by Graham Smith
There’s a few calls of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘well said’ from the back of the crowd.
‘However, I’m sure they also understand it’s vital the public are informed of what’s going on, so I would urge you to ask people to stay calm and use the information centre set up by the mayor, while leaving Chief Watson to catch a killer.’
I stop talking to take a look at my watch.
‘Shall we say Chief Watson will host a press conference later at…’ I throw a quick glance at the chief and count the fingers he’s showing me. ‘Nine o’clock.’
There are a couple of grumbles about deadlines, but the journalists are astute enough to realise the majority of the crowd is on my side. Calling me out will lose them readers.
‘Shall we?’ I usher the chief and the mayor towards the office where Alfonse is working only to be confronted by Ms Rosenberg.
‘Masterfully done, Mr Boulder.’ Grudging respect at being outmanoeuvred fills her voice and eyes.
‘Thank you.’ I lean into her just enough so I can whisper without invading her personal space. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put my head in any more nooses though.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ Her tone is indignant, but the shock on her face makes a liar of her mouth.
I’m not prepared to let her denial be the last word. ‘Then you’d best read your article from the killer’s point of view.’
She regains control of her face, although I’m sure there’s a comment or two she’s biting back.
I close the door of the office and find Alfonse being introduced to the mayor.
‘Thank you, Jake. Thank you.’ The mayor’s face is full of gratitude.
Now isn’t the time to give in to the temptation of telling him only my friends and family call me Jake. I accept his pumping handshake and give him a curt nod. ‘You have any idea how to set up that kind of information resource?’
His smile goes, knocked away by the thought of having to do something other than be a crowd pleaser.
‘I’m sure one of your staff will be able to arrange a practical solution for you.’ It’s the chief who rescues him.
‘Yes, yes of course they’ll be able to.’
I press home my advantage as his smile is returning. ‘Good, because I want twenty men from you.’
‘What for, Boulder?’ There’s a scowl in the chief’s voice as I step all over his toes once again.
‘I want them to help your men guard Harriet’s family. You and all your men are stretched to breaking point. If the twenty men from the mayor can work in two shifts it’ll free up a lot of your guys. They can either work the case or get on with keeping order in town.’
I may be answering the chief, but I make sure my eyes never move from the mayor.
He licks his lips. Left and then right, just as he did when he was outside getting hassled by the crowd.
‘What type of men are you talking about?’
‘Big men. I don’t care if they are refuse collectors, teachers or your political advisors. As long as they are fit, strong and big enough to scare off most would-be attackers.’
‘I think that can be arranged.’
‘Don’t think, make it happen.’ There’s enough steel in the chief’s voice to repair the hole in the side of the Titanic.
The mayor’s back straightens and he draws himself to his full height. ‘When do you want them?’
‘As soon as you can get them here, please.’ I beat the chief to it, but it is a close thing. Him throwing one of his sarcasm laden replies at the mayor won’t help in the long term, especially if he has to sack the man’s son.
‘How many you got now?’ The chief is turning to Alfonse before the mayor has closed the door behind him.
‘Fifteen confirmed.’
A desk tidy flies past my head and shatters against a wall spraying pens, markers and paperclips across the room.
I look at the chief and see him forcing his knuckles against his temples so hard the skin is turning white.
There’s a feral look to his stare, but it’s aimed a thousand yards away. I imagine he’s thinking about what he’d do if he could get his hands on the killer. It’s something I’ve been thinking about too. At this particular moment, the chief is more likely to take the law into his own hands than I am.
60
The plate is slid onto the counter with a gentle burring scrape. I’m not hungry, but I know I need to eat.
I’ve forgone my usual chilli burger and settled for an old-fashioned plain burger. No cheese, no bacon, relish or anything save a few slices of raw onion. The server raised an eyebrow when I deviated from the norm, but the last thing I need today is more fire in my belly.
As expected it’s delicious. The meat tender and juicy, yet cooked enough to remove all traces of redness. There’s a couple of herbs added, but they’re so faint as to be unidentifiable.
While eating the burger I mull over the various things I’ve learned today; what must be done to prevent more lives being taken and various ways of catching the killer.
Nothing I come up with helps or makes any sense.
A thought about the way Oberton’s body was displayed is nagging at me. The cut across his belly reminds me of someone committing Hari-Kari but the way his head was half-severed contradicts what little I know about the act.
Using my cell, I Google the term. The first result directs me to Wikipedia. While not always the most reliable source, it gives a broad enough outline for me to see just how closely the traditions of Hari-Kari, or ‘Seppuku’ to give the act its proper term, have been observed.
The cutting of the neck is done by a ‘second’ or ‘Kaishakunin’. The aim is to cut the neck in such a way as to leave the head hanging as if bowed in shame. Reading on, I learn the ceremonial robes are often tucked under the knees to hold the body upright after the act has been completed.
As I finish the last of the wedges, I compare Oberton’s death to the others but come up with none which share the ritualistic elements. It’s as if he’s selecting the weapon or method of murder at random.
