by Graham Smith
Facebook holds a lot of other information about her. Like how much of a dog lover she is; how terrible she feels for her niece who’d discovered a body. Best of all there was even a post detailing the time she’d be dropping off her colleague at the airport.
The three-mile drive from the airport to town would be deserted so late in the day and Facebook had armed him with the perfect ruse to get her to stop.
He watches as she enters the hotel right on time. The business suit and brisk manner speak of a life spent adhering to the clock and a series of deadlines.
A smile crosses his lips. He’s identified a target and the car she drives. If he can get the other in place he can execute the plan just the way he imagines it.
The HR manager’s adherence to the clock will make her an easy target. Predictable in her movements, she’ll be in the right place at the right time. At least as far as he is concerned it will be the right place. For her it will be something else altogether.
He crosses the road and rounds a corner in case she comes out and spots him. He stops at the pharmacy and buys something he hasn’t bought for years, before returning to his car to begin the next phase of his reconnaissance.
Next on this morning’s to-do list is a drive past the homes of two of the boy’s relatives.
It is a toss-up between the boy’s older brother and his uncle as to which one will be the easiest to capture.
Acquiring and taking down two targets in the space of a day will be tough, but the payoff is worth the risk.
Every day will see another kill.
Every kill will add to the tally.
Every kill MUST adhere to the pattern.
37
I reach Alfonse’s house at five to nine. It’s late by my standards, but I’ve spent an extra ten minutes in the shower trying to massage the cricks from my neck.
Falling asleep in the chair had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it hasn’t worked out so well. When I woke, my neck felt like a gorilla had spent the night attempting to twist my head off my shoulders; there was also an unfamiliar taste in my mouth. Of salt and more than a little fear.
The less said about my dreams the better. The few scant hours of sleep I managed were plagued with nightmares of drowning. Of being sucked into murky depths where all I could see were the bodies of Kira, Johnson and the old woman. The mental aberrations of my mind were intense, with a clarity of sound, taste and vision giving a sensory validity to my nightmares. I couldn’t tell where the water was, but I remember sharks and whales swimming in the distance.
I am surprised to find Alfonse sitting at his table spooning cereal into his mouth, while his free hand works the screen of his iPad.
‘I take it you read those reports last night?’
I nod. He knows me too well.
‘So what did you come up with?’
‘Nothing yet. But I was trying to final a connection based on what’s in these reports. If we can find out who the latest victim is, maybe it’ll help us find a pattern.’
‘You’re asking a lot.’
I know what he means. He’s more experienced in these matters than I am, but I’m aware there are times in an investigation when new revelations offer confusion rather than clarity.
‘Have you heard anything from the chief this morning?’
I shake my head as he turns his iPad round and pushes it towards me.
Picking it up, I look down at the email he’s selected for me.
It’s from his best client on the oilfields. The guy is suspicious of a company delivering supplies into one particular area and wants Alfonse to look into it.
He offers double the usual rate for Alfonse to drop whatever he’s working on and start right away.
I wince for Alfonse. This guy gives him at least five months’ work a year. He’s tried to entice him into joining the company full time a minimum of four times to my knowledge.
‘What you gonna do?’
He shrugs. ‘What can I do? I can’t leave a murder investigation just because he clicks his fingers. I’ve explained what I’m working on and that I’ll make him my next priority.’
I give him a silent thumbs up to show my approval.
He is taking a gamble on his future by refusing to be bought. The guys running the oilfields expect local businesses to jump when they speak and there is every chance Alfonse has just burned a very lucrative bridge.
On the other hand, murder trumps theft every time. It all boils down to the amount the guy suspects is being stolen or embezzled and how much stress he is under. The offer of double pay, plus the request for an immediate start indicates both are high.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell. Chief Watson’s name is on the screen as the second ring sounds.
‘Yes, Chief?’
I listen to his rapid words for a minute, then agree to join him.
I hang up the call and look at Alfonse. ‘Your girlfriend did the autopsy on the old woman last night. Chief wants us there when she gives him her report.’
He shakes his head. ‘No point two of us doing the same thing. You go. I’ll stay here, start looking into Paul Johnson’s life a little deeper than the police have.’
What he says makes sense. Farrage and co have performed their search in a professional manner, which smells of the chief’s influence, but their reports lack the details Alfonse would have uncovered. There were no insights, revelations or theories raised. Just flat answers to basic questions.
38
Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting with Chief Watson in Emily Green’s office. His face looks the way my neck felt earlier. I’ve had three hours’ sleep and it looks as if he’s had less.
‘Let’s have it then. What did you find?’ The chief’s brusque manner highlights the stress he’s under.
Emily ignores his rudeness and hands each of us a sheaf of papers.
‘That’s my full report on the autopsy so far. Blood results and toxicology will take a few more days to come through.’ She looks at Chief Watson. ‘If you agree the budget, I can get the lab in Salt Lake to push them up their priority list.’
