by Matt Drabble
The drive back to the station was both too long and too short at the same time. The three PCs in the car with him were understandably awkward at his arrest but they were at least furnishing him with the missing details of the case - his case.
His first instinct was to drown in self pity and sorrow at the deaths around him, but he locked that shit away hard; he had a job to do with or without a badge. Until the autopsies were in on the dead at the school, he wasn’t counting any chickens. “It was really some reporter that caught the guy?” he asked the young officer riding in the back with him.
“That’s the word. Some local guy found the lair and managed to kill the psycho in the ensuing struggle. Crazy, huh?”
“Yeah, all kinds of it,” Danny mused. He was desperate to get back to his office and try and piece together the timeline of all this. There were bodies stacking up at different locations and times and he needed to know what was connected. His gut told him that the fire at the school was no accident; it just didn’t feel right. Maybe there was more than one killer; organised serial killer pairs were rare, but it wasn’t impossible. Maybe Bradshaw had been pulling the strings of Martin Kline. Danny was about to be thrown into a police cell for punching out Barrett, but even now he found it hard not to smile at the memory. He needed access to the system and his privileges had been revoked.
“Hey, I gotta take a piss,” he said to the driver as they passed a sign for a rest stop up ahead.
“Can’t do it, Sir,” the driver replied nervously.
“Oh come on, for Christ’s sake; you want me to make a mess back here?” Danny replied light-heartedly. “I’m not even under arrest. Well, not yet anyway. I expect that Barrett wants to do the honours himself.”
“He sure went down easily,” the third PC in the passenger seat chimed in to stifled laughter from the other two.
“I still can’t believe that you popped the commander,” the officer sitting next to Danny said. “Man, you are going to be a legend.”
“Then how about letting me use a bathroom?” Danny asked. “I’m hardly going to make a break for it, am I?”
“Ah, screw it,” the driver sighed heavily after a long pause as he turned off. “You deserve a fucking medal as far as I’m concerned.”
Danny was grateful that in Barrett’s haste he hadn’t arrested or cuffed him. At the minute, he was facing disciplinary procedures rather than criminal ones, but if he ran then that would change. Barrett would issue a warrant for his arrest in a heartbeat and then every one of his colleagues would be looking for him. The alternative was that he would be stuck on the sidelines and no one would be looking for the real answers; it was no choice.
The service station was fairly quiet as they entered. Only one of the PCs accompanied him and he was relieved that they didn’t see him as a flight risk.
“You mind?” Danny asked as the young officer made as if to enter the toilets with him.
“I really should come in with you, Sir,” the man said uncomfortably.
“Just wait outside, son, unless you want to hold it for me,” Danny replied, knowing that most straight men were awkward around suggestions of homosexuality.
As he entered the toilet block alone, he suddenly remembered Nathan waiting at home. He hadn’t contacted the man for over 24 hours now and Nathan would soon be getting concerned. It was an odd thought to worry about someone else, but not an unpleasant one.
The toilets were empty, save for an employee cleaning at the far end. Danny watched the man as he mopped the floor diligently with a rhythmic wet slapping motion. He checked the stalls for closed doors and feet but they were thankfully empty. He crossed the floor quickly towards the cleaner and locked his emotions away; there was a greater good at stake here, and he couldn’t lose sight of that.
He came up behind the cleaner and reached a powerful arm around the man’s throat before locking hands and clamping down with increasing force. The quickness and surprise of the movement caught the cleaner unaware and Danny ignored the disgust in his mind as he squeezed harder. He had been on plenty of courses for both self-defence and more aggressive tactics. He kept the pressure on even after the man’s legs went limp as he faded out, praying that he wouldn’t do any permanent damage. After he released his grip, he dragged the cleaner quickly into the closest cubicle and checked the man’s pulse; thankfully, it was still strong. Hopefully, the unsuspecting cleaner would wake up with nothing more serious than a headache.
Danny stripped the man’s overalls off quickly and pulled them on over his own clothes. His luck held as the service station uniform came with a baseball cap and Danny pulled it on low, hoping to cover his features as much as possible. He locked the cubicle door and slid underneath the gap to the stall next to it before exiting. He took the wheeled mop bucket and mop and headed out of the toilet block with his head low. He spotted a ‘Staff Only’ sign on a nearby door and headed that way, fighting the urge to run. Once through the door he headed outside and was reassured by the jingling keys in the cleaner’s uniform pocket. He pulled the set out and started pressing the button on the car key until a car flashed its indicator lights as it unlocked remotely. He knew that he wouldn’t have long before the cleaner was discovered and the car was reported stolen. He only hoped that he had enough time.
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Jane fought hard against her restraints until they sedated her and she only realised her foolishness as her eyelids grew heavy and her mind clouded over. The ambulance rattled along the narrow streets in a rocking motion that only sent her further into the darkness. As she slept in a drug-induced slumber, the clawing hands that reached out of the shadows would not be denied and she could not wake. She didn’t know how long she was under but every second stretched into a year as the dead grasped for their pound of flesh.
