Eye Snatcher

by Ryan Casey

  Jack Selter had an almighty bruise on his forehead and was still wearing his blue slippers as he sat in the plastic interview room chair.

  Brian sat opposite him. DI Carter was beside him with a notepad opened in front of her. She seemed to jot a lot down in there during cases. Brian wasn’t sure what—he had a hard time filling a line of useful information, let alone a whole bloody book. Then again, different people, different methods.

  Jack still hadn’t met Brian’s eyes. He had a duty solicitor, Jenna Hamer, beside him. Curly hair, rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses. Bit of a pushover, all in all, which was just what Brian and the police needed right now.

  “How long have you known about your son’s recording of child pornography in your house?” Brian asked.

  A direct question that made Jack flinch from the off. He rolled his bottom lip in. “It ain’t friggin’ like that—”

  “Spare me the bullshit, Jack,” Brian said. “We’ve dealt with enough bullshit today, the pair of us. Both ended up with bruises on our heads for dealing with Patrick’s bullshit. Could’ve ended up a lot worse. So stop looking out for your piece of shit son and start cooperating. Unless you want to spend a long time in prison for obstructing a double homicide investigation, as well as aiding and abetting a child pornographer. What’s your daughter’s name again? And how old is she?”

  Jack’s cheeks went red. He leaned over the table. “Fuck you. Don’t you fuckin’ look at me like I’d let anything’ happen to my little girl.”

  The duty solicitor patted Jack’s arm. Whispered a few words in his ear, forced him to sit back.

  Brian leaned back in his chair. Crossed one leg over the other. “So how long have you known?”

  Jack’s fists tensed. He shook his head. “It wasn’t like you think. It… He, Patrick. He’s a troubled lad.”

  “Troubled is an understatement,” Carter said.

  “Marrion and I, we didn’t know. But he’s sneaky. Always has been a sneaky little shit, y’know?”

  DI Carter squinted. Scribbled down a few notes. “So you knew nothing about what your son was up to in that little room of his?”

  Jack stared into DI Carter’s eyes. Then he looked at Brian. “Do either of you two have children?”

  “I have a son,” Brian said. “He’s the same age as Sam Betts was when your son raped and murdered him—”

  “Then you’ll know how much you look over things sometimes. When they do bad, y’know? Sometimes you don’t see the bad. You’re too busy trying to see the good in ‘um. Too busy praying for the good to come back that you don’t wanna believe they’d do owt else.”

  More note-taking from Samantha. More staring between Brian and Jack.

  “Why did you tell us your son lived in Yorkshire with his wife and kids?” Brian asked.

  Jack shook his head. Sighed. “I didn’t—”

  “You told him he lived in Yorkshire with his wife and kids. You diverted the investigation. You obstructed the most serious investigation we’ve had this last year. Why did you do that?”

  Jenna whispered something in Jack’s ear again. Jack sat upright. Clasped his hands together. “Because… because I was… I dunno.”

  “Don’t say ‘I dunno,’” Brian said. “Never said you dunno. Why did you lie about your son’s whereabouts?”

  More shaking of Jack’s lips. More fidgeting of his fingers. “‘Cause of—he just got out of prison six months back. I worried, y’know? Worried when I ‘erd about that Sam lad.”

  He looked down at the table. Blinked fast.

  “You’re lying to me, Jack,” Brian said. “Why are you still lying to me when your nonce son is out there on the run? Why are you lying to me when your son straight up told you to your face that he didn’t give a fuck about you anymore?”

  Jack just stared at the table. Fidgeted again.

  “Be straight with us, Mr Selter,” Carter said.

  “Why did you lie about your son? What are you hiding—”

  “Because of what I heard!”

  Jack Selter’s voice made Brian nudge back in his chair. Jenna, the duty solicitor beside him, looked similarly baffled.

  Jack’s face had gone from red to purple. His eyes had gone bloodshot. Tears built in the corners of them, and his finger-twitching had been replaced by an undeniable slump.

  Brian cleared his throat. Leaned forward again. “What did you hear?”

