by Graham Smith
‘Olly!’ My raised voice causes his focus to snap back onto me. ‘You need to be strong. Your wife and daughter are relying on you right now. I know it’s tough, but you have to go over there, break the news to them and then start calling the rest of your family. I’ll be within twenty paces at all times and promise to protect you until the police get here.’
Olly’s back straightens as he pulls himself together and faces up to his responsibilities as a husband and father. ‘Thank you.’
I just hope my promise isn’t put to the test. Whoever the killer is, he’s got a supply of different weapons and the knowledge of how to use them. All I’ve got is a history of bar fights and a gun locked into the trunk of a car parked a quarter mile away.
With Olly returning to his wife and daughter, I try the chief again. He answers this time.
I deliver a brief but potent report.
When he stops cursing, I ask what I should do. He tells me to look after Harriet and her parents and to make sure nobody goes near the body until he gets here. He’ll get Darla to call Steve’s cell. If there’s no answer he’ll organise a search party for him when he arrives.
I understand the chief’s torn loyalties. On one hand there’s a police officer who may be lying injured or dead, but on the other, there are members of the public who are definitely at risk.
Choosing one over the other is a gamble either way, but his sense of duty compels him to protect the public.
While I agree with his choice, I hope for Steve’s sake that if he’s unhurt he’s got an unimpeachable reason for not preventing the murder of Angus Oberton. Never mind what the chief may say to him, or the fact he could lose his job and the associated pension, if he’s been idiotic enough to fall asleep or become distracted playing on his cell, he’ll have to live with the knowledge a man has died because of his negligence.
57
Norm hands money and a false smile to the storekeeper. In the bag on the counter are four cartons of cigarettes, a copy of the Casperton Gazette’s special edition and a bag of apples.
The cigarettes aren’t for him. He doesn’t yet know who they’re for, but he knows they’ll kill whoever he gives them to. Not the long slow death of a smoker, but the sudden death of someone who has ingested a deadly poison. All he has to do is prepare the cigarettes in the correct way and introduce one or two drops of the resulting mixture into the target’s body.
The solution will be so potent it can be added to a drink or meal with fatal consequences. If the target is already a smoker, by the time a blood sample is taken, the traces will be so insignificant they’ll fail to alert even the most diligent coroner.
Driving home, Norm lifts the six-page special edition at every pause in the traffic. Skim reading the articles, he grasps the basic facts, leaving the detailed analysis for later.
One thing is clear to him by the time he pulls into his drive. Jake Boulder is becoming an increasingly sharp thorn in his side.
He wonders if there’s a way to deal with Boulder without compromising the pattern. It would be good to take him down, to send a message that no one is untouchable.
The flip side of this is Boulder won’t be the kind of easy target he’s grown accustomed to. Sure, it’ll be a challenge, but he’s confident of his own abilities.
Norm enters the house and dumps the apples into the fruit bowl. He selects one, polishes it on his shirt, then pours himself a glass of milk.
The picture of him and Melanie pinned to the fridge door by a magnet bought from some place or other draws its usual smile from him. They’d just gotten engaged when the picture was taken. Melanie’s face radiates utter joy as she cuddles against him, left hand raised to show her new ring to the camera.
He remembers the night well. Sitting in the restaurant with the ring in his pocket he’d been more nervous than the first time he’d faced combat. After their desserts were cleared he’d gone down on one knee to ask a question which would change their relationship forever. His mouth had been an arid wasteland in which his tongue had stumbled from one mispronounced word to the next.
When she’d said yes, his entire being changed. Gone were the dry mouth and the uncontrollable tongue. Nerves were chased away by a new-found confidence.
He’d felt ten feet tall and invincible, his natural shyness dissipated by the feelings of euphoria. When the news spread throughout the restaurant and a round of applause started he’d lapped it up.
One of the waiters had produced a camera and taken the photo which had adorned their fridge ever since.
Pushing aside thoughts of what Melanie would think of him, Norm crosses to his computer to start researching the next target.
With the police aware of his pattern, things have become harder. Yet the extra challenges make it more interesting. If he can continue raising the tally his reputation will be enhanced. With luck he’d join the greats.
To those who follow, he’ll be a deity. FBI students will be taught about him and his methods. Psychologists will analyse his psyche from afar and make spurious pronouncements on his motivations.
He may even be included in true crime books or one of the many books about serial killers. Perhaps one day someone will write a book solely about him or commission a TV documentary.
Maybe they’ll even turn his story into a movie. Sure, Boulder, the chief or some FBI guy will end up as the hero, but his story will still become famous.
Norm is aware of just how captivating a villain can be in the hands of the right actor. British actors like Alan Rickman and Anthony Hopkins have more than proven that particular theory.
He ignores the sudden urge for some fava beans and refocuses his mind onto the research he needs to do.
It takes him ten minutes to get a name for the finder. Next he identifies family members who live in the area. Of the twelve names he jots onto the pad at his left, three are under the age of eighteen and therefore discounted as not being viable targets.
