The 13th Black Candle

by Bob Goodwin

  ‘Oh hell!’ shouted Cochran, but there was no way for his bulky frame to escape the human projectile. Simon’s head hit Cochran squarely in the chest, sending him backward down fourteen steps. Hogan clung tenaciously to the railing, and narrowly avoided joining the twosome in a heap on the ground.

  Cochran groaned in agony, ‘Get this bastard off me for Christ’s sake. Ooh, my God, I think my back’s broken.’

  Johnson and Dempsey dragged Stacey off his unwilling safety net, and lay him on his side.

  ‘Hogan, call an ambulance!’ shouted Cathy Johnson, quickly responding to the situation. ‘Sir, I think it’s best you stay where you are until the ambulance arrives.’

  ‘You’re a great fucking comfort, Johnson. Shit! Fuck you, Stacey!’ bellowed Cochran. ‘Any other words of wisdom?’

  ‘I would suggest that in your present position you should remember the saying: Don’t bite off the hand that feeds you.’ Cathy removed her jacket, folded it over and placed it under Cochran’s head.

  ‘Is that a threat, Johnson?’

  ‘Damn right! Now, can you move your toes?’

  Chapter 10

  The Walking Wounded

  After much swearing and grinding of teeth, John Cochran had finally succeeded in getting his trousers, socks, and shoes on with minimal bending of his back. X-rays had cleared him of any serious spinal injury. After an overnight admission for observation and a final medical examination, he had been granted his discharge.

  It was nine thirty Friday morning, and Cathy Johnson had arrived early, both to check on the inspector’s condition and pass on an update on the investigation. John Cochran met her in the hallway as he left the ward. His gait was slow, deliberate, and bolt upright.

  ‘Good morning, sir. It’s good to see you up and about.’ Cathy did her best to sound upbeat.

  ‘I’m only up, Johnson, I’m not about. And it’s a lousy morning, so don’t try to tell me otherwise. I’m in pain and I feel miserable; please let me enjoy the moment.’ Cochran’s forlorn expression echoed his words.

  ‘Sir, we searched Devlin’s flat. No weapon was found. But we did find a micro-cassette recorder on the table, which wasn’t there on our first visit. No cassette though. We also found a handwritten note, stuck on the fridge. It was addressed to Adrian Devlin.’

  ‘Well, what did it say?’

  ‘I’ve got a copy here.’ Cathy handed over a folded piece of paper.

  Adrian,

  There’s no time left for me. A man can only take so much. We’ve had many good times together, my friend. Beer, more beer, women, and song. Do us a favour, get all the regular guys together — Howard, Keith, Ralph, Bobby, Donger, and Wart. Have a card night and a few drinks, leave an empty seat for yours truly. Do one more thing, get that piece of furniture fixed up once and for all, it was once mine, remember!!!!!

  Good-bye and good luck — S.S.

  Cochran put one hand to his chin and groaned uncomfortably as he thought it through.

  ‘What do you make of this, Johnson?’ asked Cochran, adopting the role of mentor.

  ‘I think it’s more than just a farewell or suicide letter, sir. We need to see if all those names are real people and, if they are, have a chat with them. We know of Howard Morgan, so perhaps he can shed some light on the other names. And we turned the place inside out, thinking the micro-cassette might be hidden somewhere. But we found nothing.’

  ‘Very good, Johnson, very good! Was that your idea?’

  ‘Hogan’s, sir.’

  ‘Never mind, Johnson, there’s still plenty of good ideas left in this case. I expect some of them will be yours. I don’t suppose Stacey’s dead, is he?’

  ‘He’s awaiting psychiatric assessment and should be transferred to the psychiatric ward sometime today. He took an overdose of diazepam. We found four empty blister packs on the kitchen floor. That’s forty tablets, or two hundred milligrams. The doctor I spoke to felt it was unlikely he had taken that much. He regained consciousness too quickly. Dempsey and Hogan have been keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘Okay then. First thing, you drive me home nice and slowly, avoiding the bumps.’ Cochran walked gingerly down the hospital corridor, with one hand resting on Cathy’s shoulder.