  Jack looked at Brian, but as tears started to roll down his cheeks, he seemed distant. Like he was in another world completely. Like all of his strength, all of his resistance, had crumbled before him and all he had left was the hard, raw truth.

  “What did you hear?”

  “I… I…”

  The door of the interview room swung open. Rattled against the interview room window.

  DC Finch was standing there, panting.

  “We’ve got a problem, Brian.”

  Brian looked back at Jack. Jack seemed back in the room now. Back in tune with his surroundings.

  “Finch, it can wait—”

  “Patrick Selter just shot three people by the motorway bridge after knocking down a woman with a pram.”

  Brian looked back at Jack. Jack looked at him in turn.

  “Where is he now?”

  DC Finch scratched the back of his neck. “That’s the problem,” he said. “He’s standing at the edge of the bridge threatening to jump.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Brian didn’t have to ask where Patrick Selter was when Carter’s squad car accelerated up the hill in the road and he saw the bodies.

  There was a woman. Blonde. Wearing a flowery dress. The way she lay there, the falling rain gathering around her, it was like she was just taking a rest in the middle of the road.

  If it wasn’t for the bullet in her head and the blood drifting along with the stream of rain, she might’ve looked convincing.

  “Fuck,” DI Carter said. She turned away from the body. The blue lights of the car reflected off the puddles in the street. The sound of the ringing siren spun around Brian’s ears, flew around his head.

  Patrick Selter had killed three people. Driven over a woman with a pram.

  And now he was standing at the edge of a motorway bridge.

  “How far off the bridge?” Samantha asked.

  Brian squinted into the distance, beyond the rapid wipers. “Just down here. Pull up by the cars up ahead. I’ll go talk to him.”

  Carter spun around. Frowned at him. “Talk to him? Brian, I hardly think the lad’s in a mood to talk.”

  Brian thought back to when he’d put a rope around his neck. Thought back to just before he’d made the jump. Remembered that one thought he’d had in his head as he closed his eyes, readied himself at the top of the stairs, said his goodbyes.

  “Everyone needs someone to talk to,” he said.

  Samantha just tutted and drove on.

  They passed another body. This one had police officers around it. A pensioner. Just as innocent looking as the last woman. Just as at peace, lying in the rain with a hole in his head.

  “Here,” Brian said, pointing to the turning where three police cars were gathered.

  Carter pulled up. “Don’t go doing anything stupid. That bump on your head, looks like you’ve done enough stupid for one day.”

  They got out of the car. Brian breathed in the cold Sunday evening air. Up the ridge, he could see the motorway bridge stretching out. Three police officers were up there, all dressed in black, all with their hands raised and stepping slowly towards Patrick, muttering things to him. Brian heard cars whizzing along the motorway underneath, unbeknownst to the drama unfolding above them.

  “McDone.”

  Brian looked. Saw Stephen Molfer—Detective Inspector Molfer—strutting towards him. He had a little mousey face and a constantly irritating grin that showed off his protruding front teeth. Punchable, sure. Bit of a dick, absolutely. But a good officer. He’d been through the ringer in his time as a cop. Shot a couple
of years back.

  None of the department ever heard the bloody end of it from him.

  “Molfer. Who’ve you got up there?”

  Stephen stopped in front of Brian. Blew warm air into his damp hands. “Westwood and Lenny.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Molfer,” Brian said. “I’d fucking jump if I had to spend a second listening to Lenny Kole’s droning voice.”

  “This Selter kid took down three people on his way here. Drove slow down this road and shot ‘em point blank in the face. Then he took down a mum and her little kid in the pram on his way up this bridge. Crashed his car into the side of the bridge, got out, and… well, here we are.”

  Brian looked over Molfer’s shoulder. Carter wandered off to convene with a few officers who were gathered around the dead body of a third victim—a young adult male with brown hair, not much older than Patrick Selter from what Brian could tell. “How are they?”

  “The trio? Dead.”

  “No, the woman with the pram. And her kid. They didn’t…”

  “They’ve been sent straight down to the hospital. Luckily, the pram took a fair bit of the impact off the mum. Maybe a few broken ribs. And the kid, not a bruise on the little lad. Miracle.”