That leaves nine. The parents, both sets of grandparents, two aunts and a cousin.
He fancies going for the cousin or an aunt but now the pattern is public knowledge it’ll be good to have one of the parents next.
With his research done until the surveillance can begin, he moves to a more comfortable chair and sits down with another apple and the special edition.
Reading between the lines of conjecture and speculation he finds there is little he doesn’t already know, other than just how involved Jake Boulder has become.
The beginnings of an idea start to form in his mind as he absorbs the articles. Each is written with a sense of detachment apart from a strong opinion piece by Ms Rosenberg.
Never one to hide her views, she takes multiple potshots at Casperton PD, the chief in particular, and the whole law enforcement system within the state of Utah. Only Boulder seems to avoid her scathing rhetoric, although his presence is used as another stick to beat the police with.
Even though he’s the cause of the fear-inspiring piece, he thinks she’s being harsh.
A government trained killer, selecting what appear to be random targets, then killing them in a variety of ways, is something no police department is equipped to deal with.
Norm knows he’s gotten away with the first twenty-five killings. They’d all been passed off as accidents or suicides just like he’d planned.
The Niemeyer bitch had been the breakthrough for him. Number twenty-six was the one he’d selected as the first to be an obvious murder. To escalate the game and invite an investigation. To provide an opponent.
It had succeeded twofold. Chief Watson and Jake Boulder now stood against him.
Soon it will be time to find out who is the worthiest.
58
The station is awash with agitated people when I return. A pair of patrolmen are trying without success to manage the crowd.
I hear their complaints as I push and wriggle my way through. They range from queries about past deaths being related, to demands the killer be caught befo
re he strikes again.
Lord help Chief Watson when he gets back from the nature reserve. He’ll be mobbed. If he stops to answer each person, there’s no way he’ll be able to do his job.
Seeing Harriet ensconced once again in her mother’s arms, I make my way towards them.
Olly is off to one side. He’s neither part of the crowd nor separate from it. Instead he’s hanging in limbo as he tries to gather information, while also being there for his family.
I can tell from his face he’s achieving neither and feels useless because of his failure.
Taking his arm, I guide him off to one side. ‘Are all your family here?’
His nod elicits a mental sigh of relief from me, as his eyes wander across the crowd.
‘Gather them up and tell them to leave the people on the desk to do their jobs. As soon as the chief has something to tell you, he will. All they are doing is making things harder for the police.’
I can see my words are being taken in, but his mind isn’t working at full speed and it takes a few seconds to process the data I’m giving him.
His gaze locks onto Harriet. ‘You’re right. The sooner we leave them to do their jobs, the sooner all this will be over.’
I cast my eyes across the reception area and see Kelly Oberton’s grief-stricken face, Mrs Halliburton’s mouth set with grim determination and a host of other faces filled with sorrow or anger.
Taking the coward’s way out, I slip unnoticed into the office where Alfonse was working earlier.
He’s right where I left him, staring at the screen in front of him with furrows across his brow.
‘What you got?’
There’s pain in his eyes when he looks at me. ‘I’ve now got fifteen definites before Kira and I’m working on the sixteenth now. Every one of them has been made to look like an accident or suicide.’
‘That’s surely enough to convince the FBI.’
‘Darla typed it up and made an official request when I had proof of six.’ He gives a helpless shrug. ‘The sooner they get here the better. We’re way out of our depth with this one.’
‘You gonna give up when they get here?’ It’s a cheap shot from me but I need to know where he stands.
His eyes flash. ‘Of course not. But this guy scares the life outta me and your name is all over the paper. It’s only a matter of time before you or someone close to you gets hurt.’
‘What?’
He hands me a special edition of the Casperton Gazette. ‘Darla brought this in earlier. Read page two.’
I take the paper from him as he turns back to his screen. There’s a hunch to his shoulders which tells me his mindset.
Alfonse doesn’t get angry often, but when he does it’s always with good reason. I open the paper and see the headline.
Local Man Shows Inept Police Way Forward
Below the headline is Ms Rosenberg’s name and a stock photograph.
LOCAL HERO, Jake Boulder, has stepped in to show Casperton’s
inept police force how to conduct a proper investigation. Not even a private detective himself, he has nevertheless proved to be a far more competent investigator than any of Chief Watson’s so-called detectives.
Regular readers of my column will be fully aware of the disdain in which I hold the town’s detectives. Never has the curse of nepotism imperilled the good townspeople so blatantly.
It is a poor enough state of affairs – Mayor Farrage is the current incumbent due to nothing more than a family name and a lack of credible opposition. That his college-dropout son is the town’s lead detective is risible to say the least.
Surely once this heinous killer is apprehended, Chief Watson’s new broom will sweep clean the ranks of his detective squad. Anything less than five competent trained detectives and he will be failing in his basic duty. Leaving Lieutenant Farrage in his current position neither serves nor protects us.
MY SOURCES HAVE BEEN adamant every breakthrough in the pursuit of the killer has come from Jake Boulder. I can reveal to you that I have personally seen him attending the locations where three of the victims have been found.
