The Devil Inside

by D. L. Hicks

  She shivered as she headed back to the car, running her hands through her hair in a careful, practiced movement. Suddenly she had double the workload, and the press would soon be steaming towards this like a freight train. Not to mention Dash, who would be wanting results and, incidentally, who she still had to ring. Great. The last thing she needed right now was …

  ‘No comment,’ Charlotte answered the unasked question, waving the reporter away.

  Katelyn McBride watched her pass, with a look something like disinterest on her face as she sipped at a straw poking from the spout of a large chocolate Big M. Her notebook was tucked under the arm of her bright-red cardigan.

  This was about to get ugly. Really ugly.

  CHAPTER 11

  The main street of town was always a risky place for him to be, even more so now the second body had been found and tensions had heightened. But he was still part of the community, and had just as much right to go about his business as anyone else.

  Window down, his elbow resting on the sill, the warm gusts of air that blew into the cabin made him swelter, but he loved the sounds, the smells, the buzz of life. He was thankful for the dark sunglasses that shielded his eyes from the glare reflecting off the polished bonnet of his midnight-blue Maloo ute.

  It was mid-afternoon, mothers gathering on the searing footpaths in groups of two or three, chatting before rushing on their way with a wave, grocery bags swinging like pendulums in their hands, off to collect the kids from school.

  Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  Like drones, life went on for those fortunate enough to have not yet veered into his path. Another would be chosen soon enough, but for the time being he was satisfied.

  He rounded the bend onto the Esplanade, taking in the view of the hazy beachfront that he never seemed to tire of. The screeching gulls, the sparkling, churning surf glittering like a tiara, the shortbread-coloured undulating sand dotted with people. A windsurfer caught some air from the top of a small wave before floating gracefully back down. His concentration faltered for a second as he glanced in the rear-view to see if the rider had stuck the landing, and his right foot depressed the accelerator with a jolt. The engine growled before he brought it back under control, but it had been enough.

  The police officer stepped into the road ahead, feet planted shoulder width apart, laser device pointed straight at him, his right arm gesturing to pull over.

  For a nanosecond he considered punching it – the instinctive flight-or-fight reaction – before common sense prevailed and he slowed. He’d done nothing wrong. Well, nothing they knew of … yet.

  The passenger-side tyres ground against the gutter as he pulled up out the front of the local milk bar, itself a reminder of better days. Shifting into park, he leant back into the sticky seat as the engine ticked its way cool, a steady rhythm with his heart, which had upped its tempo.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  He recognised the officer’s face without being familiar with its owner. Droopy moustache and reflective sunnies led the way, while tufts of salt-and-pepper hair peeked out from either side of the cap that sat crookedly on a head a little too small for the body it was attached too.

  ‘Afternoon, officer. Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘Nice car you’ve got there,’ the policeman said, stepping forward and running his hand over the front panel like a strapper caressing the quivering flank of his prized stallion. ‘I bet she goes all right …’

  He nodded, mumbling a positive-sounding response. Seriously, what was the right answer to that question meant to be?

  The cop’s focus slid back onto his target. ‘But I didn’t pull you over to admire your car. You were speeding back there, sir. I clocked you at fifteen over, maybe even a touch more. Care to see the reading?’

  He shrugged. ‘If that’s what you say, then that’s what I must’ve been doing. I apologise – those crazy guys out on the water distracted me.’

  ‘I take it you have a licence – got it there, please?’ the officer replied, all business.

  Sliding his wallet from his back pocket, he eased the licence out from behind the plastic window and handed it over, his hand trembling slightly.

  ‘All right. Sit tight. I’ll be back in a sec.’

  Watching the officer shrink in the rear-view mirror, he released the breath he had sucked in, swiping at the sheen of sweat that had materialised on his top lip. It wasn’t what the police checks would reveal – he knew he was clean – it was what sat in the tray of the ute. In his mind he could see the items resting in his backpack, which he had tossed into the hard-covered tray of the vehicle last night. That find would make this copper’s hair stand on end and get him promoted in a hurry.

