Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  When she finally raised her head she said something Doc had not expected, her voice still full of scepticism.

  ‘Our medical examiner, Bob Koch, was born in Africa. He lived in Kenya before moving to the UK as a boy. I’ll have him review the Adam file and then I’ll see what conclusions he draws during his autopsy on Rawlings, which is due to take place this morning.’

  ***

  Harry Hope strolled into the twenty-four hour mini-mart at the petrol filling station to pick up some sugar coated vegan doughnuts and two cups of black coffee. It was his usual morning routine — a brisk walk while Shazza set things up in the tattoo parlour ready for opening. He was still feeling euphoric from his extended suspension the previous evening, and his mind was sharper, his eyes bright as they took in everything around him, seeing with a heightened clarity that he knew would only last a few hours more.

  He loved the sensation, craved it, since discovering the relief it provided from his usual mental state. These days, he was usually medicated, in a semi-sedated fashion, thanks to the drugs he was obliged to take to maintain any sense of normality. Last night, instead of chomping on tablets, he’d dangled from the ceiling of his cellar, attaining a peace of mind and a level of tranquillity only experienced by the most advanced practitioners of meditation. This morning he felt alive, almost reborn.

  As he waited for his coffee he felt himself drawn to the rack of newspapers for sale in the corner of the store, unsure why, as he never bothered much with world events — in fact, any events beyond his own little bubble of friends and their mutual interests. A headline jumped out at him as he approached and his spine prickled as he read the two words:

  Mr Mutilated!

  Below the headline was a picture, much of it blurred, but with enough hideous detail to determine the degree of harm that had been visited on the victim. As he dragged the newspaper from the rack he scanned the sparse details and then scrabbled at the pages to find the main feature inside. He felt his euphoria dissipate as he read the report of how the victim had been found on Clapham Common by an elderly man while out walking his dog.

  One Gerald Butler. Now sadly deceased.

  Harry felt the ground lurch beneath his feet, and the room distorted, as if he was lost in a hall of mirrors. He stumbled, put a hand out to support himself, but only found the flimsy rack of newspapers and sent the whole thing crashing to the ground as he tried to remain upright.

  His ears were assailed by an angry buzzing, as if a hornet’s nest had been smashed over his head. He could see the look of shock and concern on the faces of the staff as he tried to steady himself, to get to the door, to get out, to be away from this place now threatening his sanity.

  As he reached the forecourt, the stench of petrol stinging his nostrils, the buzzing in his head turned to screams while his mind conjured visions of Jonesy’s body, maimed by the Hellfire missile that decimated Harry’s team. He started jogging, a lopsided gait, staggering along, just trying to get away from the dreadful sights and sounds pursuing him, infesting his mind. As he sucked the air into his chest, the acrid tang of gasoline gave way to the gut-wrenching stink of burnt flesh. He stopped by a lamppost and dry heaved into the gutter.

  After a final retch, he straightened and started to run again, faster, fleeing the memories trying to engulf him, heading nowhere in particular, just anywhere, as long it was away from the photographs in that newspaper.

  ***

  ‘Of course, it’s highly unlikely these are ritual killings, so I don’t want anyone wasting time on this angle before I have confirmation from our expert ME.’ Dawson paused for effect as she instructed the team. ‘Let’s not go chasing up a blind alley.’

  The sly dig at Doc, the emphasis on Koch’s status versus his own was not lost on him. Time for one last plea to reason.

  ‘There are estimated to be well over a hundred suspected muti killings in Kenya alone, every year. What seems impossibly alien to us may not be to anyone born and raised there, no matter where they currently live… Children all over the world are brought up to understand the dangers posed by strangers. African mothers scare their children with tales of being kidnapped for body parts in much the same way as we might warn our kids not to take lollipops from unknown adults.’

  ‘In which case, I’m sure Professor Koch will have a valid opinion to share on the matter.’ Dawson clapped her hands together and added, ‘We have seven adult victims, with Diana Davies, the first, found long after the discovery of that torso boy. But you’re still talking about rituals involving children!’

  ‘Not just children.’ Exasperation tinged Doc’s tone.

  Jack finally spoke up.

  ‘I remember the Adam case too. A specialist from Johannesburg was flown in and he confirmed it was almost certainly a ritual murder based on the contents of the lad’s stomach. He’d been fed a mix of African herbs and forced to swallow a toxic bean which paralyzes the body. We should keep an open mind, Boss. It did happen here…’

  ‘There were other things too.’ Doc’s own memory was nudged by Jack’s comment. ‘Critically Adam’s first vertebra had been removed. In Africa it is called the Atlas bone and it’s especially prized by muti witch doctors as they believe it to be the centre of the body’s life force.’ Doc could see Dawson was about to interrupt him, so he went on, ramming the points home. ‘Muti victims are often discarded in running water to flush away the evil they’re tainted with. Adam was pulled from the Thames. Dressed only in orange shorts — the colour associated with muti magic. Diana Davis was found lying by an orange bandanna in a culvert draining into the River Wandle.’

  This last point had not seemed important before this morning, but now Doc made the association. It was still not enough for Dawson who turned to address her DI directly.