While it seems as if that’s what he is doing, I’m not so sure. His victims seemed unconnected until I realised how he chooses them.
Tracing back through Alfonse’s notes on the earlier victims, I look for a pattern or escalation in the weapons used, but with his latest kill, he’s downgraded from a gun to a sword.
He’s also changed from trying to mislead the investigators to leaving a blatant kill.
I’m getting nowhere with this train of thought, so I again try and figure out how he is identifying first the people who find his victims, and then their families.
There’re two parts to the solution and the first has to be that he’s watching the dump sites. The more I consider how else he could be getting this information, the more I’m convinced he’s got some kind of surveillance operation in place.
Once identified, he can trace the victim’s families in the same ways Alfonse and I have been following his trail.
He will have seen Harriet find Oberton today. Having got a face, he’ll have slipped into the crowd and followed them – her red One Direction T-shirt an easy thing to keep an eye on.
I remember following Olly’s car back to the station in a convoy led by a police cruiser. If the killer saw them getting into the car, all he’d have to do is run the license plate through the DMV website and pay the fee for a trace.
There may be a way we can use the site as a way to trace the killer. I call Alfonse and make the suggestion. He’s still sore at me, but agrees it may work.
I hope he gets a quick result. Either it will identify the killer or let him return to his task of tracing back the kills. I have a feeling the first one means something to the killer but until we’ve identified the first victim, we can’t make any assumptions or start looking for clues.
With that done, I move onto the next issue. The protection of Harriet and Olly’s family.
They’ve all been rounded
up and are under guard at the motel. Fear has kept their grumbles to a minimum, but they’d all wanted to know how long they’d be there.
It is ironic we’ve had to half-imprison potential victims while the killer is running free.
Those staying in the motel are all connected to Harriet by birth or marriage. Looking at Alfonse’s notes, I check the family connections and see a distinct pattern emerging.
Each of the victims has a direct blood link to the finder of a body. Step relations and those affiliated by marriage have never been selected. It’s always genuine relatives who fall within his range of targets.
It’s tempting to share this news with the chief, but now we have a family under the protection of guards, it seems foolish to release some of them or think the killer won’t change his methods when thwarted by our security measures.
I pay the check and head for home. My plan is to get a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Everything has been taken care of so far and there’s nothing more I can do unless something else breaks or the killer is foolish enough to try and storm the motel.
61
Norm curses as he realises the extra work he’s going to have to do to put his new plan into action. If the idea wasn’t so good, there’s no way he’d let it delay adding to his tally.
Yet it’s just too perfect to pass up on. This is the kind of thing that will elevate him from being yet another serial killer to becoming a legend.
His story will become famous – the way he outsmarted the police, how he eluded capture despite being so close to the investigation.
The question that will be asked most of all: how he could be cold-blooded enough to kill his own family just to keep his pattern going?
Before he can set any of that into motion, he has to do some research, a spot of surveillance and a learning of routines.
If executed in the right way, he can remove himself from suspicion. Get it wrong and everything will come to a shuddering halt.
Now the game is afoot, he’d prefer to be captured so he can see how it all plays out, but he is still comfortable with the idea of dying. Perhaps in the greater scheme of things it will be better to die with some mystery to him. He may even be attributed with a few extra kills as the police look to clear one or two of their unsolved files.
Norm knows he’ll spill everything for the sheer hell of it if he’s taken alive. The thrill of telling his interrogators will be too great to resist. He knows he’ll want to see the look on their faces as he details each of his kills. The methods, research, selection process and the takedowns.
He’ll give them what they want and a whole lot more.
Gathering up his gear, he piles what he needs into his rucksack and sets off to check something he’s discovered on the sister’s Twitter feed.
Working in reverse a whole kill ahead is throwing his usual preparations. He’s not sure whether he should target the mother or sister first. Either will do, it’s just a question of which will be the easiest to set up. That’s what the watching is for. To make his decisions more logical and practical.
Chance is not allowed to figure in this one. Lady Luck mustn’t play a part unless he’s directing her.
62
When Alfonse lifts his eyes from the computer, they’re red from straining at the screen for so many hours. His voice and posture tell me the anger he felt earlier has been replaced by tiredness. A pang of guilt for my snatched two hours hits me before I dismiss it. He’ll be able to go home and rest now this task is complete.
‘That’s it. I can’t find anymore.’ Defeat rather than satisfaction for a job well done fills his voice. ‘As far as I can tell his first victim was Roger Ingerson. He was run off the road into Marton Creek just over four years ago. His car was found upside down in the water after a flood had subsided.’
‘What do you know about him?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I’ll have a look, see what’s on the system.’
Alfonse’s fingers rattle a couple of keys and he reaches for the mouse. A clacking whir comes from the corner as a printer starts to spit out sheets of A4.
I take them from the printer and sit back down.