‘Consider it agreed. I want every scrap of information as soon as humanly possible.’
I speak for the first time. ‘What did you find during the autopsy?’
‘The Jane Doe was riddled with cancer. I doubt she’d have lived more than a year at best. She had a hip replacement.’ A raised hand forestalled the chief. ‘Yes, I’ve taken the serial number from it and phoned the hospital. They’re coming back to me as soon as their records office opens.’
From the corner of my eye, I see the chief looking at his watch and bet myself he’ll be on the phone to them before leaving the building.
‘What else did you find?’
‘It’s more what I didn’t find.’ A carefully plucked eyebrow arches upwards. ‘There wasn’t a drop of blood on her body. Whoever killed her washed the body and dressed her before placing her at the dump site.’
The chief and I don’t speak as we consider the implications of her words.
‘There was very little blood left in her body. When you look at the pictures of her in situ and on my table you’ll see there’s next to no blood lividity.’ She glances at the chief and then me. ‘She’s been drained and then cleaned up. I found traces of soap in her wound. I’ve sent samples to the lab but it’s my guess she was killed at home and the froth will prove to have come from the bottle of shampoo in her bathroom.’
I nod agreement at her logic. ‘I didn’t pay attention yesterday, but what was her hair like?’
The chief fixes me with an incredulous stare but I turn to Emily for my answer.
Her eyes might be red from lack of sleep but they shine at my question. ‘It was flat, unstyled, yet clean.’
‘Like it had been washed, dried and just left?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Any traces of make-up or cosmetics on her face?’
‘No.’
‘Was she wearin
g underwear?’
‘No, but you’d be surprised how often our visitors aren’t.’
I look at Emily first and then the chief. ‘Well, at least we know her killer is a man.’
It takes him a fraction of a moment to catch up but when he does he gives me a curt nod.
‘You’re right. A woman would attempt to put on her cosmetics or style her hair. A man wouldn’t bother.’
‘Unless it’s a woman double bluffing you.’ The negativity of the words is matched by Emily’s tone.
The chief’s scowl would scare a mountain lion. ‘The hell with double bluffs, we work on the understanding this is a man. What else you got for us?’
‘The time of death is interesting.’
‘Why?’ Both the chief and I speak at the same time.
She grimaces a little and tilts her head to one side. ‘I can’t give you an exact time without knowing how long she was on the bench and where she was before that. But my best estimate is between eighteen and thirty hours before she was found.’
Emily stops talking to answer her cell. ‘Hello… Yes… I see… Is that a definite? … Of course I trust you… You don’t have an address for her, do you?’
The pen in her hand scrawls the address onto a stick-it label.
Finishing the call she looks at us. ‘Your Jane Doe’s name is Evie Starr. She’s fifty-eight and lived at four-sixty-three Park Way.’
Park Way runs north–south through Casperton, three streets east of Main. Four-sixty-three will be at the south end of the road.
‘Don’t suppose they gave you a next of kin?’
Emily shakes her head at the chief’s question.
‘Thanks anyway. I appreciate you working through the night.’
I trail the chief as he stalks through the corridors towards the car park. Both of us have cells pressed to our ears. We relay the same information to different people and make similar requests. I’d bet my dime to the chief’s buck Alfonse gets the information first.
The chief finishes his call and waits by his car for me to end mine.
‘Jump in. I’m going to her house and want you there.’
‘You sure you want a civilian there when you tell the family?’
I don’t want to go with him. The last place I want to be is at Evie Starr’s house when the police turn up to inform the family.
It will be messy. There will be tears, recriminations and questions we don’t yet have answers for. Nothing we can say or do will bring her back to them.
The chief is experienced enough to know what I am thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I had Darla check the electoral register. Mrs Starr lived alone. Darla’s going to let me know the next of kin as soon as she’s got an address for them.’
I guess Darla must be the person who mans the police switchboard. Or considering the quality of Casperton’s Police Department, she could be a civilian secretary who’s earned his trust and respect through the quality of her work.
As I climb into the chief’s car, I wonder just what I’ve signed up for. Does he see me as a partner? A sounding board? Or just another pair of eyes to verify his own thoughts and instincts?
There is one problem we need to address before we get too far involved.
‘Chief. You’re aware a lot of the information Alfonse and I may produce won’t be admissible in court?’
‘You mean the stuff your buddy finds out by hacking into private areas?’
‘He prefers to call it executing a thorough investigation.’
The chief takes his eyes off the road to look at me. ‘I don’t give a damn what he calls it. There’s a killer or killers attacking the residents of Casperton and I have to stop them. We’ll deal with admissible once we’ve made arrests.’
His pulling of his cell from a pocket signals the matter closed.
39
I pull on the nitrile gloves the chief has given me and follow him towards the house. The gloves feel odd on my hands and there is the faint smell of talcum powder coming from them.
