back to his usual sea of calm. ‘The chances of his coming to the alley are slim, Monty, but it’s worth a try. I’m merely trying to predict his actions.’

  ‘No, you’re not getting me,’ Monty said, ‘I’m all for the reenactment, but this ending in the alley, this newspaper advert is ludicrous. She’ll be far too vulnerable—they can hardly position the TRG behind the dustbins.’

  ‘Maybe not behind the bins, but you’d be surprised at how well these kind of plans can work. Angus and I will consult with the TRG leader and we’ll work out their placement together.’

  ‘Okay, but if he is there, there’d still be a risky delay between his grabbing her and back-up arriving.’

  ‘This is just supposition, Monty, a long shot. I’m just trying to think objectively.’ De Vakey passed a tongue over his lips and looked Monty in the eye.

  Monty sprang to his feet. ‘And I’m not?’ he bellowed. ‘You’re not being objective, you’re being callous. You want us to use Stevie as bait, for God’s sake. This is a re-enactment we’re talking about, something that is supposed to be shown on television as a memory jogger—not a bloody entrapment! You’ve said yourself that you don’t do individuals, only types. Who knows how this creep will respond to your goading through the press? He could do anything.’ Monty kicked out at a beer can they’d missed and it clattered into the wall.

  Stevie squirmed on the sofa. Monty was supposed to be one of De Vakey’s most staunch supporters, but here he was going against the first proactive suggestion the profiler had made. And besides, she wanted to do it.

  She tried to keep her voice cool and steady. ‘But it could work, Monty. Why not try to kill two birds with one stone?’

  ‘Three birds, more like,’ he said. ‘I won’t have it. I will not endanger you in this way. The only thing I’m sure De Vakey is right about is the fact that this creep is building up to something bigger and better. The timing of this re-enactment is wrong. I’ll have it cancelled.’

  He stormed towards his phone.

  Stevie rose from the sofa and put her hand on his arm. ‘Monty, you’re off the case, remember? This is between Angus, James and me. I want to do it, I’ll have protection and I’ll be wired. You’re just going to have to trust me.’

  Monty glared at her and raised a corner of his lip. ‘Just what is it you’re always trying to prove?’

  Stevie froze. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ Her eyes darted to De Vakey, catching the deepening furrow between his brows. This wouldn’t do. Making a scene in front of De Vakey, showing how easily Monty’s words could hurt her would not bloody do at all.

  She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and settled back into the sofa. ‘It’s not about me, it’s about catching this killer before he kills again.’ Her voice sounded a lot calmer than she felt and she was pleased to see that her hand was steady as ever as she reached for her smokes.

  Monty had turned his back on her, feigning an interest in something outside the window. His broad shoulders began to sag.

  ‘I’m still not happy about this,’ he said finally, dragging his feet back to the sofa.

  Stevie dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘So you’ve said, but there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?’ She turned to De Vakey. ‘Moving on. You said before that our killer had some kind of police involvement. This reinforces Monty’s theory th
at someone with police access must have tampered with the files. Keyes and Thrummel are the obvious candidates for taking them from Monty’s flat, but someone else is clearly involved too.’

  ‘Yes, the missing notes are disturbing. Clearly the albino cleaner also needs checking out. In fact, all your male colleagues at Central can loosely be considered suspects or accessories.’ De Vakey gave Monty a look he thankfully missed.

  ‘The thin blue line is getting thinner,’ Monty said to his toes. ‘I had Wayne check the database for Harper’s missing alibi. It wasn’t there, so it must never have been entered in the first place. Nor was the name of the prostitute interviewed about the Lorna Dunn murder. It’s common knowledge that the case was bungled, but experienced officers couldn’t cock things up to this extent.’

  He looked at Stevie, hesitated for a moment, running his tongue over dry lips. ‘I also asked Wayne to check out Tye Davis. Wayne talked to his supervisor at the mine and was told Davis was working the day Royce was murdered. He’s sending Wayne down his timesheets.’

  Stevie felt the blood rise to her head. ‘What? Couldn’t you have said something to me first?’

  ‘We know a disgruntled cop might be involved—after everything you went through with Davis, surely he crossed your mind?’ Monty said.

  De Vakey raised an eyebrow at Stevie’s reddening face. ‘Is there something I haven’t been told?’

  Stevie forced herself to breathe. ‘Later,’ she said to De Vakey. He would have to know, but not now, and not with Monty present. She pulled her legs onto the sofa and hugged her knees. ‘Is there any chance there’s a second party involved in the actual murders?’ she asked.

  ‘In my experience this kind of killer works alone. He would consider the murders to be private, personal moments that he would have no wish to share. But it needn’t stop him from manipulating other people to serve his purpose...’ De Vakey’s sentence tapered off, as if he’d become lost on another train of thought.