  ‘For goodness’ sake! Jack… Do not get bogged down with the Adam case. The Met has wasted far too much money and manpower on that ancient crime already. Let’s keep this whole muti thing at arm’s length for now. I’ve made my decision and will inform you all once I’ve heard what Bob Koch has to say. I’ll head to the morgue and personally oversee the Rawlings post mortem this morning.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘And DI Carver, don’t ignore the other things we discussed this morning.’ The formal words accompanied a warning glance, and Doc guessed who was the subject of that pointed look. Dawson then addressed the team again. ‘I’ll leave Jack to allocate your individual tasks, but my door is always open, so if he’s not available, just make sure you come to me with any concerns you have.’ Her eyes were on DS Fielding, and Doc felt his ears burn at the unspoken slight on his character. He listened, inwardly fuming as Dawson continued while bundling up her files. ‘Let’s find this lunatic before we discover any more bodies.’

  ***

  Although Harry’s conscious mind was not aware, his subconscious mind was driving his feet to the one destination he had to be right now. As he arrived at the gate, his body slick with a film of grime-laden sweat, his legs aching from sprinting as if fleeing the devil himself, he looked up at the house.

  As he recognised where he was, and began to wonder why his legs had brought him here, a part of his mind noted the lack of police tape, or any other indication that they had been at his grandfather’s house. For a moment he pondered on that, then went to the door, flicked the mat up with his toe and saw the spare key in its usual place. He bent, scooped it up and, before giving his actions another moment’s thought, slid it into the lock.

  The run here had blown away most of the terrible noises and sights he had been experiencing, but as he entered the dingy hall, the unmistakeable smell of dog hit him. Even so, he sensed beneath it the more familiar, distasteful odour of his father’s father, now clawing at the back of his throat. He wanted to run again, but as if a giant magnet had been placed there, he felt himself inexorably drawn to Gerald Butler’s bedroom. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom he realised someone had been here before him.

&nbs
p; As far as he was aware, only two people knew of the hiding place, and one of those, if the newspaper was to be believed, was dead. Yet someone had been here and taken his grandfather’s prized possessions — the mementoes of his military service.

  The last time Harry had seen them, he had been soundly beaten and locked in the under stairs cupboard for three days without food or water. The standard punishment for serious infringements of old man Butler’s rules.

  Although he had no desire to view the hideous items again, some inner drive had sent him here to collect the evidence, to destroy it, as if by eliminating its existence he could expunge the record of war crimes from his family tree.

  It was not as if his grandfather had any close friends who might want to help the old boy protect his reputation. His only companion, since his grandson had left home, was his ratty little dog. As Gerald aged, he had become more and more of a recluse, and Harry had not visited this place since the old man disowned him after his dishonourable discharge had ‘brought shame on the Butler name’.

  The bloody hypocrite!

  The young man, now calling himself Harry Hope, had repressed so many memories of his youth, but in this room, right now, he started to recall his time here, the torment and pain resurfacing, unwanted, unbidden. The house seemed to settle and close in around him, the air thickening, suffocating him.

  He took a last look around the room, then almost tripped at the top of the stairs as his mind tricked him The feeling of a belt being lashed across his back so realistic he was sure there would be angry welts on his shoulders when he got home.

  By the time he reached the street, he was in a state of panic again. His legs began pumping hard once more as he headed back to his tattoo parlour and the one sanctuary he could rely on.

  The one person who understood him.

  He would curl up and relax in the warm comfort of Shazza’s lover’s embrace.

  ***

  ‘So, Doc. Is there anything you can tell us about The Surgeon?’

  The nickname for their perpetrator was now official.

  Soundbite Sadie Dawson had left Jack to finish the briefing, and after he had allocated jobs and confirmed which avenues the team were to pursue, he invited Doc to take the floor.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. First thing, and it may sound like I’m stating the bleedin obvious to you rather clever detectives, but this chap — and it’s almost one hundred percent certain to be a man — is very dangerous!’ He chuckled, joining in the laughter, a release of tension from the team now that their domineering boss had gone.

  He ignored the cheeky comments, including one from Jack. ‘Thanks for that, Doc. Any more brilliant insights.’

  ‘In all seriousness,’ they hushed at the gravity in his voice, ‘I strongly recommend you pair up when visiting any suspects or witnesses, even those you may think are merely peripheral to the investigation.’ He heard a collective groan, held up his hand for silence, then went on. ‘The profile for this person is one of the most dangerous I have come across in almost three decades of studying the criminal mind.’ He let that sink in before explaining. ‘The perpetrator is a high functioning psychopath. Undoubtedly a well accomplished professional, possibly someone considered to be a pillar of the community, to all intents and purposes a charming, sophisticated man at or near the pinnacle of his career. He will be mid-thirties at the very youngest, but could equally be a very fit and active sixty year old. He will have had the best medical care for himself, will be extremely vain, and will put in the necessary effort to keep himself at peak fitness. So let’s not underestimate him.’

  This time the room was silent and attentive. None of them were shuffling their feet from discomfort or boredom, they were waiting for more sage advice from the master. He obliged.