  It’s not every day you can arrest a serial killer now is it?

  A tiny skerrick of curiosity could change everything – and not for the better.

  For anyone.

  Clearing his throat, the officer reappeared at the driver’s door, popping up like a Bobo doll.

  ‘No worries there,’ he said, passing the licence back through the window. ‘You hold onto that, and provided there’s nothing in the back you shouldn’t have, you’ll be on your way with a warning. It must be hard to keep this beast under the speed limit at the best of times, I’ll give you that.’

  He smiled, accepted the licence and returned it to his wallet before making to turn over the ignition.

  ‘Woah, easy there,’ the officer said, reaching in and flicking the key back out of the ignition. ‘Hop out and give me a look under this tray hood before you take off. Just procedure, that’s all – stops me getting my arse kicked by the boss.’

  He clicked off the seatbelt and opened the door, his mind thrashing through his options, none of which seemed viable. The cop waited at the back corner of the vehicle, prattling away to himself.

  ‘… canvas ones on the old utes, they were much easier – just flick those elastic straps off and flip it back … Hell, half the time you could see the shape of whatever was under there anyway, not like this; you could hide half a dozen bodies under here and I’d never know until we opened her up.’ The officer rapped on the cover with his knuckles, the deep sound reverberating.

  His lungs expanded in his burning chest.

  It was crunch time.

  ‘I don’t have anything under here, really, just some—’

  ‘Just open her up and we’ll all be on our way.’

  He unlocked the hard lid, taking as much time as he could. As he reached for the rounded edge and prepared to lift it, he grasped the set of keys in his other hand, the longest protruding through his clenched fingers.

  The lid rose, the backpack came into view and the bile seared his throat. Then a gust of wind collided with his back. A motorcycle blasted past them, throttle extended, a multicolored blur already disappearing into the distance.

  ‘All good!’ the officer yelled, racing back to his vehicle, clutching at his radio mic as he went. ‘Thanks for your time!’ He jumped in and slammed the door, siren blaring as he took off, his car fishtailing before he gained control and accelerated away in pursuit.

  Not quite able to believe his good fortune, he flung the lid back down with a thud and locked it up. Relief emerged in a stifled laugh.

  He ran back to his car and strapped in. The cool breeze of the aircon was a balm to his shattered nerves as he pulled away from the curb and eased back down the settling street.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  The echo was unmistakable.

  Not the thrumming of the vehicle, but of his heart, pounding against his chest.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘I understand that, but it might be too much for you to handle at the moment. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve looked a little run down of late, to be quite honest.’

  Charlotte was leaning against the doorframe to Dash’s office, somehow managing to keep her bubbling emotions in check. ‘No, it’s not too much at all,’ she replied, exhaling lo
udly. ‘We’ve been through this before, Dash. I’m perfectly fine, and I’m the best D you have in this office, and the most qualified – you know that’s true. J.D. is the only other person here who could investigate something as big as this, and he’s already snowed under with that fraud case. Besides, he’ll be right there with me most of the time anyway. What else are you going to do, give it to Wally?’

  Dash reclined in his sea-green office chair, an unlit cigar in his right hand, which he tapped against the shiny covering his arms rested on. Although he’d quit smoking two years before, after a heart attack had literally stopped him in his tracks, Dash still kept a wooden case of Cubans in the top drawer of his desk for emergencies. More often than not, he used them as a prop to calm him in stressful situations. Never lit, the smell alone seemed to have the desired effect. Feet crossed on the desk, he appeared more relaxed than he actually was, judging by the metronomic beat of his glossy elastic-sided brown boots as they clomped into each other. ‘I hear you, Charlotte,’ he said finally, looking at her over the top of the silver-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, ‘and for what it’s worth, you’re right – I’d always choose you ahead of the rest of them. But it’s bigger than that now. I’ve got the C.I. in Westvale breathing down my neck, as well as the Homicide Squad from the big smoke. They’re both keen to take over. The only reason the Hommies haven’t marched in here and taken over already is because of your connection. That six years you spent in the unit has cut you some slack – the boss there knows how you work, that you’ve had the training. But if that hadn’t happened, there’s no way this would still be on your plate.’