When her eyelids gratefully fluttered open there were buzzing fluorescent lights passing overhead in blurry lines. She tried to move but her arms were strapped to the gurney and all she could do was to lie still and try and clear her mind. Footsteps echoed along the corridor and strong cleaning chemicals wafted on the stale air.
“She’s awake, Doc,” a husky male voice said above her.
“Ms Parkes?” a different man asked.
“Yes,” Jane slurred in reply.
“Do you know where you are, Ms Parkes?”
“Strapped to a fucking trolley,” she answered.
“Quite,” the man said haughtily. “My name is Doctor Elliot Woods and you are under my care at Mountside Hospital where you have been admitted for observation and evaluation. Can you remember the events of this evening?”
“Some bastard called Barrett wanted me out of the way so he stuck me here, Doc.”
“That’s not exactly the report that we’ve received, Ms Parkes. According to the police you have quite the history of delusional and dangerous behaviour. Apparently, you suffered a psychotic break and you are not deemed safe to be left to your own devices, hence your visit with us.”
“What? Are you on Barrett’s payroll?” Jane raged. “Just how much does it cost to buy a doctor these days?”
The doctor didn’t answer and his assistant only pushed the gurney faster. She struggled uselessly against her restraints, unable to control her anger. Barrett had obviously decided to avoid the embarrassing questions about her presence at the school, especially after the recent newspaper revelations over the original Crucifier case. She had witnessed Danny being goaded into striking his boss and then dragged away in the back of a police car. With the rest of his team dead, Barrett was free to spin his tale any way he so chose. The only problem was that there was now an engorged audience of the dead following her around that wouldn’t let her rest until their killer was caught. According to Barrett, Marty had been the killer but her entourage were still very much in tow meaning that the police surely had either the wrong man or only one of the men.
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Randall sat propped up in the hospital bed. His wounds were bandaged, bu
t he was still weak from the blood loss suffered during his Herculean efforts to climb up out of Kline’s basement. He was the hero now, crowned and praised for his acts in bringing down a murderer, one that the police had been unable to catch.
He had been watching the TV coverage about the fire at St Joseph’s School as the cameras swarmed with ravenous hunger to wring the last dying breath out of the fire as the embers glowed and the cost was counted. The rumours were flying about the cause of the fire and speculation about an unauthorised police operation was rampant. His biggest current concern was that St Joseph’s was threatening to shove him out of the limelight. There were multiple families of huge power and influence that had boarded their daughters at the school and each surname was another bullet in the gun.
He had refused all but the most necessary of painkillers as he needed his mind sharp to compose the most important article of his life. He had been on the inside of the hunt for the most sought after serial killer in the country’s history and he had brought the Crucifier down. The original plan had been to publish his work in The London Herald but now he was thinking that a better way to go would be with a book. His contract was pretty tight but he knew that he could work out a better one, now that he wasn’t just the author. He was now the subject.
He was already trying to decipher just what information was relevant and what would need to be discarded. The waters were certainly muddied and he needed to clear the way. Martin Kline’s background needed to be exposed and he was set for a quid pro quo battle with the police; they were already desperate to debrief him and he wasn’t about to give up everything without getting a little back in return.
The main question was, did he still dig back into the past and try and turn over the grave of Arthur Durage, or did he let sleeping dogs lie and stick with the present? Martin Kline had been a Crucifier copycat and Randall Zerneck had caught him. The latter was the easy path that led to book deals, money and fame; the former seemed like a hell of a lot harder path to walk. He was no coward, but that didn’t mean he was a fool either.
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Alfonso Ramsey stared out of his window across the city below. He had pictured himself a king, but recent events had proved to him just how mortal he really was. His daughter had been taken from him and it had not been his hand that had found retribution. The world would forever know that Alfonso Ramsey could not even protect his own flesh and blood, nor bring her killer to justice. All of his wealth and power had proven useless in his hour of need. He was an empty suit that had been exposed.
He opened the large glass door and stepped through onto the balcony, feeling the sting of the wind against his face as he closed his eyes. He wanted to find his anger, his thrust; he wanted to find some kind of forward momentum to straggle this inertness at birth, but he just felt like a tired old man.
He vaguely heard the door open behind him but did not bother turning. “I said that I was not to be disturbed,” he growled at the intrusion as he gripped the black railing in front of him. The metal was cold against his skin but at least it was real and he could feel it. He could squeeze it and pull the thing from its mountings if he so chose.
He started to think about the world around him and those who would doubt his place in it. He started to think about what he could destroy in his anger. There was The London Herald newspaper that was trumpeting their man, Zerneck, who he himself had so carelessly tossed aside. He started to run mental calculations about how much it would cost to buy The Herald and close its doors. The thought of something tangible, that he could wrap his hands around its throat, filled him with purpose and desire as the blood started to pump hard in his veins.