Evie Starr’s is the last house before the road ends and scrubland begins. The garden is neat and tidy but there are the first signs of neglect on the house. Paint is starting to peel from the clapboard walls. The windows are clean but they too need a coat of paint.
My best guess is she’d lost her husband a year or two ago and her family haven’t stepped in enough to help her with all the household maintenance.
‘Do I need to tell you not to touch a thing and take care where you step?’
I give him a stare which tells him that if he does, he’ll be looking for another consultant.
He goes to the front door and tries the handle. Nothing happens, so we move to the back of the house. I’m in front of him so I try the back door.
It opens.
The chief brushes past with his gun drawn. I stay back and take in my surroundings. The kitchen is just like a million others. Or what they would have been like thirty years ago. The only hint of modernity is the coffee machine. The air smells old – not in a bad way, it just carries the memory of a thousand and one home-cooked meals.
Hearing no gunshots, I trace the chief’s footsteps. The lounge is less dated than the kitchen but it’s still not modern. Even the TV is old enough to drive.
I move into the hallway. The newel post at the bottom of the bannister has a pile of coats hanging from it.
The chief appears at the top of the stairs. ‘You’d best come up.’
At the top of the stairs he directs me to a bedroom and puts a hand on my shoulder when I reach the door.
The bed clothes are the dark burgundy of congealed blood. There’s a smell in the air like a butcher’s shop but without the harsh tinge of cleaning fluids.
A closet in the corner is open; various clothes and outfits are strewn on the floor.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see what he wants. A gloved finger is pointing towards an open doorway.
Stepping forward I look inside the door and see a bathroom. The shower has blood stains on all four sides although the tray at the bottom is clean. A plastic bottle lies on the carpet, its open top leaking blue shampoo into the fabric.
Towels lie scattered on the floor as if dropped by a child.
I turn to face the chief. ‘This what you expected to find?’
‘Pretty much.’ He massages his temple with the heel of a hand. ‘Doesn’t mean I’m happy to find it though.’
I’m with him there. It’s bad enough to have guessed what had taken place without seeing the aftermath.
I point at the floor. ‘A dime says those towels are still wet.’
‘A dollar says you’re right. C’mon, we better leave this for the CSI team.’
40
Once the CSI team arrive at Evie Starr’s house, the chief drops me back at my car. Neither of us says much. We are both wrapped up with our thoughts. We agree to meet at six and go our separate ways.
I make a call and find I’m in luck. Or out of it depending on your point of view. Dr Edwards has a window. Still, I’d rather see a psychologist than inform a family of a loved one’s murder.
I sit on the couch in his office, wondering if any of Mother’s friends have spied me. Knowing what vampiric souls they are, I can imagine them shaking with excitement as they fumble with their cells in their desperation to call Mother and ask why I’m seeing Dr Edwards.
‘So, Jake, what can I help you with today?’
‘You’ll have heard about the other two murders by now?’
He nods.
‘Alfonse and I are helping the chief in an advisory role and I want your input on a couple of theories I have.’
‘Okay. Same terms as last time though.’
I expected this arrangement would continue and have tried to prepare some answers to the questions I suspect he’ll ask.
He gets a tight smile as my confirmation. ‘We talked about Kira’s hooking last time I was here. Have you had any further thoughts about that?’
‘A
couple but none that will help you.’ He sees me waiting for an explanation. ‘Just that she was either narcissistic or she had an end game in mind. Do either of these options say anything to you?’
I hesitate, not wanting to reveal Kira’s obsession with me. ‘Anything’s possible. Now, about the killings. Two of the three have shown signs of anger or rage but two have also shown a calculating mind. Is it possible the same person has killed all three victims?’
‘Can you give me a few details so I can better answer your question?’
I tell him what he needs to know and allow him time to consider what I’ve said.
‘They sound very different, but I can see why you’re asking.’ He scratches a cheek. ‘First impressions are they’re unconnected. Yet the precise cut on Mrs Starr and the coup de grâce on Kira both speak of a person who can exercise a great deal of self-control. Mr Johnson’s death appears to be frenzied and opportune but there may be more to it than –’
‘What do you mean?’ These insights are the reason I am here.
I get a stern glare for the interruption. ‘As I was about to say. A town like Casperton sees very few homicides, so there’s every chance these killings are connected. If I was you, I’d be looking for a connection between the victims rather than their deaths. If you can find a common thread, there may be a way of identifying the killer.’
‘I’ve got Alfonse looking into it.’
‘So what about you? How do you feel about the idea an ex of yours was murdered by what may turn out to be a serial killer?’
I can’t do anything except be honest with him. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she was cut up before being killed.’
‘And would you like to see her killer brought to justice?’
‘Definitely.’ The word comes out with more vehemence than I’d expected or planned.
His eyebrow lifts a fraction. ‘What do you think would be a fitting justice?’
‘Death.’ I soften my tone. ‘My turn, Doc. If there is just one killer out there, what kind of psychoses may he have? Other than homicidal mania, that is.’