  Chapter 11

  Security

  It seemed to be the warmer morning that had boosted the early attendance at the Bodytone Club. The previous few days had been cool, and despite the heated pool, the cooler weather usually contributed to a slower start to the day. Wendy, the receptionist, who had been busy organising numerous membership renewals, was now occupied making minor alterations to the day’s program on the whiteboard. Wayne, the gym instructor, had called in sick, and a slight reshuffling of staff had been necessary. With the whiteboard updated, Wendy moved on to a quick tidy of the reception area.

  The plush foyer was an impressive greeting to any potential new member. The thick, rich brown carpet, assortment of cane furniture and evergreen plants blended perfectly with the multi-toned red brick interior. Certificates and awards decorated one wall, while on the opposite side of the room hung several attractively framed colour photographs of super-fit male and female bodies. The custom-built reception desk, made from Tasmanian Blackwood, was the piece de resistance, and a touch of brilliance from the brain of Charlie Madden and the wallet of Simon Stacey.

  A tall man entered and walked directly up to the reception desk.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I haven’t seen you here before. Your first day at Bodytone is always complimentary. We have a brochure that explains how the club works and gives you a rundown on all the facilities,’ explained Wendy. She passed the glossy publication across the counter. The tall, blonde-haired man stood with his hands in his pockets, making no gesture to accept the handout.

  ‘Schliemann!’ he said in a husky European voice. Wendy slowly placed the brochure back on top of the others. His statement did little to make her feel at ease. She broke eye contact and straightened up the small pile of brochures.

  ‘Oscar Schliemann!’ repeated the blue-eyed stranger.

  ‘Oh, I see, your name… is… Oscar Schliemann! My apologies,’ she stuttered somewhat nervously. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Wendy. I work here; well of course I do. Obviously. I am the receptionist. I am a bit of everything, really.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Thank you. Would Charlie Madden be here?’

  ‘You wish...to see...Charlie, our manager?’ said Wendy in slow, staggered speech. ‘You wait there,’ she said, gesturing with an open hand like a policeman halting the traffic. ‘I’ll see...if Mr Madden...is in...okay?’

  Charlie Madden’s office door was partly open. Wendy knocked and entered.

  ‘Excuse me, Charlie, there’s an Oscar Schliemann wishing to see you.’

  ‘Fine, Wendy,’ said Charlie, leaning back in his chair, his face obscured by the morning newspaper. He heard her voice, but not her words. The Stacey story had his full attention. Had it not been for the items ‘Police Corruption Enquiry Looms,’ and ‘Babysitter Kidnaps Child,’ the story would have made the front page. Charlie slowly read it through again.

  HOUSE FIRE WAS MURDER — THREE DEAD

  A police spokesman has revealed the fire that claimed the lives of Mrs Alison Stacey and her child in the early hours of Wednesday morning was deliberately lit. A third body, found later at the scene by police, has yet to be identified. The man, aged 35-40, 1.8 meters tall and weighing about 80 kgs, was believed to have been naked at the time of his death. Well-known identity and husband of the dead woman, Mr Simon Stacey, is assisting police with their enquiries. Police are appealing to anyone who witnessed the blaze or who can aid in the identification of the dead man to come forward immediately.

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ said Charlie quietly, shaking his head both in sympathy and disbelief. As he lowered the newspaper he jumped with fright as the huge man standing quietly in front of the desk came into view.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but the reception area is just outside,’ said Madd
en, his voice a little higher pitched than usual.

  ‘Ah yes, Wendy. We met. Funny lady,’ smiled Schliemann.

  ‘How can I help you?’ He moved uneasily in his chair.

  ‘Oscar Schliemann.’ The man’s hand reached forward. Madden stood and took a deep breath.

  ‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Charlie. The penny had finally dropped. ‘I’m sure glad you’re on our side. I’m Charlie Madden.’ The two hands met across the desk. Schliemann’s grip was like a vice. Charlie’s fingers doubled over onto one another. ‘Can I show you around the club?’

  ‘No need,’ said Oscar, still smiling.

  ‘It’s quite all right, I have plenty of time, and I’m sure you’d like to know all the ins and outs.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What? I mean, I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘You know already? But, it was my understanding that you hadn’t been here before.’

  ‘Last night.’ Schliemann displayed the key he removed from the fob pocket of his shorts.

  ‘And the alarm system? A key also?’ asked Charlie. The big European nodded his reply. ‘Can I tell you about the staff, or do you already know that, too?’

  ‘I know about most of them, but I am not familiar with all their faces yet. I should be after today. It might be easier if you introduce me as a new gym instructor or club supervisor,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I’m sorry to say, most of the staff already know that a security guard will be working here. We had a meeting yesterday,’ said Charlie regretfully.

  ‘That’s unfortunate,’ noted the security officer. ‘But these things never stay quiet for long anyway. In future, you can discuss such matters with me first. Let us meet some of those faces then.’

  ‘Of course. I’m only the manager, who am I to argue?’ said Charlie, catching himself by surprise. ‘Have you seen this?’ Charlie tapped his finger on the newspaper.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Silly of me to ask I suppose,’ said Charlie, feeling a touch superfluous. He looked around his office and nodded, then posed one more question.

  ‘I wonder, Mr Schliemann, can you tell me what is in my desk drawer?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The top one. The locked one,’ said Charlie smugly.

  ‘Cheque book, bank statements, cigarettes, calculator, twenty dollars seven cents and your personal diary,’ recited Oscar. Charlie stared at Schliemann for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Oscar joined in with a hearty chuckle.

  ‘How very nice. Come on then, let’s go see those faces, Oscar,’ said Madden as warmly as he could.

  ‘Yes, let us do that. And you must introduce me to Deborah. Monday sounds like a promising night for you, Charlie,’ said a smiling Schliemann. Both men left the office.

  * * *

  Noel Briggs sat in his vehicle in a shaded area of the Bodytone Club car park reading his novel The Bourne Supremacy. He lifted his head as a group of three fit young women in leotards strolled by. He nodded his approval and tipped his head at the ladies, who were too involved in their own chatter to notice.

  He groaned, stretched, and closed his book. ‘Hmm. Oh well, I suppose I should make an appearance and chat to some of these pricks.’

  At the reception desk he was greeted by Wendy, who gave him the same spiel she had given Schliemann twenty minutes earlier.

  ‘Young lady. As much as I would love a complimentary day here, I am not here to join. I am a detective with CIB. Detective Noel Briggs.’ He displayed his ID. ‘I would like to see the manager please. It is in relation to some recent unpleasant matters concerning the Stacey family.’

  ‘Oh dear. Yes, how dreadful,’ replied Wendy, as she placed both hands against her cheeks. ‘Poor Simon. How is he managing?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I am not privy to that information. Have you known Simon for very long?’

  ‘He hired me three years ago. We are not close or anything like that, but he is a great guy and always very friendly to all the staff. This is so tragic.’

  ‘Are you aware of any conflicts he has had with anyone here or elsewhere?’

  ‘Oh no. Not at all.’ Wendy shook her head. ‘If you ever met him you would know the sort of man he is. Outgoing, charming, and very clever.’

  ‘Simon Stacey and I do know each other. We met some years back,’ said Briggs with a half-smile. ‘You might say we helped each other out a few times.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the sort of man he is. Always helping others,’ agreed Wendy.

  ‘The manager then?

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. He is not available right now. But I could schedule you an appointment sometime…’ her words trailed away as the detective looked away.

  Noel Briggs was once again distracted by a group of sweaty women walking through the foyer. ‘Good morning, ladies!’ he said brightly. This time he got a hi, two hellos and a nice smile with good eye contact. He had turned his back on Wendy and moved towards the smiling brunette.