From my personal observations, it would not be amiss to suggest our new chief of police has more faith in a man with no investigative qualifications or training than he has in his highly paid detective squad.
I say the chief is right and we should all be thankful Jake Boulder, and not Lieutenant Farrage, is the man he turns to.
Should Jake Boulder ask you questions, I implore you to answer them honestly and without agenda. Lives may very well depend upon it.
I SLAP the newspaper onto a desk when I’ve finished reading it. ‘It doesn’t read well for Lieutenant Farrage. Or the chief come to think of it.’
Alfonse scowls at me. ‘Never mind them. What about you?’
‘It’s nice for the ego but other than that it doesn’t mean anything.’ A thought strikes me and it’s not a nice one. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’
‘Jealous? No, you fool, I’m not jealous. I’m afraid for you. If you were the killer and you read that article what would you think?’
I wave a dismissive hand at him. ‘I’d ignore it as a piece of journalistic embellishment.’
‘Really? You’ve lived here as long as I have. Tell me, how often are her columns and pieces embellished? She may go over the top with her rhetoric but the logic and facts are spot on. She’s well known for preferring accuracy to sensationalism.’
‘So?’ I try to brazen it out but he’s got a point and it appears he wants to impale me with it.
‘Do you need words of one syllable?’ Getting no answer from me he continues. ‘If the killer is a local and he reads this piece what do you think he’ll make of it?’
I think about shrugging but decide against it. Instead I keep my mouth shut, lest I give him another reason to rail at me.
‘I’ll tell you what he’ll make of it if you won’t answer me. He’ll think you’re a threat. If he’s as deranged or psychotic as Dr Edwards has suggested to you, he may just think he’ll stand a better chance of not getting caught if you’re out of the picture.’
‘I don’t fit his selection pattern.’
‘No you don’t. But you’re an annoying fly buzzing around his head. Sooner or later he’s going to swat you and speaking for myself, I’d rather that didn’t happen.’
‘Thanks for caring but don’t worry. I can take care of myself.’
‘That attitude is why I’m worried.’
I’ve had enough of this. ‘Back off, Alfonse. I’m getting enough grief off Mother without you joining the chorus.’
He’s out of his seat in a flash, hands planted on the desk as he leans towards me. ‘So the great Jake Boulder is pissed because the two people who know him best are afraid he’s going to do something stupid and get himself killed. C’mon man, you’re too smart not to see that article has made you a target.’
He sits back down and makes a point of studying the screen in front of him.
Instead of pursuing an argument I can’t win, I pull out my still silenced cell, dreading what I’ll find if Mother has read the article.
Judging by the number of missed calls and messages, she’s read it and would like a profound discussion on its literary merits.
I read a few of the messages and send a short one back. There are no emoticons or snarky comments in my reply. Instead I try to placate and reassure her. It may or may not work but I don’t have time for anything else.
59
A commotion in the reception area has both Alfonse and I turning our heads. A sharp New York accent can be heard above all others and it sounds like its owner is trying to pick a fight.
Alfonse turns back to his computer as I walk across to the door. The voice I can hear is unmistakable and I pity anyone caught in the sights of Ms Rosenberg.
I peek round the edge of the door to take in the atmosphere. It’s not good. Ms Rosenberg is haranguing both Chief Watson and the mayor.
The chief
is standing his ground in the face of her questions, but the mayor is a quivering lump of jello. Every utterance from his mouth is a pile of stammered bull dressed up to resemble a decent soundbite.
Surrounding the trio, reporters from other news outlets are mingling with family members. Everyone is talking at once, and while the collective volume is increasing nobody is getting heard.
However compelling everyone’s thirst for knowledge may be, there are more important things for both those men to be doing.
Reaching for the light switch with one hand and a chair with the other, I plunge the room into darkness for the count of three. When I flick the lights back on, I’m standing on the chair.
I yell for quiet. As they start to obey, I hear my name being whispered by a host of different voices.
Every micro and Dictaphone in the room is pointed my way. I’m not big on making speeches, so I keep it short.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. For those who have questions about family members, I know this is a trying time for you. You’re worried about your loved ones. I would be too in your position. However, to best serve and protect those you love, Chief Watson must be allowed to do his job. If he’s talking to you he’s not catching the killer, is he?’
The room falls silent as they digest my logic.
After a moment a voice from the back rings out. ‘How do we find out about our families then?’
‘Good question.’ I point at Mayor Farrage. ‘I’m sure the mayor will be only too happy to provide a number of his staff to help out with keeping you all informed. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he has a contingency plan for just such a necessity.’
The mayor gives frantic nods. He’s obviously delighted to have been removed from the firing line into a position where he can be seen as a source of help for his constituents.
I point to the journalists who have pushed their way to the edge of my chair. ‘I’m sure that while all of your readers would like a statement from either the chief or the mayor, I think it’s fair to say they have more important things to be doing than writing press releases.’