by CM Thompson
Fletcher thinks it is all wrong. He can almost see inside Elizabeth’s mind. He has been here before with witnesses. They start saying things like, ‘I knew it, I knew he was a bad man, it was a just a feeling.’ It’s what they will babble into the waiting microphones, smirk into television cameras. They want to be a hero, to be appreciated by an entire city, for stopping a bad guy. Which is fine except it means that that witness becomes almost … contaminated. The witness begins to exaggerate, trying to create a stronger case, trying to justify their actions. The witness then starts to lose their credibility, lose their objectivity, in their ambition to become a hero; they forget just who they are sacrificing. But then of course, this guy did have Isobel Hilarie’s wallet on his dresser, that will take some explaining.
“I knew he was no good, ever since I met the man, I knew he was no good. I told my husband that he better watch that boy. He thought I was crazy.”
Fletcher gives a forced smile, as if to deny the very notion. It is enough to encourage Elizabeth Mitchell to continue.
“I monitored his comings and goings you know.” She waves a pad of paper at Fletcher. “You see, every time he went out, one of those poor girls died.” Her voice drops theatrically with woe. Fletcher inwardly grimaces. Bullface slowly takes the notepad from Elizabeth with a barely audible thanks. Elizabeth’s face changes slightly, put out by the officer’s lack of interest in what she is saying. She is meant to be a hero! The officers should be thanking her.
“I heard him yelling one night. Just after that Taylor girl died. He was yelling at someone through one of those darn mobiles.”
“What was he saying, Mrs Mitchell?”
“It’s what first got me suspicious of him. Never have I heard a man so angry in my life, even my husband was shocked. It takes a lot to shock him you know, he used to be in the army.”
“What was he saying, Mrs Mitchell?” Fletcher repeats, slightly annoyed.
“He kept yelling about how it wasn’t his fault.” Ah finally, Elizabeth got the attention she was looking for.
They will interview his boss. The flabby man will sit there, jammed between the armrests telling them how hard it is to get good help these days. With a smile that sickens young girls, he will tell them just what a quiet guy he is, a quiet loner. Keeps mainly to himself, talks a lot about heavy metal, a kinda angry guy. The quiet angry loner, well to tell you the truth, he will whisper, I suspected the guy myself but I just didn’t think. In the boss’s mind he has already replaced the guy, perhaps with Lisa. Lisa the girl who wears thongs behind the counter, his tongue explores his teeth thoughtfully. Lisa could definitely do with some extra shifts. In his excitement he is not quite listening to Fletcher only offering a mindless, “Yes, yes.” That John guy is now history. Don’t let the door hit you where Satan split you.
His name is John by the way. John Roberts. The only person who is surprised that he has been arrested is John himself. Everyone Fletcher interviews says the same thing. ‘John is a quiet loner. I am not surprised, Officer. I suspected him myself but didn’t think the kid would really …’ Even his girlfriend isn’t helping. Bullface has listened in partial disgust as his girlfriend drones on and on about how she met him at a bad point in her life, how she has been longing to leave him for weeks and weeks now but she is just (lip quiver) so afraid (tissue dabbed at heavily made-up eyes) of his moods and what he would do to her (more lip quiver). She is John’s main alibi but keeps saying how he wasn’t with her the whole time, or she doesn’t remember him being there that day or that she woke up during the night and he wasn’t there.
Only John’s mother actually sticks up for him. Well, kinda. She laughs outright at Bullface’s hints. “My son might be a dirty worthless slob, Officer, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone, doesn’t have the balls.”