  Charlotte threw her arms up in exasperation. ‘I know the area like the back of my hand, Dash, I know the people involved and I know the vibe of this town. I believe I have the respect of the population, which is huge in a place like this. I know what they’re like in those units, I’ve lived that existence, and if some hard-nosed tosser in a designer suit saunters into town sipping a caramel latte and expects to get more cooperation than me, he’s dreaming.’

  ‘I don’t deny that, but it’s policy I’m fighting, and the policy states that matters like this should be handed on.’

  ‘Should,’ Charlotte said. ‘Not must – should. That handover has to come from you, and it only happens if you – or they – think I’m not up to the task. If that’s what you think, then I don’t have a choice, really. But I guarantee it’ll bounce back to us as a cold case in a year or two.’

  Dash ran the Cuban across his top lip, inhaling deeply. ‘I think those boys are just aching to prove they’re better than you – but you know what? I don’t think they are. It’s yours for the moment, but I need to know the second you think you’re in over your head. This isn’t just some white-collar fraud, Charlotte – it’s a double murder with all the bells and whistles. That means it has to be done properly, right from the start.’ Dash slid his feet from the desk and sat up straight. ‘I’m giving you a chance here, so don’t stuff it up. Have you got any theories? Anything I can send their way to keep them at bay?’

  Charlotte bit her lip, the details of the two crime scenes coursing through her head. This was her case, and she couldn’t lose it, not now. She had to find the bastard who destroyed the families of those girls. And more than that, she had to prove to herself that she was still up to this. There were really no solid leads yet, but that was the challenge. Anyone could solve a walk-up-start domestic homicide; she was well aware it took a special investigator to unravel murder on this scale. ‘It’s early days, Boss, and I try not to jump to any conclusions without—’

  ‘Cut the crap,’ Dash said, shaking his head. ‘That’s the line I’d expect you trot out to that McBride. Give me something.’

  ‘Right, well, what we do know is that both our victims were attractive young women, in the prime of life, who were completely at the mercy of their captor. On both occasions, the area where the body was found was discreet – between the boxes at the beach and in the laneway behind the homemaker centre. I think that’s significant.’

  ‘Go on,’ Dash said, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

  ‘It seems clear they were at least in part chosen because of their appearance, which would obviously point to a sexual element, and usually that would involve a sexual assault or rape.’

  Dash nodded. ‘But there’s been none of that.’

  ‘Exactly, and that’s the key so far,’ Charlotte continued, her confidence growing. ‘This isn’t our run-of-the-mill sexual predator; in some ways it might make things a bit easier if he – or she – was. This attacker chooses their victims specifically, is prepared and skilled enough to grab them off the street without detection and murder them in concealed places, but otherwise not interfere with them at all. To me, that screams a killer who has incredible control. So my bet is that it’s most likely a man who’s had issues with women. Why? Because he does the hard part, he puts himself in the position to do whatever he chooses to his victims, but even then, when he is alone and in the dark and has them at his mercy, he still can’t perform. In my mind, that points to him having been mocked by girls at school, cheated on, ridiculed by a lover over how bad he was in bed, or groped by someone he trusted. The anger is there but his impotency remains, and there has to be a reason for that. I’d be willing to bet that our killer has some repressed sexual desires – and I think they’ll stay that way, even if he strikes again.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Dash said, nodding his approval. ‘That’s the sort of shit I need to keep the bosses off our backs. Better yet, let’s catch this guy before anyone else gets nabbed. If a case like this can be cracked by a local copper, that would do us the world of good. I’m counting on you, Charlotte. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘I’ve never let you down before,’ Charlotte replied, relief washing over her. She was on borrowed time, but for now the case was hers.