  A slight hint of relief lifted over Brian. “Thank God for that.”

  Brian saw Lenny and Westwood getting closer to Patrick Selter as he walked part way up the motorway bridge with Molfer. Patrick was clearly in sight now. Sitting on the side of the bridge and pointing his gun right at the pair of officers. He looked angry. Sad. Crazed.

  “I need to talk to him,” Brian said.

  Molfer shrugged. “Be my guest. Call him out for the little nonce scrote he is. Twat like that deserves his brains to splat against a car dashboard. But maybe not as much as he deserves to suffer in prison. I dunno. It’s a close one. As long as I see him splat one way or another, I don’t mind.”

  Brian took in a deep breath to battle the nerves in his stomach. He nodded at Molfer, who patted him on the back, and then he walked in Patrick Selter’s direction.

  The blood from the bodies pooled around Brian’s black shoes as the rain trickled down in a stream. Brian kept upright. Kept himself looking tall, confident. Kept his eyes on Patrick Selter. You can do this. You can get him down from this motorway bridge. You can keep him alive and give Sam Betts and Beth Turner the real justice they deserve.

  Brian reached Lenny and Westwood. Told them he had it. Lenny, being the inept idiot he was, said a few words about how he’d once talked a cat down from a tree or some bullshit like that, which Brian smiled and nodded at. Eventually, he turned away to join the other officers. He always did.

  And when the two officers did walk away, the rest of the police looking on behind, Brian realised just how alone he was with Patrick Selter.

  Patrick pointed the gun at him. Eyes were wide and bloodshot. Hands were shaking. Breathing looked fast, raspy.

  Brian raised his hands. Took a step. “Patrick, it’s Brian. You… you cuffed me to your… your bed. Earlier today.” He kind of hoped none of the other officers had heard that one. Especially not Molfer.

  Patrick didn’t even flinch. He just kept the gun on Brian. Kept the focus on Brian, as cars continued to whizz along the motorway beneath them.

  Brian took another step, his hands still raised. “I’m not here to try and… to try and tell you what right or wrong things you’ve—”

  “I know why the fuck you’re here,” Patrick spat. “You’re here to—to tell me to come down. To—to get me locked up so—so I suffer for—for the kids. And for my mistakes. And for… for those people. The woman with the pram and… shit. Shit.”

  For a split second, a glimmer of humanity flickered in Patrick’s eyes.

  And then it disappeared and he pointed the rifle back at Brian.

  Brian made a point of raising his hands even higher, then took another trepidatious step forward.

  “I don’t know what sort of a life you’ve had,” Brian said. “I… I don’t know what mental state led you to… those videos. I don’t understand that. I can’t. I never will. But what I do know is… is everyone gets another chance. Another chance to step off the edge of the—the railings and do the right thing. So step off, Patrick. Please. Step off.”

  Patrick watched Brian closely. Kept the gun pointed at him. They were just fifteen feet or so away from each other now. Close enough for Patrick to blast Brian into next week. Close enough for him to end Brian’s life right here.

  The rain lashed down on Brian’s face, blurred his vision. “Right now, we need to forget the… the case. We need to just forget everything and remember it’s just us here now. It’s just us. Us two, as humans. Okay?”

  Patrick watched Brian some more. His expression was impossible to read. Almost alien to Brian.

  And then a smile crept up the corners of his mouth and he started to laugh.

  “You think—you think I believe that second chance bullshit?”

  “It’s not bullshit—”

  “I’m a killer!” Patrick shouted. He stood up. Put his left foot onto the metal railing at the side of the motorway bridge.

  Brian started to lunge forward then backed off when Patrick pointed his gun back at him.

  “Those… those people just then. I… I was in the car and I just… I just flipped. I didn’t mean to hurt them. Oh God, I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

  Patrick started to snivel. He put his hands on the railings. Lifted himself up onto the wet, slippery edge, horns honking on the motorway beneath him as he came into clearer view.