For some people, being arrested is a relief. The pressure of not being caught, of not having to hide every little thing. The constant looking over the shoulder, it gets a little too much. Some people subconsciously might let themselves be caught, becoming sloppy and unfocused because it’s all too much to keep hiding. Some people want the opportunity to boast, it almost kills them trying to hold back the gloating, the, ‘Look how well I did to keep you occupied for so long.’ Then for some people being caught is a surprise and they think they can talk their way out of it, they are the victim for being arrested. Try to manipulate their interviewers into seeing things their way. The woman was asking for it. I didn’t see the light change. Most try and play innocent though, the trick really is to wear them down, keep going over and over the situations waiting for something to give, waiting for the sigh to say they have given up. That is what makes a good interviewer, too many detectives give up quickly, thinking this guy isn’t going to crack. They look for more DNA evidence, more little things that are hard to explain, thinking that they should leave the guy to stew. No, Fletcher thinks, you should never leave the guy to stew, if he is guilty then he will be busy thinking just how to explain the little things that are hard to explain. Fletcher prefers to drill over and over, letting other officers find the hard-to-explain items. If they find something, well good, something to shock them with, catch them off guard, break down the now drilled defences.
Fletcher didn’t think today would end with him sitting opposite the guy, the guy they have been trying to catch for almost a year now, well eight, nine months. Actually Fletcher isn’t quite sure that this is the guy. Calm down, he keeps trying to tell himself, think through this rationally. Fletcher is still trying to calm down from the argument with Claire, keeps resisting the urge to check his phone under the table, in hope that she has already texted or even called him. Why hasn’t she already? No, he is allowing himself to be distracted, he can’t fuck this one up, no one in the station would forgive him. He can almost picture Bullface scowling at him through the glass, get on with it, she would be muttering. No, he has to do this calmly, rationally (oh why the fuck can’t she be rational for once?)
Fletcher is a little disappointed though. He was expecting a suave handsome guy, someone worthy of him. This killer has got the better of him for a long, long time, and Fletcher was expecting something more than the loser sitting in front of him. But then maybe that’s what this guy’s problem is. He is a loser wanting to be better than everyone else. But still, the greasy pony tail, the monobrow is not what he expected from a sophisticated, highly talented killer.
John Roberts is a rock man. He lives, breathes and eats his music. He is one of the greatest living rock gods of all time … in his own mind. In reality his drum kit is dusty and he barely knows how to play. In conjunction with his job as a video clerk, he writes fantastic hair-raising reviews for a rock magazine – a magazine with a distribution of three thousand and falling. He spends his spare nights scrutinising forthcoming rock bands with names like Two Doves are a Raven, V=New Shoes! and My Anus Itches. In his mind he still has potential and he conforms to this image by always wearing a heavy black trench coat and biker boots, even in the summer. As a result he gives off a strong earthy scent, which his soon to be ex-girlfriend absolutely despises. Later officers will argue that the realisation that he couldn’t live up to what he wanted to be, the realisation that he was a nothing, could have been one of the many triggers. They will argue that they were seeking a man who seemed to be killing mainly for the power, the power over the city, over the women. A man seeking such power would have so little in his own life, which was certainly true. Fletcher would argue that this man just didn’t feel like the killer, an argument which even to his own ears is weak. Maybe the officers are blind-sided, just wanting to catch a killer, maybe they think Fletcher is prolonging his time in the spotlight.
Fletcher is aware though, of how desperately the other officers want this man to be the killer. He has read too many cases where officers have stereotyped certain offenders, almost blocking them into the role they want them to play. No one is innocent under constant scrutiny, and there are always unexplainable clues. Maybe these
officers are stereotyping the quiet loner too quickly but then maybe, knowing this, Fletcher is too reluctant to see the clues that are really there.
John is glaring at him now, his scariest glare which makes him look like a cross little child. Fletcher just can’t take this seriously. There is no way this loser could kill all those women. Someone taps on the window, impatient for him to start the interview. Fletcher clears his throat. Typically he would try and minimise the offence, downplay the seriousness of the situation, but that really doesn’t apply here – ‘Oh, don’t worry you have only killed a few women, you are looking at six months at the most, maybe a little community.’ Fletcher isn’t the type to manipulate the suspect’s self-esteem either, he just doesn’t have it in him. He asks John to confirm the basic details and explains why he is here. John grunts, but mostly he seems a little stunned.
