by CM Thompson
Kain knows nothing of this, has not yet heard of the deaths, and is still smoking quietly in the darkness, completely unaware of the watching eyes.
Elizabeth Mitchell is also watching someone. She is standing next to her window, her wrinkled thin claws holding back a purple velvet drape, allowing her a full view of the house opposite. A clipboard rests on the coffee table next to her, carefully but shakily divided into columns of comings and goings. As a tall dark-clothed young man exits the house with a customary slam, she carefully notes the time and then sits back. She closes her eyes and listens to the whispering wireless as she carefully contemplates her next move.
Bullface and Fletcher split up after the meeting. Adelina Sasha’s car has finally been found, Fletcher is to examine any findings. Bullface does not want to sit and wait for the investigator’s report. She is going to check on the rubbish collected from the Stella McQam case. She is a little unnerved, actually not unnerved as such, but there is a small alarm bell ringing. It is the girl in the photograph. The photograph they had found with Adelina Sasha, the girl with a number 2 cut into her hands. She is familiar to so many people, but they still don’t have as much as a name. She does seem a little familiar to Bullface too, but why? Michaels had unhappily trailed through two years’ worth of Missings but no match. The victim’s eyes are closed so there are one or two that might have been her, but unlikely. With no body, there is no way of being sure. Bullface feels that the assailant is testing them, taunting them with someone who may not even be real. Bullface has seen a lot of photo manipulation over the years but this one … she is not quite sure. She thinks it is real but then there is still the nagging feeling. She is definitely missing something.
Six long smelly hours are spent going through the garbage. A hundred more days are required for the DNA testing phase. The burnt Missing poster with Adelina Sasha’s scorched face has been noted, the offending cigarette has been processed for DNA. They are still hoping that maybe there will be a match, something from Fran Lizzie’s scene matching to Stella McQam’s. Just one lucky break. It would be a long wait to find out. The Missing poster bothers Bullface, is it a message from the killer? Was he mocking them with half burnt clues? It feels like he is mocking them with every kill, always whispering in the darkness, hinting at what they can’t see. Bullface feels stupid for not being able to see the links, and she hates being made to feel stupid. Tension and anger are buried deep in her forehead, a permanent scowl sets heavily in her eyebrows.
There are several pieces of bloody materials, one bloody tissue and four bloody needles, but no clothes. The officers who had gone skip diving have come away with empty but contaminated hands. The two suspicious-smelling packages are also disappointing; one is a discarded rotting lunch and the other regurgitated materials, from an unfortunate drunk.
Fletcher watches as the contents of Adelina’s car are emptied and slowly processed. There are the usual tissues and CDs in the side door, spare coins in the cup holder, maps and messages in the glove box. Adelina kept her car clean and neat, the interior of the car had been vacuumed recently so the CSI were a little less hopeful about picking up some of the assailant’s skin flakes or hairs, had he been in the car. At the moment the evidence suggests that Adelina had been alone in there. What is interesting to Fletcher is the make-up bag tucked carefully under the passenger seat. The bag had been filled with make-up supplies and little bottles of perfume, to him it confirms the idea that she may have been meeting a male friend rather than another female. He is now briefly eyeing Adelina’s CDs, She was heavily into jazz whereas Fran Lizzie was definitely a pop girl. Fletcher doubted Stella would be that into music (he didn’t know of her secret love for heavy metal.) There just seemed to be nothing connecting these girls so far, except for their gender.
The car had been found, abandoned at a lay-by some twenty minutes away from her dump-site. This part of the city isn’t really the city as such. Surrounding fields and a large wood separate them from a nearby village. The fields are waiting, begging to be developed and built upon. In a few years’ time that little village will be absorbed into the city as the population continues to rise. Bullface cynically sees the village as another den of thieves waiting to be enrolled. The fields and lack of land development means that there were few speed cameras out here, nothing to document Adelina’s arrival or her attacker’s departure. Another dead end.
A police officer pulls out a piece of paper, lost under the driver’s seat. Scrawled across it in hurried handwriting read the number 282202 …
Brandi Parr has heard the whispered rumours, everyone in her office has murmured something different, scaring each other at the coffee pot. Right now she can hear Marcella, on the desk opposite hers, pleading to an unknown.
“I don’t care what time the game starts, please just pick me up, OK?”
Brandi doesn’t have anyone to plead to, her last boyfriend is a year-old memory and her father is over a hundred miles away, bound to her nagging mother. Brandi doesn’t care though, the likelihood of someone actually picking on her is low.
Brandi methodically chews on her lunch of lettuce leaves, despising the bland taste. She longs for a nice burger or even a Chinese take-away. Oh how her mother would love that, she would be able to choose between the “You are not taking care of yourself properly.” Or the, “How will you ever get a man if you a) don’t learn to cook properly, b) keeping piling on those pounds.” Inevitably ending with the “You are not getting any younger you know.”
Brandi viciously stabs another lettuce leaf.
Marcella’s voice rises to a whining squeak. “Because I don’t want to walk home alone, you heard what happened to those girls!” Marcella is close to tears.