  ‘Don’t they say there’s a first time for everything?’

  Charlotte gave him the bird, turned on her heel and walked back to her desk, high-fiving J.D. on the way.

  He grinned. ‘He should know better than to try to undermine the great and powerful Charlotte Callaghan – much loved senior detective and all-round Gull Bay superstar.’

  Charlotte bowed dramatically, accepting the muted applause from the rest of the office. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ She slumped down into her chair as if exhausted. ‘It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.’

  ‘Too bloody hard if you ask me,’ Wally muttered before taking a bite of a steaming sausage roll. ‘Pass that bastard on, that’s what I’d be doing; let someone else run with it. Nothing to see here, Your Honour.’

  Charlotte ignored him, and from the silence that followed his comment, so did everyone else. She grabbed her daybook and consulted her notes again, trying to keep an open mind, but also trying to condense everything they had so far into a usable package.

  This was a big case – certainly the biggest she had handled since transferring to Gull Bay – but she was confident she could get it done. There were two dead girls in the morgue depending on her, not to mention how many other innocents walking around town at that very moment, having a coffee, reading a book, buying a new pair of runners; the life of each rested solely on her shoulders. This monster wasn’t going to stop on his own, she knew that. One way or another, she was going to have to stop him.

  ‘Have we got anything more on the second victim?’ Charlotte asked the office.

  ‘ID’s been confirmed,’ J.D. said, flicking through the pages of his daybook as he spoke. ‘Janice Farraday. We’ve forensically examined her vehicle without success, and we’ve been through her personal items – handbag, phone and such – no real value there either. No suspicious recent calls, no receipts worth following up, and the usual cache of cards in her purse – Medicare, bank cards, gym membership, library card – nothing out of the ordinary there.’

  ‘Hang on a sec …’ Charlotte’s mind went into overdrive as she sca
nned her case notes. ‘Gym membership – which one?’

  ‘There are only two to choose from.’ J.D. rolled his eyes. ‘It’s for that new twenty-four-hour one – the Motivation Factory. Honestly, do they think naming their gym something embarrassing will actually get more people through the door? And whatever happened to self-motivation anyway?’

  ‘We can’t all be perfect like you,’ Charlotte replied, her eyes still scanning the page in front of her. ‘Some of us need a little push. Bingo! It seems our first victim, Christie Dalgleish, was a member there as well. J.D., can you make those enquiries, confirm the two victims are still members and whether they were regulars? I know those twenty-four-hour gyms log people in and out so they should be able to provide us with recent details without much trouble. If they stall, just play the we’ll get a warrant card – always works with places like that.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ J.D.’s fingers were already clacking on his keyboard. Charlotte watched in admiration at his dedication and level of commitment. Could she have carried on in his shoes?

  Unlike her desk, J.D.’s was relatively bland, everything in its place and unadorned by the personal mementoes others chose to display. Other than practical items, a framed picture of Samson’s face – all drool and droopy eyes – sat on the left of his monitor, and a small Lego architecture set of the New York skyline perched on the right. But Charlotte knew J.D. and his family had never visited the real Chrysler Building, Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty. Far from a reminder of an unforgettable holiday, they were instead a tiny, unspoken memorial to what had been lost – a dream that never eventuated.

  Five years earlier, the station – and indeed the community – had been rocked to its foundations when J.D.’s nine-year-old son Isaac had gone missing. Home alone while his mother had ducked down to the supermarket for some groceries, Isaac had seemingly vanished into thin air. His prized possession, the Saint Bernard puppy J.D. had only just given him for his birthday, had been found wandering the street outside their house, oblivious to the unfolding drama – the sole witness, unable to talk.