Fletcher tries pinning him with his best, ‘I know what you did’ look. It is ineffective. He wishes Bullface was in the room, she is the better intimidator. He tries to explain to John how futile it is to deny the charges. He says something along the lines of how he wants to hear John’s side of the story.
John’s arms spring from being crossed defiantly to hands slammed into the table, beating in time to an angry scream. “No! No! No! You are not going to pin this shit on me,” John snarls.
Two officers rush eagerly in to restrain him.
Fletcher waves the officers back, trying to prove that he still has some kind of authority.
“Well you need to start talking.” Fletcher makes his voice sound tougher, more authoritative, tries to give off the impression that he is the man, the man who will listen. Behind the glass window, someone snorts with laugher, luckily unheard by John.
“What’s in the safe, Mr Roberts?”
“What safe?”
There is definitely confusion in John’s eyes but then Fletcher has been fooled before, by more convincing liars. The laugh has annoyed him, he wants everyone to know that he is still capable of doing his job just fine thank you. How dare they laugh at him, just who is back there?
“The safe.”
“What safe?” John Roberts practically growls through clenched teeth.
“The safe in your kitchen.” Fletcher fixes him with a knowing look, John Roberts still looks very confused.
“I don’t have a safe.”
“Our officers are working on opening it now.” Fletcher tries his best, ‘it’s futile to deny’ tone, straining his ears to try and catch another laugh. He sits back and crosses his arms.
John Roberts still looks very confused, thinks that he has been arrested by a complete fruit loop. This has to be some kind of joke. He doesn’t know anything about the safe; he had inherited the house from his grandfather Arnold Mitchell, Old Arnie, being slightly paranoid of his neighbours, had hidden his most precious items in the safe. Old Arnie had died from Alzheimer’s and had forgotten to tell his dearest it was there. Officers will work for an hour trying to jam it open, breaking through the rust only to find several faded nudie magazines and a gold wrist watch.
“I don’t have a safe.” John growls again.
Fletcher looks at him again, trying to stare him down, angry eyeball meets angry eyeball. Fletcher tries to picture this face being the last one that stared down at a woman taking her last gasping breaths, but just can’t see it. Behind the glass, the other officers are becoming more and more convinced that this is their killer, after all aren’t they looking for a sociopath? Someone who is cool and calm, a good liar. Someone with a cruel streak, they are convinced that John is playing Fletcher. Fletcher being the trusting idiot, is completely falling for it – hook, line and killer.
John is still trying to figure out why he is here, at first he thought it was a joke. Plenty of people are jealous of a cool guy like him and would love to ruin him. Plenty of people! John knows the old bat across the road has been watching him too. She could be the type who would be out to get him, she has already tried to organise a petition to get him out of her neighbourhood. She claims that he devalues the property. It’s just a few rubbish bags, it’s no big deal, they are just jealous that’s all. Yes, he thinks, I bet it was her. It’s her who should be the one sitting here, she is the one who should be arrested, after all if they found evidence in his house because of her … well, excuse me, but isn’t that something called breaking and entering? Let her be the one, he is just being victimised now. They are all out to get him, all of them, just because they are old and jealous. John’s glare turns malicious as he thinks to himself, I am going to get her for this.
Fletcher catches the malevolent glare and feels uneasy. Even he can tell how badly this interview is going. It is time to prove himself, to dredge up every little piece of information or evidence, an onset of attacks. He needs to either prove John’s innocence or guilt. Those people behind the door are listening, making notes. They are getting ready to pounce on his case, just waiting to prove his incompetence. Claire would love that, she would never let him live this one down. The kid is laughing at him too. Right it is time. No more Mister Nice Cop.
“Where were you on the evening of March 9th?”
“That was months ago, how am I supposed to remember?”
