The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  I’m glad I haven’t yet eaten. The inside of the car is a grisly mess and has me fighting back the dry heaves. It takes a couple of manful swallows to get me close enough to peer through the windshield. The tableau inside tells a complete story.

  Wendy Agnew is sitting in the passenger seat. Her blouse is unbuttoned and one breast has been freed from the functional bra. There is a neat hole in the left side of her face and a larger hole above her right ear.

  Around the smaller hole are what look to be scorch marks caused by muzzle flash.

  I turn my attention to Donny Prosser and make mental notes of the facts. He’s shirtless, the bullet hole in his right temple shows no burn marks and there are no wounds on his body. His right arm is slumped between the two seats. The dark shape of a handgun lies in his palm.

  Looking away from the bodies, I let my eyes wander around the interior of the car. I see a couple of things which suggest a scenario. However, it’s not one I’m inclined to believe.

  Breathing only through my mouth, I study the car for a few minutes, then step away with ideas bombarding my brain, twisting and contorting known facts into the semblance of actual events.

  I return along the path of foot pads and strip off the protective clothing.

  Farrage is waiting for me with an expectant look. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It looks like they were about to get it on when he shot her. Then realising what he’d done he turned the gun on himself.’

  ‘I agree. I’m not sure it’s connected to the other homicides.’

  There. Right there in one sentence is the reason nobody in Casperton trusts his detective skills.

  He is investigating a serial killer and has taken a look at a dump site and believed everything he’s seen. Without the capacity to think along different lines, everything presented to him is taken at face value, regardless of how much it contradicts known facts. Used to the straightforward and predictable he can’t get his brain to think beyond the obvious.

  Some tact is required to avoid disrupting our new-found truce. ‘It looks that way, but maybe the killer wants you to think it’s not connected. Maybe he’s staged the bodies to look this way. Right down to the open box of condoms on the floor.’

  ‘Why would he do…’ Farrage stops mid-sentence as he realises why a killer would stage a dump scene.

  As I watch his face, I can see his mind trying to work out what the next move should be. Fun as it is watching him struggle, I need answers to some questions and his men can be used to obtain them.

  ‘We need to eliminate the murder suicide angle.’

  I spend the next five minutes making suggestions as to what his men should be asking the families of the two victims.

  Ms Rosenberg tries to question me as I return to my car, but I blank her, my mind focusing on what to do next.

  52

  I drive back to Casperton still unsure of what our next move should be. As I’m driving towards the police station, a newspaper headline displayed on an A-frame causes me to pull over.

  After snatching a copy of the Gazette from the pile, I start reading while I’m waiting to pay for it. The headline that caught my eye is repeated at the top of the front page.

  Serial Killer Stalks Casperton Families

  I scan the front page but see few details and a lot of conjecture. The most disheartening thing about it is the journalist has also recognised the pattern. Tracing my finger down the page, I look for the byline. As expected it bears the name of a certain Jewish lady with a New York accent.

  This revelation will throw the local population into a state of fear. It’s bad enough there’s a killer on the loose, without every man, woman and child in the town being terrified to call the police in case someone they love becomes the next victim.

  I wonder what the chief will make of this latest development. In my mind’s eye, I see him kneading his temples in a forlorn effort to relieve stress.

  When I call his cell, I’m met with a recorded message. I leave a short one thankful I don’t have to look at him when he learns of this news.

  Next I call Alfonse and get him to check the credit and debit cards of the two latest victims. His voice carries surprise when I tell him to share his results with Farrage as well.

  My thinking is Farrage’s men can check the restaurant and hotel spends with their families. It may be tactless and even cruel to make such insinuations, but as improbable as it may be, we need to discount the theory of them having an affair.

  Something about the dump site is nagging at me so I call Dr Edwards’ office. I’m not expecting a full appointment to be available at short notice, but after a little pushing I’m granted fifteen minutes on the condition I’m there within five.

  I make it with seconds to spare and may get a ticket for the way I’ve abandoned the Mustang, but I’m here.

  Taylor the receptionist smiles at me as I burst through the door.

  ‘Do you always cut things so fine?’ There’s a mocking glance at her watch as she ushers me towards Dr Edwards’ office.

  I take my usual seat on the couch and remain silent until he looks up from the notes he’s studying.

  ‘We don’t have much time, Doctor, so I’ll agree to an appointment where you can ask me anything and get an honest answer if you answer my questions now.’

  He scratches at his beard. ‘I trust you to be a man of your word so that’s acceptable to me. What do you want to know?’

  I explain how the way the bodies have been arranged is bugging me. How I can’t seem to make sense of, or find a pattern to it.

  He scratches his lips and leans back in his chair to think. When he straightens he reaches for the intercom on his desk.

  ‘Can you reschedule Mrs Harman to a five-thirty appointment please, Taylor?’

  When she replies her voice is distorted. ‘Will you need me to stay late?’

  ‘No, I’ll manage, thanks.’

