Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series)

by Middleton, Deborah

  Burgess shifted in his chair, fascinated. “What would you say makes a person want to watch a snuff film, where a person is actually murdered during the course of a sex act? I mean, who would get off on that? Could they not just pretend to film it?”

  The doctor leaned back in his chair and looked towards the ceiling. Burgess heard him take a deep breath. “That, I would think, detective, would be an extremely disturbed individual. Although a particular paraphilia may seem strange or extreme, it’s probably easier to understand if you think about the less extreme versions, which are more socially acceptable. For example, spanking or biting or being spanked or bitten, during sex, might be a turn-on for some people. What is dangerous is when an individual becomes psychologically dependent on this in order to become aroused or satisfied. You can see how this might escalate into more and more extreme behavior involving violence.” He paused, evidently choosing his words.

  “You know, Detective, this is not an exact science. It’s not really clear what causes a paraphilia to develop. If you talk to a psychoanalyst, he’ll probably tell you the individual is repeating or reverting to a sexual habit that arose early in life. On the other hand, a behaviorist might suggest the paraphilia began through a process of conditioning. For example, a totally nonsexual object could become sexually arousing if it’s repeatedly associated with pleasurable sexual activity. Or particular sexual acts, like exhibiting or peeping that provide intense erotic pleasure, could lead the person to prefer that behavior.”

  “Wow, this is pretty sad.” Burgess noted the good doctor had not really answered his question regarding who would actually buy a snuff film but he surmised he perhaps did not have that answer. He had, after all, admitted he was not an expert on the subject.

  The doctor nodded. “Yeah, it’s amazing how screwed up a person can become. I am sure you have seen that with some of your criminals.”

  “Oh yes, definitely. I have seen many that have been victims of pretty awful home lives. They’ve been neglected or beaten – basically brutalized, both physically and mentally. It’s a small wonder that they are misfits in society, do poorly in school and turn to crime.”

  “Well, in the case of paraphilias, behavioral learning models suggest that a child who is the victim or observer of inappropriate sexual behavior learns to imitate the behavior.”

  “You mean a little like the abused becomes the abuser.”

  “Yes, that’s right. On the other hand, the compensation models suggest that individuals who are deprived of normal social sexual contacts may seek gratification through less socially acceptable means. Then there are the physiological models that focus on the relationship between hormones, behavior and the central nervous system, with a particular interest in the role of aggression and male sexual hormones. Did you know, most paraphilias are more common in men than in women?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Interesting stuff, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I guess that any behavior taken to an extreme becomes unbalanced. I remember once hearing that your greatest strength, if taken to an extreme, could become your greatest weakness.”

  “Oh, yes. If your greatest strength is, say, being assertive, if taken to an extreme, this trait could turn into aggression or belligerence. That could then become a negative for you and therefore a weakness of character.”

  “Dr. French, this is terrific background information. I feel like I’ve learned a lot today. Thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me about it.”

  “Puts our own problems into perspective, doesn’t it?” Burgess noted the twinkle in the doctor’s eye. No doubt as to whose problems he was really referring.

  “You can say that again.” Burgess rose from his chair with a big smile on his face and extended his hand towards the diminutive doctor. He was grateful for his time and interest in the case and felt he had developed a rapport with the doctor that would stand him in good stead when he came for his next personal session. Burgess knew he would need all of his positive character traits in order to crack this case.

  CHAPTER 47

  Burgess had wanted Mrs. Flood and Clarissa Lightbourne re-interviewed at the station before he and Archie left for Moscow. Mrs. Flood was back again and none too happy. Her expensive lawyer by her side, she sat ramrod straight in the chair. As usual, not a hair was out of place, her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, giving her a more sporty appearance but she was all business.

  Burgess began politely. Archie would take the backseat this time. “I am sorry, Mrs. Flood. There are some loose ends I would like to tie up, once and for all, regarding the death of your husband. We now believe he did not commit suicide as previously thought.” He waited for her reaction and was disappointed. She showed no emotion. “You’re not surprised by that?”

  “Detective, ever since my pearls were found in the safe, I’ve had an uncomfortable feeling about the whole thing. Let me make one thing perfectly clear, however. I did know about my husband’s extramarital affairs and I chose to overlook them. Ours has been a comfortable and companionable marriage for the past ten years or so. We basically live our separate lives, except when we entertain socially or for business. We make a good team in that regard and I’m sure we are not the first couple, married for many years, to make such a compromise and live in such a way. I would have no reason to kill my husband.”

  Burgess made a show of looking through the file in front of him. “Mrs. Flood, were you aware your husband was being blackmailed?”

  “What?”

  Archie felt her gasp of surprise was a little overdone and made a note in the black notebook resting on his knee. He hoped she would notice and that it would unsettle her. Burgess and he had decided to stage it to make her feel as if she was undergoing some sort of polygraph test. Archie would be the machine measuring the answers.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your husband was involved in some questionable sexual activity that had been filmed. We found DVDs in his safe, along with his will and your pearls. I am going to ask you this once more and I beg you to consider your answer very carefully. Were you aware that your husband was being blackmailed?”