  Brian gulped down the lump in his throat. His whole body tensed as he took another step towards Patrick, tried to keep his shit together. “You… you admitted it. You accept what… what you did. That’s a step. That’s the first step—”

  “I didn’t kill Beth Turner or that Sam kid,” Patrick said. He shook his head. His lips quivered as tears and rain rolled down them.

  Brian nodded, to humour Patrick more than anything. “Step down from the railing. Please.”

  “I didn’t… I was trying to—to stop them. It… It was an accident. Should never have… when I saw her, I just… I couldn’t stop them.”

  Brian was finding Patrick’s words hard to piece together. He was descending into sobbing gibberish.

  “And the coat, I… I panicked. I… I didn’t know about Sam. I swear I didn’t do anything—”

  “You were sneaking out of the Booths toilets at 3.30 a.m. the night of Beth Turner’s murder. The toilets that she went into alive and never left. Her earring was beside your pillowcase. Her coat was down the dirt track just beside your house, the dirt track that Sam Betts was kidnapped from and murdered—”

  “I didn’t kill Sam Betts,” Patrick shouted. He was full on crying now. Like a little kid who’d been told off for stealing sweets. “I… Beth Turner. I was trying to help her. Trying to talk to her.”

  Brian could see something in this kid’s face. As much as he despised this sick fucker for the things he’d done, he saw something he very rarely saw when working in a police station.

  A glimmer of honesty in his eyes.

  “I didn’t kill Sam Betts or Beth Turner,” Patrick said.

  Sirens sounded from the bottom of the motorway bridge. Both of them looked around at the sudden interruption—big black vans belonging to the special forces. Further in the distance, yellow tape, and pedestrians looking on like this was some kind of Hollywood movie.

  Brian looked back at Patrick. Looked at him wobbling as he stood upright on the motorway bridge barrier, looked at the gun loosely in his hand by his side.

  He took a few steps forward. Battled through the nerves and walked until he was just a couple of feet away from Patrick. He held out his hand. “Come down, Patrick. Please. Don’t let this get any messier than it already is.”

  Patrick blinked away some tears. Little smile came to his face again. He tittered. Shook his head. “That’s it. That’s just it, right there. That’s w
hy I have to do this.”

  Brian frowned. “Patrick, what—”

  “I didn’t kill Sam Betts and I didn’t kill Beth Turner,” he said. Smiled and shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t believe me. And I’ve done too many bad things as it is.”

  Footsteps marched up the motorway bridge. A few of the officers shouted commands at Brian, telling him to back down, to step away.

  Instead, Brian took another step closer to Patrick.

  “Who killed them then?” he asked. “If it wasn’t you, then who did?”

  Patrick shook his head. “You’ve made it pretty fucking clear what you think. Rot in hell.”

  He threw his gun at Brian.

  “Tell my sister I love her.”

  He took a step over the edge of the motorway bridge, closed his eyes and he slipped away.

  Brian lunged forward to the side of the bridge. Grabbed the railings, as a chorus of gasps erupted from the bottom of the motorway bridge; as footsteps picked up in pace.

  He watched Patrick Selter fall through the sky towards the speeding cars below.

  He looked away when he heard the echoing crack, the sound of crunching metal and horns erupting.

  He didn’t need to see to have a clear enough image in his head of the scene below him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Hannah didn’t talk much to Brian when he got home that night.

  She’d made a Sunday roast, Brian could tell that right from when he stepped inside the kitchen, but there were no scraps left so she’d just done enough for herself, clearly. The lights were all out, but Brian could hear creaking around upstairs so he knew Hannah had gone to bed. He looked at his watch—nine p.m. Long day. Very long day.

  He pulled over his kitchen table chair. Leaned against the table and exhaled into his hands. The things he’d been through today, the things he’d seen… everything was happening way too fast. First, the stuff at Jack Selter’s farm. Being cuffed up by Patrick Selter in his sick little porno dungeon.

  And then the chase. The chase after Patrick to the motorway bridge.

  The standoff.

  The splat.

  He winced as he remembered the sound of the car’s tires screeching in the rain. No matter what he did, Brian couldn’t edge the cracking of Patrick Selter’s skull out of his mind.