  He releases the buzzer and looks at me. ‘Working on the presumption the latest two deaths are connected, I can think of a number of different scenarios which may be at play here. As you suggest, the killer could just be toying with the investigating officers. Another theory is that he is recreating scenes which are relevant to a hero of his.’

  ‘A hero?’ I fight to keep the incredulous tone out of my voice. It’s not a battle I win.

  ‘Yes, a hero. I am by no means an expert on the subject, but it is entirely normal for people to copy or imitate those who they look up to. Add in whatever psychoses this man is suffering from and it is not beyond the bounds of belief the person he worships is a famous serial killer.’

  I say nothing. My brain is too busy trying to comprehend the horror of what he’s suggesting.

  ‘Another theory is he is working to a pattern. The semi-random choosing of the victims gives him an element of control while also leaving some in the lap of the Gods.’

  ‘So the way he’s leaving the bodies is him saying something?’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’ He jots a note on his pad and then lays down his pen. ‘Have you also considered the methods he’s using to kill these people?’

  I have and I haven’t. Being forced to think about it makes me realise it is controlled yet random. Two separate victims died of knife wounds. A third was bludgeoned to death while the last two were shot. Probably within seconds of each other.

  Dr Edwards looks at me with expectation.

  ‘Not enough to draw any firm conclusions. What are your thoughts?’

  It’s a cheap shot, turning the tables on him like this, but I’ve won plenty of fights using cheap shots.

  His smile acknowledges my sidestep. ‘From what you’ve told me, four different weapons have been used to kill five people. This suggests pre-planning to me. As does the various ways he’s left the bodies to be found.’

  ‘What about Paul Johnson? He was bludgeoned to death and dumped into the trunk of his car.’

  ‘He fit the pattern, didn’t he? Both before and a
fter his death. What does that tell you?’

  I’m here for answers not questions, but the solution comes to me. ‘It tells me the killer was following him waiting for an opportunity. He found Johnson changing a flat and took his chance. It may not have fit his plans but he reacted to the situation.’

  ‘Precisely. And what does that tell you about him?’

  I think about the physical and biological person rather than the psychological make-up. ‘He’s clever. Adaptable. Resourceful too. The change in his plans didn’t throw his pattern. He still managed to watch to see who found Johnson’s body.’

  I remember Johnson was found at night. The killer must have used some kind of night-vision goggles to observe the person who found the body. Those aren’t the kind of things you carry about with you. Unless you’re expecting to need them.

  ‘He’s prepared. Either he always carries a few different weapons and other things he may need in his car or he takes them with him so he’s always ready.’ I think of the gun in the trunk of my car. ‘He’s also in a position where he can afford the time to commit these murders, therefore it’s unlikely he has anything of a family life.’

  ‘Good. I’d add that he’s either never been in a long-term relationship or has been on the receiving end of a vicious divorce.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Both situations foster anger, depression and a need to exert authority or control over others.

  ‘I’ve never been married or in a long-term relationship.’ I keep my tone mild, but he recognises the challenge of my words.

  ‘No, but you like to fight, don’t you?’

  He has me there.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed to talk about me another time. What about the staging of the bodies? Do you have any idea why he’s leaving them in such ways?’

  He leans back in his chair again. His eyes close and the forefinger of his right hand wags from side to side as he considers my question.

  When he leans forward his eyes reflect troubled thoughts.

  ‘The dumping of the bodies in a way they’ll be found is important to him. It helps him select a new target. It also matters that they are found. Most people who kill try to hide the bodies. He’s doing the opposite, which tells me he wants attention. The pattern he’s using as a selection process is complex and requires either a lot of local knowledge or good research skills. It is very important to him otherwise he would have abandoned it.’ He scratches his beard and scribbles a note. ‘I think he started off with basic dumps, and as he’s escalated the killings, he’s tried to misdirect the investigation by changing the scenarios and locations.’

  A thought hits me and it isn’t one I care to have. As soon as I get out of here, I’ll have to rush home to verify the details before I pass the thought on to Alfonse and the chief.

  ‘If as I suspect he’s intelligent, doesn’t he realise that sooner or later someone will realise how he’s selecting his victims?’

  ‘Of course. It’s why he’s trying to mislead you with the various ways the bodies are arranged. The individual tableaus won’t hold any significance for him unless he’s replicating a hero’s actions. He may feel an element of smugness or self-satisfaction from his own cleverness, but I don’t believe there’s anything more to it. All he’s doing is buying time so he can claim more victims. He knows he will be caught or killed by the police but he won’t be worried about that. All he’ll care about is the next victim.’

  ‘You think he’s prepared to be caught or killed?’

  ‘Absolutely. He’ll keep going until he is stopped one way or the other. If there is an element of hero worship, he’ll be determined to match or surpass the number of kills his hero was credited with.’

  The doctor’s theory collides with my earlier thought and chills my blood.

  53

  The Watcher pulls into a parking bay at Stanforth Lake Nature Reserve. A call to his boss claiming a bad reaction to the dentist’s anaesthetic has bought him time to observe Angus Oberton. In his rucksack he carries the Tanto and a short-handled woodsman’s axe along with his usual equipment.