“Several witnesses reported seeing you that night.”
“Good for them.”
“They say they saw you yelling into a mobile that it was not your fault.”
“So?”
“Well let’s say that on that night, when you were heard yelling over and over again that it wasn’t your fault, a young girl lay dying, quite close to where you live.”
John looks stricken for a moment then something seems to ting in his mind. Fletcher can almost see the light bulb flash. Whatever is coming next has to be an elaborate lie … or the realised truth.
“I was talking to my mother.”
OK, that was a little surprising.
“What happened?”
“I had crashed her car. Some idiot rear ended me, but she kept insisting that it was my fault, that I hadn’t checked my mirrors.”
“Were the police called?”
John snorts, Fletcher glares at him annoyed. John is mocking him again. Those people behind the window are probably mocking him as well.
“The asshole drove off. What good would calling the police do?”
“Is there any evidence of the crash?”
“My mother will back me up,” John says determinedly, unaware that she hadn’t when interviewed earlier. Fletcher would have to interview her again.
“Of course there is the £500 bill from the mechanic.” John continues with the bitter tone of someone who still really misses that five hundred.
“Which mechanic?”
“I don’t know, my mother sorted it out.” She didn’t trust her son to find a good mechanic. He thought she had found the most expensive one on purpose.
“Where you on Friday, 21st August?”
“With my girlfriend.”
“And she will be able to confirm this?”
“Well she and several hundred other people. We went down to a festival for the weekend, drove her and two of her friends down.” The girlfriend would confirm this, yes, but quickly adding that she wasn’t with him the whole time and she was pretty drunk. Given that this festival was being held over a hundred miles away from the city, it made for a pretty good alibi. The friends would kindly confirm that they left early on the Friday morning and came back late on the Monday evening, an alibi for both the murders of Adelina Sasha and Stella McQam, yes, but not a strong one.
“And where were you on Sunday, 30th August?”
“In bed.”
“All day?”
“Yup.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
The two men glare at each other, John has reverted back on his defences, reminding Fletcher almost of Jack Sasha. Maybe John had reminded Adelina of a younger Jack Sasha, maybe that’s why she had went with him. But then Adelina had been por
trayed as sophisticated, elegant almost, she would not have gone for such a greasy young man. John doesn’t seem like the type a girl like Fran Lizzie would trust either.
“I was at a gig the night before, we were out drinking till 5,” John sullenly admits. Gig or no gig, John did spend a lot of his weekends sleeping.
“On November 10th, a girl named Isobel Hilarie was murdered. Her purse was stolen.”
John gives a half shrug, as if to say, ‘So?’ But then his eyes suddenly widen.
“We found Isobel Hilarie’s wallet in your bedroom.” Fletcher smiles, try and talk yourself out of this one, Punk. He sits back, to watch the young man squirm, feeling suddenly quite triumphant. Maybe this would shock out a confession.
He doesn’t know whether to be angry or happy. He has heard through the whispers that they have finally caught the bastard. He knows they haven’t, of course. He doesn’t particularly like being a bastard either, but oh well. He is angry because someone else is taking his credit, he has worked hard at this. It has taken years and years of fantasising and planning, carefully studying every inch of the city, surveying dump sites, of befriending police officers, subtlety providing leading questions so he learns what corners to avoid, where the best CCTV is filmed. It has taken years to be this good and now some two-bit punk is taking it all away. He can feel the fear that engulfed the city retreating. Even his wife looked relieved earlier, all happy and smiling. That is definitely not allowed. She is talking about leaving the house, “to be social,” wanting to join him in whatever he is doing – for the first time in months. That is definitely not allowed.
But then he is also happy. The fear is subsiding, people are taking chances again. While they believe that he is behind bars, he can hunt a lot more easily. People, well, women will look at him tonight with opening, welcoming smiles. Hell they would be easy tonight, the months and months of stress, of not being able to go out will mean one big crazy party tonight.