He opened his eyes with a snap and turned to bark his orders at the world, when from behind strong hands were suddenly gripping and lifting and then he was airborne. The fall from the penthouse office was just long enough for him to wonder just how his daughter would greet him on the other side before he became a large wet stain on the concrete below.
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Danny kept hidden in the shadows as the car pulled up into the long private driveway. The elegant automobile was in keeping with its illustrious neighbours. The houses on the street were all expensive and exclusive; every one told a tale of success and opulence.
Danny was hiding under the cover of the huge conifer trees that bordered the property and screened it from prying eyes. He wished that he was armed but he couldn’t so much as set foot inside a police station now without being arrested.
The car engine purred as it idled until the driver turned it off. He heard the man’s feet crunch in the gravel as he exited the car and walked towards the house. Danny waited until the tell tale beep of the house’s burglar alarm told him that it was inactive before he scooted around to the rear of the building. The kitchen door lock was simple to pick now that the alarm was switched off and he ducked inside the house, carefully closing the door behind him. He’d had time to check the property for occupants - either human or canine - and the returning man was now the only other one inside.
Danny seated himself on a chair at the long oak kitchen table, allowing himself the briefest moment of appreciation for his surroundings; it certainly put his own modest accommodation to shame. He crossed one leg over the other and sat back casually for maximum effect; he wanted the house’s owner suitably shocked at his presence, and he wanted an honest reaction. He felt like a Bond villain but it seemed necessary under the circumstances. He braced himself as footsteps approached, but then they veered off and headed upstairs. A few seconds later he heard a shower running and sat back, unsure of what to do next. In the movies you never got to see the Bond villain twiddling his thumbs and waiting.
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Commander Jeffrey Barrett stood with his hands clasped behind his back with a mock air of subjugation. The two suited men and one woman sat in front of him were demanding answers or, more accurately, they were demanding concrete conclusions.
“Would you care to explain yourself, Commander?” a tall, impossibly well-groomed silver-haired man demanded.
Barrett recognised his interrogator as a personal aide to the Prime Minister, albeit a discreet one. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that the situation is under control…, my control,” he added pointedly.
“A DI on the run from the authorities isn’t exactly what I would deem under control, Commander,” another equally-well-suited man exclaimed incredulously.
“But that’s exactly the point, Sir,” Barrett smiled. “Now, no one will listen to a fugitive. We are free to lay the whole St Joseph’s debacle at the feet of Mr Meyers and nobody will be interested in his side of the story. His team are dead and Ms Parkes is under the care of Mountside Hospital, currently residing in their secure unit. I can assure you that she will not be going anywhere anytime soon.”
“And you’re confident that this…, Martin Kline is our man?”
“Preliminary investigative results seem fairly conclusive. I am assured that the evidence collected in Kline’s basement leaves little doubt that he was the killer,” Barrett answered firmly.
“And how under control is this reporter who seems to have made a mockery out of the police?”
Barrett bristled at the snide remark, but only internally. “Zerneck appears to have stumbled across Kline and gotten lucky.”
“Lucky?” the PM’s aide snorted. “Really, Commander, and is that going to be your official position?”
“I’ve already set facts in motion that will state that we had Martin Kline at the top of our suspect list and that Zerneck jumped the gun, putting himself in grave danger. I think that we can spin this to impress upon members of the public that they should always leave such matters to the professionals. Mr Zerneck is a very lucky man to still be alive.”
“And what about St Joseph’s? How exactly are you going to spin that debacle?”
“A defective detective squad, whose leader was already taken off the case, decided to mount their own unauthorised operation.
I think that the fire has left enough of a grey area for us to leave the public in no doubt as to the culpability of Meyers and his crew.”
“And what about Agent Bradshaw? Just how do we explain his death to our colonial cousins?”
Barrett raised his eyebrows at the mention of the American. “Well, we certainly wouldn’t want his involvement explained, now would we? An influential man like Alfonso Ramsey, somehow pulling strings in the upper echelons of the police force and inserting an FBI agent into the mix.”
The room went deathly silent at that and Barrett knew that his judges were evaluating their own positions and exposure.
“Mr Ramsey took his own life earlier today,” the PM’s aide said quietly. “I’m sure that ruining a dead man’s reputation wouldn’t serve any purpose at this point.”
Barrett fought hard to hide his anger at these three knowing something he didn’t. He had hoped to use Ramsey in the future and had planned to use Bradshaw as leverage. The media magnate had never struck him as the suicidal type.
“I’m not sure about all of this,” a voice of dissention spoke out from the periphery of Barrett’s vision and he spotted a middle-aged woman sitting uncomfortably amongst her peers.
“Ma’am?” Barrett enquired.
“This whole business seems somewhat…,” she began before pausing to ponder the word she wanted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the PM’s aide muttered. “This isn’t the place for consciences, Margaret”.
“I was going to say insubstantial,” the woman finished. “You can be assured that I have no illusions as to our responsibilities, Douglas,” she said, taking pleasure in returning the favour of announcing her compatriot’s name during the supposedly anonymous meeting. “This situation, I would wager, requires a more…, permanent solution.”