  “No, Mr. Burgess. I was not… And I resent your implying that I’m lying about this. I know nothing of any DVDs. Anyway, whoever planted my necklace in the safe could have planted those, don’t you think?”

  The lawyer by her side patted her on her arm to let her know she needed to stay calm. For the first time he spoke. “Detective, where are we going with this line of questioning? My client has told you honestly that she had no reason to kill her husband, even though hers was not a conventional marriage. She has told you she had no knowledge of DVDs, nor does she have a key to the safe.”

  Burgess was unmoved. “Mrs. Flood, who else could have a key to the safe in your husband’s home office?”

  “Why, I don’t know. His secretary, Ms. Lightbourne, perhaps?”

  Archie made a great pretence of noting this down. Interesting how she was implicating the personal assistant. Should he read anything into the fact that she had demoted her from personal assistant to secretary? Perhaps they did not get along. Perhaps she suspected Mr. Flood might be involved with her? Archie felt there was more to all of this than met the eye.

  “Would she have a key to your home?”

  “I don’t think so but my husband had a spare key in his desk at the office, so she could have got in.”

  “Does she know you are diabetic?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Have you checked your insulin vials? Are they all there?”

  “Yes, your lady police officer, Ms. Zuill, made me check them and they are all there for this month.”

  “Have you ever thought that one might have been missing in previous months?”

  “Well, that is always a possibility, Mr. Burgess. I’m not heavily dependent and in the past have missed a shot and not had problems.”

  “So someone could have stolen a
vial earlier on and you might not have missed it?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Do you know anybody who could have had access to keys to your home?”

  “Only Esmay, our cleaner. She’s been with us for over fifteen years. Oh, I guess that Clarissa Lightbourne could have had access to my husband’s keys...” She let that comment trail off, giving it a sinister innuendo which was not missed by either Burgess or Archie.

  “Thank you. You may go now.” Burgess stood up.

  “Is that all?” She seemed surprised.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Flood. That will be all for now.”

  As Mrs. Flood and her lawyer left the station, they passed Clarissa Lightbourne and her lawyer in the waiting area. Mrs. Flood inclined her head towards her and swept out. Archie, who had observed the exchange of glances, thought it overly theatrical. What was going on here?

  CHAPTER 48

  The flight into Sheremetyevo Airport from London had been uneventful. Burgess and Archie were exhausted. They had arrived that early morning into London and then waited for their connecting flight to Moscow. All they both wanted were a good bed and some valuable sleep. They were too tired to take in the sights and sounds of the city as their taxi driver took them to the Marriott Tverskaya Hotel. Pamela had chosen it for them as it was centrally located and 5 minutes from a Metro stop for a 10-minute ride to Red Square and easy access to the whole city. The western-style hotel suited their needs and the fact the staff all spoke English had been a deciding factor. The clincher for Archie was its 24-hour gym with sauna and massages in the spa. Little did they know how grateful they would be for those amenities.

  Once they had checked in, however, they both felt the irresistible pull of the lobby bar, so agreed to delay their naps and enjoy a drink beneath the glass-roofed atrium. That, they both decided, would relieve any remaining stress from their journey and assist them into the land of nod. After a couple of drinks, however, their stomachs began to dictate their actions and a glance into the Gratzi Restaurant was enough to seduce them.

  Archie peered at Burgess over the top of his menu. “I’m sure glad this is all in English. I’ve never felt so out of my depth in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever travelled to a country where I can’t even read the writing.”

  “Come to think of it, nor have I,” said Burgess. “I’m also glad that this is Mediterranean cuisine, otherwise I wouldn’t know what to order. Let’s get some wine with supper and have an early night. We have to meet up with Khitarov tomorrow around ten o’clock. I’ve asked him to join us here for a coffee as I think it will be easier for him to find us than for us to find him.”

  “Smart thinking.” Archie smiled as an attractive blonde waitress came to take their order. He was already warming to Russia and wondered what Khitarov would be like. Would he be one of those stiff Russian military types or would he be one of those vodka-swilling, chain-smoking, corrupt and inept policemen depicted in films? Archie realized that he had read too many Cold War spy novels and would probably need to revise his thinking on the whole subject. That was the problem. You built a picture in your mind of a country where you had to carry your sink plug around with you and then you arrived and saw that it was as modern and elegant as any sophisticated metropolis. Certainly, from what he had seen on the way from the airport, Moscow was a revelation. “Hey, bro’, what do you know about the Russian police these days?”

  “Good question. Not much. I read recently somewhere that the government had conducted a poll with pretty damaging results. Most Russians consider the police incompetent, corrupt and brutal. Apparently, some government ministry has come up with a new initiative aiming to transform them into model public servants. There are some new rules like they’re no longer allowed to accept bribes, drink on the job or… get this… even cheat on their wives! I don’t see how the government can expect the cops to behave like boy scouts when the politicians themselves don’t lead by example.”