  ‘I’ll be back Monday morning to see Charlie Madden then. Thank you for your time!’ he called over his shoulder as he drew alongside the smiling lady and escorted her out the front door.

  Briggs had two major failings; a propensity to become lured off track by beautiful women; and a desire to expedite investigations, often prematurely. Only two months ago Inspector Cochran had located the final piece of evidence to convict the young woman of murdering her husband. The homicide team stormed her house, only to find Briggs in bed with the attractive killer, probing for more information.

  Chapter 12

  Under Lock and Key

  The heavy door had a narrow glass window, through which a small room, about the size of a large elevator, could be seen. To one side of the entrance there was a small black panel with a central red button and a message in bold white print: ‘To enter. Press once and wait.’ Simon’s companion ignored the sign and produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the entrance to the secure psychiatric unit — Ward 21. Once inside the anteroom, the door was locked behind them. The ever-vigilant escort looked through the second window and surveyed the corridor ahead through the convex mirror mounted on the ceiling of the hallway.

  Simon stared at the distorted image of himself clad in his faded blue hospital pyjamas. A nebulous, almost lifeless-looking figure. Devoid of character. A factory product. One of thousands who have and would continue to file through these doors. As if to check the image was real, he lifted the large brown paper bag he was carrying to his chest. He nodded in silent submission as his reflection did likewise. He clutched the bag a little tighter. There was not much in it, but it was all he had to remind himself of who he really was. His escort had thoroughly checked his belongings, removing the pair of brown leather shoes, belt, wallet, and watch. All these dangerous items were to be kept under lock and key, only to be returned on discharge.

  The strategically placed mirror revealed there was no one either in the hallway or lurking at the base of the second door. The two men entered, and after the last opening was secured, proceeded down the corridor.

  The cries of a woman in distress grew louder with every step. Stacey looked back at the doors. He wondered about his wisdom in telling the psychiatrist that he wished he were dead. He wondered how long it would take to get out of this place, and if he would find what he was looking for. It was difficult to think clearly right now. The diazepam was still clouding his thoughts and tiring his muscles. There was a plan, and it was clear in his mind yesterday. Tomorrow he hoped the finer details would return.

  A final set of unlocked swinging doors opened into what looked like the nerve centre of Ward 21. The woman’s cries were now screams. Simon could see her face pushed up against the window in one of the side rooms. Tufts of her knotted, long, black hair were jutting in all directions. Despite her facial features being partly obscured by smears of tears and saliva, her wide eyes and open, panting mouth clearly depicted an absolute fit of terror. She clenched her fists and began striking the window. A young man pacing
up and down in front of the woman’s room seemed to be disturbed by the scene. He quickened his pace and began slapping himself on the head with his hands. Simon was asked to sit down and wait, which he did without question. There was some activity in the staff camp. Four men seemed to appear from nowhere. Simon presumed they were staff, it was difficult to tell without the traditional white uniforms. They were quickly joined by two women, one who was holding a green plastic tray. The woman had backed away from the window and was standing on the low-set bed. Her screaming was now interspersed with swearing.

  ‘Bastards! You bastards!’ shouted the woman, as if she was aware of what was about to happen. ‘Don’t kill me! Please, don’t kill me!’

  As one of the men started to close the thin venetian blinds nested between the double glass, she jumped at the window, feet first, but the glass only bent slightly and catapulted her backwards across her bed. The door was quickly unlocked. The male staff were first in the room. The screams were now high-pitched. The door closed, and the activities of the six staff were hidden from view. A conglomerate of disturbing sounds continued for three minutes, then the shouts became softer and less frequent, until they ceased altogether. The distressed young man now sat with head down on the edge of an armchair. His fists trembled as they held a firm grip on his oily hair. Tears were streaming down his face. A few metres away sat an overweight teenager, completely oblivious to the commotion. The jigsaw laid out on the table had her complete attention. A smile stretched across her face as a piece settled into place. She giggled and clapped her hands together in a clumsy manner before settling down to further serious concentration.