  He always enjoys stalking his prey, although he’s not sure of the best place to dump this body. It’s something he’s given a lot of thought to. The random choice of method has given him a glorious opportunity but also a problem as far as setting up a dump site.

  The murder won’t take long, but it may have more of a noise element than the others and he doesn’t want to move this one. Seppuku has many traditions and he wants to observe as many as possible.

  He enters the visitor centre and pays the admission fee. Seeing the newspaper headline in the gift shop, he buys a copy and scans the relevant pages.

  The news of the police’s breakthrough in identifying his pattern doesn’t surprise him, but he’d hoped it would be another few days before they made the connection.

  Scanning the page, he sees a special edition focusing on the serial killer is due to be published later in the day. Reading it will be fun. Educational even.

  He pushes the news to the back of his mind and concentrates his brain on the matter at hand. This will be the last of the easy ones.

  He waits for an opportunity as he walks around the public areas. When it comes he hops over a fence and hides in some of the bushes. After a short crawl through the underbrush he finds a well-worn trail.

  Turning right will return him to the visitor centre with its tacky gift shop and overpriced cafeteria. Left will take him further into the reserve.

  He turns left. The target is zealous about his work and had jabbered about the breeding pens hidden in a small cleft in one of the valleys. Knowing how involved Oberton is with the breeding programme, he’s sure he’ll either pass this way or visit the pens at some point during the day.

  After a few yards the bushes thin out, allowing him to see a half mile along the trail. Someone dressed in a ranger’s outfit is walking away from the visitor centre.

  A movement off to his right catches his eye. It’s human shaped so he locks onto the person with his eyes while fishing a pair of binoculars from his rucksack. As he does this, he takes a few steps to his right and several backwards until he is shrouded by a chokecherry bush.

  He adjusts the focus, finds the man and takes a proper look. The guy is dressed in store-bought camouflage. It’s a desert pattern, which doesn’t quite match the local terrain.

  Examining him in detail, he sees a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck and an unnatural bulge at the back of his waistband. When he wriggles into a more comfortable position the Watcher sees the glint of gunmetal.

  The man settles himself and puts the binoculars to his eyes. Provided the Watcher’s memory of Oberton’s enthusiastic spiel is correct, the breeding pens are just beyond the corner the binoculars are aimed towards.

  If the guy in the ranger’s uniform is Oberton, why is the guy on the hillside watching him?

  He remembers the newspaper. The guy must be a cop trying to protect Oberton.

  He smiles. The game just got interesting. Challenging. It’s what he’s been waiting for. Anticipating.

  Now it has become a real battle of wits and skill between him and the police. Every successful kill will be a victory for him. Capture or death are the only ways he can now be defeated.

  He packs away his binoculars and starts to move, his intended course a wide circle. The destination being the cop on the hillside.

  It takes him an hour to get within a hundred feet of the cop. Every step is taken with care. No branches are trodden on or bushes rustled. His feet placed with gentle steps so as not to send loose stones tumbling downhill.

  The one thing he has in his favour is the cop is an amateur at this kind of thing. He is observing Oberton from a position where the sun is in his face. Every look through the binoculars will send glints of sunlight flashing across the valley.

  When he gets within fifty feet of the cop, he drops to a crawl. Foot by foot he closes the gap on hands and knees.
>
  Now close enough to grab the prone cop’s boot, he wraps his fingers around a fist-sized rock.

  Bracing his toes against a large rock for purchase he launches himself forward, his right hand swinging a powerful arc towards the cop’s temple.

  He makes the perfect connection. The cop is out cold, his limp body easy to secure with the duct tape in his backpack. Binding the cop’s arms and legs takes less than a minute, gagging and blindfolding him seconds.

  His old Marine drill sergeant would have found a number of faults with the takedown, but he’d been a hardass for a reason and the Watcher is content with his actions.

  He steals the cop’s gun, binoculars and a knife shoved into the top of a boot. It’s tempting to kill him, but it doesn’t fit the pattern so he lets the man live.

  When he looks down the valley, he sees he has a good view of the breeding pens. He pulls out his binoculars with the anti-flash lenses and watches Oberton.

  The ranger works alone and is wrapped up in his task. Never once does he look around or bother with anything that isn’t part of his job.

  The Watcher tweaks his plan and decides on a course of action.

  He returns to the trail making regular checks on Oberton’s whereabouts as he goes.

  Ten minutes later he’s a few yards from the breeding pens.

  ‘Hey, Angus. How ya doin’?’

  ‘Hi, Norm.’ The Watcher sees the surprise on Angus’s face. ‘You said to drop by sometime, so here I am.’

  Angus recovers his composure. ‘Would you like to see round?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Norm follows him round the breeding pens, feigning interest in Angus’s litany on each animal.

  Once that part of the unofficial tour is complete, Angus leads him around some of the behind-the-scenes areas.

  Norm is keen to get on with the kill before someone joins them or they reach the more public areas. Being introduced or recognised will result in him having to abandon Overton as a target. He points at a small building. ‘What’s that, Angus?’