Alfonse rises to his feet with a groan; he’s unsteady through exhaustion, but I’m not prepared to let him go just yet. ‘What did you get from the DMV?’
‘They wouldn’t speak to me so I got the chief to put someone onto it. Let me grab a few hours’ sleep and if we haven’t heard anything I’ll find a way into their system.’
I don’t like the delay, but recognise his brain and body need a rest.
He stops at the door and turns to me. ‘Stay safe, Jake. Before Kira, this guy had killed twenty-five times.’
I do a quick calculation. The total number of victims is thirty-one and we have no idea who he is or why he’s killing.
Reading the details on Roger Ingerson, I find there isn’t much to tell. At the time of his death he was married with a nine-year-old daughter. He worked the oilfields as a roustabout. His listed address is in one of Casperton’s less salubrious areas. Not the worst, but I don’t expect he had a white picket fence or a neighbourhood watch he could rely on.
From the report and its official language, I glean his death was listed as misadventure and hadn’t been investigated in any fashion. His body was trapped in the wreckage of the car and the coroner’s report stated his cause of death as drowning.
His legs were both shattered and there was internal bleeding, which would have killed him if he hadn’t drowned. I can only hope for his sake he was knocked unconscious by the crash.
I go in search of Chief Watson. He’s busy conducting the press conference I’d set up earlier, so I make a couple of calls.
When the chief is finished with the press, I manage to get him and the mayor to see me in his office.
‘What you got, Boulder?’
I tell him what Alfonse has uncovered and my thoughts about how Ingerson may have been specifically chosen as a starting point. The chief accepts the news with a sigh and a closing of his eyes. The mayor on the other hand looks as though he’s just caught his wife in bed with his brother. There’s anger, denial and incomprehension flashing across his face as he tries to come to terms with the number of homicides.
‘Any specific ideas about Ingerson?’
‘No, but Ingerson’s widow has agreed to see me so long as I’m there before ten.’ I hesitate, knowing what I’m about to say is crossing a boundary. ‘I’m going to have to tell her his death wasn’t an accident.’
The chief purses his lips. ‘Yeah, you’ll need to. I’d come with you, but the FBI have called. They’ll be here in an hour.’
‘That’s fine.’ I’m happy to go alone. To slip under the radar and steal a march. ‘That’s great about the feds. Have you heard anything from the DMV?’
‘I called and tried to light a fire under them. They told me the one guy who knows how to do that won’t be in until tomorrow morning.’ He raises his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Perhaps the FBI will be able to put more of a squeeze on them, or go to a national source who can get that information.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
I don’t think there’s anything else to say just now, so I leave them to deal with their end of things and head off to see Faith Ingerson. On my way past the reception desk, Darla waves me across and hands me a bunch of files.
‘Hey, sugar. The chief told me to give you a copy of these.’
Flicking through the files, I see they are reports from the coroner and the CSI team.
With a glance at my watch to check I have time, I find a seat and skim read them.
Five minutes later, I’m handing the files back to Darla. Nothing in them came as a surprise, although I was interested to learn Donny Prosser and Wendy Agnew’s bodies had both displayed the tell-tale marks left by a Taser. According to the report, Prosser had been zapped four times.
That explains how he’d been put into the car where he’d been murdered. As a final nai
l into the coffin of the killer’s romantic-tryst-gone-wrong set-up, the coroner’s report also noted Wendy Agnew was on her period.
The CSI team’s report is filled with lots of little pieces of evidence which would have to be analysed in a lab before a firm conclusion is made. Due to the public location of where the bodies were found, I don’t hold much hope they have found something which will help identify the killer. Their evidence will be more use in the courts than the investigation.
Both had filed preliminary reports on Angus Oberton, but neither is detailed enough to tell me anything new.
63
Since the spat with Alfonse, I’ve taken to checking my rear-view mirror a lot more than usual. I don’t spot any particular set of headlights tailing me, but I’m not what you’d call an expert at this kind of thing.
I reach the edge of Maesher and turn onto sixth. There’s the odd street light not working, a pair of sneakers hanging from an overhead cable and there are cars on bricks in two driveways, but the area’s not as bad as I remember. One of the mayor’s programs must have actually worked for a change.
As I park outside the Ingerson house, I notice a bunch of youths playing a game of pick-up across the street.
Part of me half expects them to try and hustle me for a few bucks against the safety of my car. Considering my current frame of mind, it will be a whole lot safer for them if they don’t.
Maybe it’s my body language or the look in my eyes, but not one of them so much as steps towards me.
The door opens before I get to it and a teenage girl runs outs. ‘Screw you. I’m going to Sophie’s.’
I step forward and knock on the still open door. Getting no answer, I rap my knuckles against the faded paint a second time and call out.
The woman who comes to the door is a sight and a half. I don’t know whether her appearance is a direct result of the loss of her husband or the constant battle of raising a headstrong teenager, but she doesn’t look good.
Her hair is matted and the clothes she wears are stained and shapeless. The look on her face is one of uncaring indifference to the world.