  ‘Our quarry will have a home that reflects his status in life — his self-perceived status as an apex predator, at the very top of the food chain. Possibly a mansion, a country estate or a city loft with a ten million pound view of the Thames.’

  Fiona actually put up her hand to speak, as if he was a learned professor, sharing his wisdom.

  ‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’

  ‘He must have a dedicated facility to operate on his victims. Is that likely to be at his home, Doctor Powers?’

  ‘Everyone, please call me Doc. And in answer to your question, I’m afraid that depends. His overriding concern will be to avoid discovery. If he’s in London or another crowded city, then I doubt he would risk using his home, but instead might own or rent a suitable facility in a remote location to work on his victims. Of course, I could be wrong, given the proliferation of massive cellars in town, but bear in mind that this has been going on for eleven years, maybe more — at the very least, since Diana Davies went missing. We can assume he’s had use of an appropriate facility since then, probably much longer. Part prison, part hospital.’

  Just like Broadmoor, he thought.

  ‘You told me you think Davies is the first victim, Doc. Care to explain?’ Jack was pinning enlarged copies of the photographs on the end wall, only recently cleared of items relating to the Brentwood Beast case. He had them in the sequence Doc had identified, culminating with the crime scene shot of Rawlings hanging in the tree.

  ‘Sure. If you look at the degree of care taken with each individual you can see a clear progression from butchery to surgery.’ Doc stepped forward and caressed the first photograph, his finger tracing the amputated stumps, the careless slashing and stabbing at the face and genitals, the open wounds. ‘Compare this image with the last. We think he was practising his surgical skills while inflicting pain on these unfortunate souls.’

  ‘How can you be certain Davies was the very first victim abducted, Doc?’

  ‘I’m not. We have no way of knowing, but the pattern suggests she was at the very start of a series… Serial killers tend to begin their killing careers in their mid-twenties and their victims usually become more frequent as time passes. In this instance, he’s extended the period and degree of torture as he perfected his techniques, keeping the victims alive longer and longer. That may even be the reason he began developing his surgical skills. Normally the delay between each abduction would shorten, but in this case it almost certainly increased. We know Rawlings was held captive for years while our wannabe surgeon worked on him.’

  ‘Rawlings could’ve absconded to escape the fraud case before he was grabbed by The Surgeon some time after. I’m DC Jewell, sir.’

  ‘Absolutely right, Constable Jewell. And, it’s possible the victims overlapped. Our villain may have been working on two or more unfortunate souls simultaneously, each suffering different degrees of distress, assuming he has a sufficiently large, secure facility to hold them.’

  In Doc’s imagination he could hear terrifying screams, designed to strike fear into the heart of any listener.

  Judy’s screams…

  Once again, he had to compartmentalize, to push the sounds from his consciousness as he tried to keep on track. The team were waiting, watching him as he hesitated, gathered himself, then continued.

  ‘A… A second victim might be witness to the suffering being visited on the first, the anticipation of what’s inevitably coming his or her way inflicting an additional level of torment. This psychopath is sadistic, cruel in the extreme.’

  ‘Do you think The Surgeon’s based in London? Is it worth checking the city planning office for likely locations?’

  ‘You’re DS Tim Pearce, correct?’ Doc had only given half his attention to the introductions, but his brain was often like an active sponge while his consciousness roamed the ether. The sergeant nodded. ‘Given the size of the team and the scope of the task, I wouldn’t bother with searching the plans, but that’s Jack’s call. London is almost certainly where his home or place of work is located — the capital city fits his self-image, and we know two of his victims were found south of the river —’

  Jack interrupted. ‘Just a reminder though folks. There is still a very slim chanc
e that these other photographs are fakes… If the killer only took Rawlings, it’s possible Doc was sent these other images and these letters,’ he pinned the photocopied originals alongside the photographs, ‘to throw us off his scent, to confuse things. And before you ask, no, there wasn’t any trace evidence, no DNA or fingerprints on the letters. He is forensically aware. Doc?’

  ‘He certainly is, Jack. These items could be a diversion but I think there’s only a very small likelihood. Also, if you compare victim number six with Rawlings, you may notice the significant differences.’

  Fiona, having seen Rawlings in the flesh, inspected the relevant image and said, ‘You think there are more victims, don’t you Doc?’ She added, as Doc nodded, ‘This is still pretty crude work compared to what he did to Rawlings.’

  ‘That’s my conclusion, Sergeant… Incidentally, I’d wager that all of these other victims either lived or worked in London too. When we identify them —’

  ‘If we identify them, Doc. We can’t rely on that.’

  ‘Indeed, Jack. But if we do ID them, I expect to find another pattern, climbing the social ladder, with our prostitute at the bottom and our hedge fund manager right at the top.’

  ‘What occupations would you think for the other early victims?’

  ‘Life insurance salesmen! They’re scum!’ A ripple of laughter around the room welcomed the anonymous comment.

  ‘The answer depends on the views our perpetrator has…’ Harding’s manic attack on another inmate flashed before Doc’s eyes, distilling and crystallising a victim hierarchy in his mind. ‘The worst sort of criminals… Perverts… Child molesters, especially those abusing positions of power.’

  ‘Priests and the like?’