  Archie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, you know, I was just thinking that everything I’ve read about them has been in detective novels written during the Cold War. I know there was a lot of corruption and black-market activity during the post-Soviet era and I know there are now a lot of self-made Russian billionaires – some by legitimate means and others not. I just wonder what Khitarov will be like.”

  “Well, he seems pretty diligent. He’s on his way back from the Black Sea coast. He was there interviewing the bodyguard who, according to Pamela, was very badly burned and not expected to live; so we can hope he decided to make a clean breast of everything to Khitarov before entering the Pearly Gates.”

  “Who knows, maybe tomorrow we’ll have a major breakthrough in the case. That would be a turn up for the books.” Archie tucked into a plate of spaghetti with steaming clams.

  “Hey, Arch. Have you noticed we’re getting a lot of looks?”

  “Yeah, I guess they’re not used to such handsome black guys. Probably think we’re Denzel Washington and Cuba Gooding Jr. taking a break from filming.”

  Burgess roared with laughter. “And which one are you?”

  “Well, Cuba, of course. His smile is almost as great as mine.”

  “You’d better get started on that spaghetti. The wine is going to your head.”

  Archie just flashed him a one hundred and eighty degree smile, which made Burgess laugh even more. If you were going to be on a trip with any of your colleagues, then Archie was the best. Burgess welcomed his lighthearted banter because, try as he could, he could not dispel a strange sense of foreboding.

  CHAPTER 49

  While Burgess and Archie ate their early supper, Khitarov was on his way back from the Black Sea, having flown into Moscow in just two hours. He had picked up his car at the airport and grabbed a Big Mac from a roadside McDonalds. This now rested warmly on his lap as he steered his car through the Moscow traffic. He was glad to see the familiar sights of his city and looking forward to a hot shower. It had been a long and arduous trip but, at least, not in vain. The bodyguard had told him a great deal, confessing to playing the girl’s lover and murderer in the snuff film while Alexeev remained behind the camera and also indicating the whereabouts of the errant director. The information had solved at least a part of this case and he knew that the two detectives from Bermuda would be pleased. He was looking forward to meeting them and wondered what they would be like. Would they be gun-toting cowboys – shooting first and asking questions later - like the detectives you saw on American TV or would they be the ultra-serious, black-suited FBI types who wanted to take over the entire investigation because they felt superior? He knew he had no idea what to expect and that his opinions were probably skewed by Hollywood B-movies. He just hoped they would be cooperative and easy to work with. He was in no mood for prima donnas, especially not on his turf.

  He mulled over what the bodyguard had told him and wondered how much of it he should tell the Bermuda boys. When he had discussed the case with his superior, his boss had warned him, because of the Mafia involvement, to keep his cards close to his chest. ‘Run silent and run deep’ had been his exact words, sounding more to Khitarov like a submarine commander than a lieutenant colonel in the Moscow police. In any event, after the bodyguard’s experience, he was truly grateful for that advice. He munched on his hamburger, licking his fingers to keep ketchup off the steering wheel and, perhaps because he was tired and a little distracted, missed the grey van following him for several blocks. Parking his car around the back of his building, he grabbed the vinyl gym bag that held his belongings and, avoiding the elevator, ran the three flights up to his modest apartment. The grey van slowly circled his building and then drove off.

  Khitarov dropped his bag and made his way to the refrigerator where he opened a bottle of beer. It tasted like nectar and soothed his throat, raw from too many cigarettes in an enclosed space. He needed to cut back. The ashtray in his car was full to overflowing just from his recent journey. Tomorrow he would make an effort to
smoke less. In the meantime, he needed to relax, so he turned on the television, eager to catch a mindless film or sitcom that would help him unwind. Tomorrow was another day and he had a lot to do before he met the two detectives at their hotel. Try as he might, however, his brain would not switch off and he found himself thinking about the bodyguard’s interview. Khitarov realized that the sight of the man, so heavily bandaged, had traumatized him. His only point of reference had been to stare into two pain-filled eyes. Judging from the way his face had been bandaged, the man had lost most of his nose and lips. They had left him a slit for breathing and another larger slit where his mouth should have been.

  Khitarov had observed with horror the misshapen profile where areas of the facial muscle had been burned away. Speaking had been a torment for the man and Khitarov had had to overcome his reticence to ask questions; each answer evidently producing much pain, yet he seemed determined to tell his story. The detective had placed a small tape recorder near the man’s head, more to avoid having to lean in close and smell the sickening smokiness of the ravaged body. The tape, however, had also captured the rattling of his labored breathing, as well as the tortured man’s words. He was not looking forward to transcribing it. He knew he would relive the experience all over again. Khitarov hoped the man would not survive. Death would be a blessed release.