Brandi feels a small stab of glee as Little Miss Perfect Marcella is brought down a peg or two.
“Fine! But if anything happens to me, you will be sorry!” With the tearful threat comes the dramatic disconnect and the slam as the mobile phone hits the table in anger.
Brandi quickly ducks her head, pretending to be engaged in her lettuce. The chubby girl next to Marcella slides over with tissues, advice and the sympathetic, “I will walk home with you.” Which of course Marcella graciously accepts. Brandi chews another lettuce leaf thoughtfully. That is another thing, no one cares if she walks home alone but if Miss High and Mighty Marcella has to, well, bring in the whole office as convoy! Can’t let Marcella go home alone. The lettuce leaves are not the only thing leaving a bad taste in Brandi’s mouth.
Fletcher stares at the bagged piece of paper, the one they had found in Adelina’s car. 282202. Stella, 28; Fran, 22; Unknown girl, 02. 282202. His hands shake in excitement. Is this a piece of evidence that could connect the four girls? He does a quick second guess in his mind, 2-B, 8-H, 0-? All equals BHBB-B … no that definitely doesn’t mean anything. It could be in the right order – newest victim first … was he just cataloguing his previous kills? But then 28 had been killed after Adelina. Did he know that they wouldn’t find her car until after they found 28? How could he have known that?
Bullface leans over his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. “Is it a phone number?” She asks in a bored tone.
“What?”
“Have you tried ringing that number?”
“Err …” Fletcher does not want to admit that he hadn’t thought of that. Though that did lead to another possibility, that the assailant had given Adelina his phone number.
Bullface pushes the phone towards him with contempt.
Bullface does want this to mean something, to be a clue of some sort but then the simplest explanation is usually the correct one, it always has to be considered. The writing to her, suggested female more than male. Despite the obvious hurry the writer had been in, there was still a clear concise element to the numbers.
Fletcher dials, just willing Bullface to be wrong, just to show her he wasn’t that incompetent. The phone rings and rings. Fletcher’s heart gives a small lurch when a breathless female answers.
“Hello?”
“H-hello.” Fletcher mutters, the answering female sounds slightly familiar.
The voice is almost flirtatious. “Who is this?”
“This is Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher, who am I speaking to?”
“Well hello, Mr Fletcher,” says the voice eagerly. “This is Anna Stevenson. We met earlier.”
In Fletcher’s mind, there are a few possibilities. One, Anna Stevenson is the next targeted victim. The assailant may have left her number in the car on purpose. This theory is ruled out when Anna confirms she had changed her phone number recently and had written it down for Adelina.
Anna agrees to come back in so they can check the handwriting. “I can be there in ten minutes,” she twinkles excitedly.
Possibility two, the assailant may have seen the number in Adelina’s car and may still target Anna. Fletcher knows this is a weak possibility since the evidence is showing that the assailant had not, in all likelihood, even entered the car. Still the paper will be fingerprinted just to make sure. The clearest prospect is that this was just coincidence. Fletcher does not like coincidences.
Bullface is no longer paying any attention to the phone call. Something has caught her eye. The alarm bells are shrieking. To Fletcher’s surprise, she slowly stands up, and walks across the crowded sea of desks. The answer has been staring at them all for months now. Anna’s question of “Has she been on telly or something?” makes sense now, because she had been on TV. She would look familiar to all the officers here because her face, her reconstructed face has been staring out at them all, watching them from a poster for weeks now. The victim in the photograph looks very similar to the Jane Doe 217. The one that had been found in the forest. The reconstructed facial image of the one who has not yet been identified, Victim number 2.
Fletcher wearily slides into his car. It is seven pm, his shift was meant to finish at five but … well, everything just keeps hitting. The Jane Doe 217 case has been passed over to them, not that there is much to pass over. The biggest hardest hit is from the fact that Jane Doe 217’s death had been estimated from anything from three to five years. If she is victim number 2 and she was killed five years ago, then it strengthens the most stressing theory, that the assailant is actually numbering his kills not coding them. Stella McQam is victim number 28, meaning that in the period of three to five years, this man has killed twenty-eight people and they had only found four bodies. Fletcher’s head is pounding, as he dry-swallows two aspirins from the emergency stash in his car. If Fran Lizzie is victim number 22 and she was killed just six months ago, then the assailant has killed six females in six months without being caught. How? The city is hiding the bodies somewhere but where? Bullface has put forward a theory of a mass grave site, somewhere remote and hidden and Fletcher feels now inclined to agree. The faceless females seem to be screaming at him, every time he tries to close his eyes and think.
