[Jake Boulder 01.0] Watching the Bodies

by Graham Smith

  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 wearing 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.

  Chapter 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.’

  Chapter 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.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m not going to attempt a diagnosis on someone I’ve never met. All I can tell you is he is intelligent, adaptable to circumstances and he’s playing a game.’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘There’s no doubt in my mind he’s enacting a fantasy or has what he sees as a mission.’ He picks up his pad and pen. ‘You seem very determined this killer deserves to die. Why does it bother you so much? Is it because of latent feelings for Kira?’

  I pick my words with care. ‘I believe no man should take another’s life without forfeiting his own right to live. That anyone who kills three people in such a cold manner should be removed from the face of the earth.’

  ‘So you believe in an eye for an eye rather than the justice system. Isn’t that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No. I’m saying he should be caught, tried and sentenced to death.’

  ‘What do you think you would do if you came face to face with this person?’

  ‘I’d take him down and then hand him over to the cops.’

  He makes a few notes on his pad. ‘You seem very confident of yourself.’

  I shrug. ‘One on one, I haven’t lost a fight for a very long time. So, you think this guy may have a mission or purpose driving him. What might this be?’

  ‘It could be anything. Revenge against people who’ve slighted him in some way. Not feeling respected or valued can often prey on a person’s mind until they snap. It could be someone they owe money to. Because they haven’t paid up or are disputing the amount, this guy has taken it into his head to get them back.’

  ‘Could it really be something that mundane?’ It doesn’t seem credible to me. ‘People don’t become serial killers because someone owes them a few bucks or hasn’t shown them enough respect.’

  ‘Don’t they? You’d be surprised how petty grievances can be blown out of proportion. I take it you’ve heard about how Chinese water torture works? By the slow incessant dripping onto a prisoner’s head.’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘What starts out as a negligible irritation grows through time and repetition into a major source of discomfort. The next drip – or slight in this case – becomes expected. Anticipated to the point where the person on the receiving end is already bitter about it. The resentment is built in before the slight is delivered. Paranoia is a very powerful driver.’

  ‘I see what you mean. It’s like having a permanent sense of defeatism. Even innocuous comments are taken as digs.’

  He smiles at my understanding. ‘Exactly. Now imagine this situation carrying on for months or years until you’re a ball of twisted resentment. Every word or gesture to you scrutinised for insults that may or may not be there. Any kindnesses towards you rejected due to the irrational fear you’re being lured into a humiliation-filled trap.’

  His words are painting a terrible picture. It’s hard not to imagine myself being in this position and fighting to retain sanity and decency. It would be too easy to lash out with verbal barbs or physical blows.

  I’m aware I have confidence in myself, that I’m unafraid to speak my mind and stand up for myself. If that self-confidence was eroded away, would I still voice my thoughts or raise my fists?

  The answer to my question is no. In such a situation the safe mentality would be to keep your head down. To go unnoticed and hope the insults aren’t too cutting and the slights can be passed off as insignificant.

  ‘So what happens? Does a switch just flick and the person in question turn into a maniac?’

  ‘It’s not as cut and dried as you suggest. There can be many different manifestations of a complete lack of self-confidence. Self-harming, a narcissistic side, a tendency to overspend and act out in an attempt to impress people into liking you. These are the better options for society.’

  ‘How so?’ I’m intrigued by what he’s saying but unsure of how any of it is better.

  Dr Edwards puts down his pad and looks right into my eyes. ‘The worst-case scenario is if, and I stress if, there is a serial killer lacking self-confidence, he’ll probably be a loner, an introvert who’s never quite fitted into any social circle. I suspect he may have fantasised about killing for years before actually doing it. Once he’s taken the first step, he will have felt a sense of empowerment.’

  ‘Empowerment?’ I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

  ‘Absolutely. Imagine, if you will, a constant sense of worthlessness, feeling inadequate at all times, as if everyone looks down on you. Then all of a sudden you have the power of life or death in your hands. You see fear in the eyes of your victim instead of contempt. You hear their pleas, their begging and it strengthens you. Gives you a sense of worth. It may even arouse you.’ His eyes shine as he talks.

  ‘The murders of Kira and Mrs Starr appear to have been premeditated and acted out to suit his purpose. I’m only guessing here, but perhaps
he was trailing Mr Johnson in preparation for an attack when an opportunity presented itself. The seized chance would account for a difference in the method of the kill. Also, consider the fact this attack took place beside what is a fairly busy road. He wouldn’t have had time to fully enact his fantasies.’

  I figure Dr Edwards is enjoying this distraction from the usual complaints and worries. He hasn’t even tried asking me a question for a good ten minutes.

  ‘What you say makes sense, in a scary kind of way.’ I shift position, the frame of the couch squeaking at my movement. ‘I know it may constitute a breach of ethics, but do any of your patients fit into this category?’

  His fingers steeple. ‘First of all, I have a duty of care to the community, so it wouldn’t be a breach of ethics for me to warn the police of someone I felt was a dangerous individual. Second, I don’t have any patients who display such a lack of self-confidence. Third, anyone with these symptoms wouldn’t deem themselves worthy of therapy. They’d figure themselves a lost cause, a waste of the therapist’s valuable time.’

  I wasn’t expecting him to give me any possible suspects, but it’s still a blow to not get even one suggestion.

  ‘Considering the way this conversation has gone very much in your favour, I’d like to ask you one question and get an honest answer.’

  ‘Shoot.’ Answering one question is a small price to pay for all his answers.

  ‘Every time Kira’s name is mentioned your pupils narrow for a heartbeat. To a psychologist, it’s the equivalent of a distress flare. I want you to tell me why you are reacting this way.’

  I want to call him names or storm out rather than give him this information. However, a deal’s a deal. I owe him honest answers in return for his professional opinions.

  Ten minutes later he knows everything. His pen scratched all the way through my recital of the facts.

  I finish speaking and he lays down his pad and pen to steeple his fingers. I’m now familiar enough with his body language to recognise the gesture precedes one of his pronouncements.

  He makes me wait a minute or two before opening his mouth. ‘Stop me at any point where I’m wrong, but I think this has come as a great shock to you. The knowledge of this engenders a feeling of responsibility. You’re no longer after her killer because you’ve been hired. It’s now become personal. There are probably some feelings of inadequacy and self-chastisement for not being aware of her feelings. Knowing how she felt for you has transposed your normal morals with a burning need to bring this guy to justice. There will of course be anger. At Kira for not telling you how she felt, towards the killer for obvious reasons, although most of your anger will be channelled inwards at yourself for not being more aware.’