Fletcher slowly drives home, every vein in his body is growling. Fletcher wants nothing more than to go to the nearest pub, order the strongest mind rotter and just keep drinking until all this goes away. He knows at home, Claire will be waiting, ready to yell at him for coming home so late. Stabbing more thorns in his head with the crying and fresh new arguments. Maybe she won’t be there, she may have vanished, to complain to her mother or friends about how her useless husband is never home, never did this or never fixed that. There would be flowers to buy, chocolates to console but still the silent treatment will last until this hell is over. Then again maybe Claire will be more supportive this time. Fear can do strange things to people and Claire might be too scared to go anywhere alone. Fletcher feels the panic began to rise, the bile leaning on the back of his throat. Claire did go places alone, she always said that she wasn’t scared of anything. It is one of the things Fletcher likes about her, that she will take on anything. From sky diving to roller-blading, anything she is dared to do, she will do it. There is no stopping Claire, no scaring Claire … which means that while everyone else starts to take precautions, watch their shadows, Claire will charge straight out into the open, declaring that she is not afraid. That she can take on any man. Fletcher has seen what had happens to those who have taken on this man and … and … how can he tell Claire to be careful? She will just look at him with scorn in her eyes and tell him life is too short to be afraid. If Fletcher is to keep on working overtime then Claire will be on her own more and more. Maybe the assailant is watching her right now. Fletcher’s foot automatically presses harder on the accelerator. His head pulls into a tight vice of worry. Could be watching her right now. She could already be dead! A car suddenly pulls out in front of him, causing him to slam down hard on the brake. The cursing drivers behind him suddenly protest with horn blasts. His heart is palpitating erratically, his hands shake as he restarts the engine and takes a deep breath.
His wife is waiting at the door, with an angry look that says, “Where have you been?”
Fletcher pulls her into a tight embrace and says nothing.
Saturday morning, seven a.m., they start. All off duty police officers, community volunteers gather at the meeting point. Two hundred people are divided into groups, and each given an area to search. Today they will be hitting the forest and as many of the surrounding fields as possible – the area where two bodies have already been found. These officers will be looking closely for visual signs of bodies, searching under every leaf pile, in every crowded thicket. Other professionals have also been brought in to follow and search for disturbances in the ground, looking for body-shaped disturbances in the earth’s magnetic field, looking for changes in soil texture. Unfortunately, despite their knowledge, experience and equipment, Joanna Reagan’s remains will stay shrouded in soil.
One officer irritably jabs a stick into some bushes. He is annoyed, his arms and legs are covered with itching insect bites. Why am I giving up my weekend for this? I could be playing football, I could be … his thoughts are interrupted as his stick becomes stuck on something. Great! Another dead animal! Angrily he pulls the bush aside to become face to face with decomposition. A stench of rotting carcass hits his mouth, as he lets out a vomit choked scream before collapsing forward next to the festering body of one former Thomas Goldrick.
They would eventually conclude that Thomas Goldrick died of unknown reasons, his body too badly decomposed for a coroner to determine. His history of heart problems and age, lead them to determine that Thomas had become confused on the way home and, despite living in the same area all his life, took the wrong path and wandered lost until the heart attack hit. It is a loose theory, and his widow will eventually accept it.
Down by the river, where nobody goes, there is a small bundle of clothes, a wishy and a washy and a one, two, three … Her screams echo across the forest.
A volunteer has been aiding several officers who are dragging the river. Her job is to catalogue everything they pull out. Throwing discarded bottles and cans into recycling bags, rubbish into rubbish bags. She feels a small sense of pride from just cleaning the river, admiring how nice it looks. Maybe, she thinks, maybe she will bring her children down here, it will be a nice place for a picnic. She smiles with the thought, already seeing her children playing in the trees as her eyes catch sight of a small glimpse of blue – a blanket, hidden under a nearby bush. More abandoned clothes. The blanket feels heavy as she lifts it out from its nesting place. Puzzled, she pulls back the folds and begins to scream. A day-old baby smothered in the blanket. His mother will never be found.
There is a small air of depression, despair and anger as the search groups slowly leave, several volunteers sobbing. One officer will never be able to forget the smell of decomposition. The forest has only given up two secrets, neither of them relevant to the actual case. They return the next day, the forest is gloomy and dark. The search continues with sleepless eyes and trembling fingers. The groups are less eager now, the tragedies of the previous day have swatted all enthusiasm. Some people are hoping not to
find a body, not to have to see. The searchers are still diligent though, despite aching limbs from the previous day’s search, despite itching bug bites. They check as much as they can for hours and hours, but nothing. They stop briefly as food and refreshments are brought out by other volunteers, search for a few hours more before finally giving up and heading home, empty handed, to neglected families.
Michaels has been supervising the comings and goings on both days. She has been left at the meeting point alone, with food and water supplies for the group, monitoring the sign-ins and outs. They are calling it a day now, the sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, rain is threatening. The sad search will begin next weekend. Her finger runs down the lists, looking for anyone who hasn’t already signed out. 34 – Susanna Hardy.
“This is base calling 34, this is base calling 34.”
“34 here.”
“Time to come home 34.”
“Be ten minutes, base.”
“Roger.”
57 – Michael Jennings.
“This is base calling 57, this is base calling 57.”
“Did you say 57?”
“Yes, 57”
“57 here.”
“Time to come home, 57.”
“Sign me out Base.”
“Roger.”
133 – Shannon Leona
“This is base calling 133. This is base calling 133.”
Static fizzles down the radio, Michaels slaps the walkie talkie in annoyance.
“This is base calling 133. This is base calling 133.”
Silence across the frequency.
“This is base calling 133. Please come in 133”
Silence.