The Kindred Killers

by Graham Smith

  ‘One of the managers came over and congratulated me. Took us to the bar and comped us a couple of drinks. As we were drinking them, two women came over.’ Another shrug. ‘They were all over us. I can’t speak for Darryl, but I felt like a god. I’d just won two grand and a pair of beautiful young women were practically launching themselves at us.’

  ‘What happened next?’ I can guess, but I want him to put it in his own words.

  He mops his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I took one of the girls back to my room and left Darryl with the other. Until you started asking questions today, I wasn’t even sure if he’d slept with her.’ The handkerchief takes another pass. ‘When I woke up she was gone and so were all my winnings.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty.’ I mean it too. He’s given me a lot of information with very little persuasion. ‘And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about what happened there.’

  36

  The chief is silent as he drives. It’s part concentration on the road and part thinking time. His knuckles form white hillocks as he grasps the wheel. There are no lights or sirens on his pickup but that doesn’t slow his progress.

  Gazala has been found. Or rather her body has. The chief has told me she’s been murdered but he hasn’t said how. I’m guessing the how is either unknown or something we have to see for ourselves.

  The crime scene tape beside a forest ranger’s hut is a surprise, as is the crime scene tent. I’ve been expecting another charred body on a burned cross in a woody glade.

  A team of white suited crime scene workers are milling around, their eyes above the protective masks grim. The customary black humour used as a coping mechanism is missing. More than anything else, it tells me that whatever is in the tent is horrific.

  The chief pulls two forensic oversuits from his trunk. He curses as he struggles into his. I stay quiet.

  This second death has far-reaching implications. If it’s another racially motivated murder, the focus of the investigation into the Fourniers’ deaths has to change. If unconnected, the chief has two big problems instead of one huge one.

  The chief retrieves a picture of the missing girl from a folder and nods at me. ‘You ready for this?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It’s all I can say. I’d rather go anywhere but in that tent. I need to though. Need to experience the horror for myself and make my own judgements. It’s not that I don’t trust other people’s accounts. I just trust my own more.

  The chief approaches the fluttering tape and steps over it. A path of foot pads have been laid by the CSI team. We follow them. I’m happy for the chief to lead.

  A man with a camera emerges from the tent. We perform an awkward shuffle to let him past without anyone stepping off the foot pads.

  I don’t mind the delay, but the chief’s growl indicates he does. He pushes the flapping canvas aside and enters the tent. I take a deep breath and a hearty swallow then follow him in.

  What greets me is a medieval torture scene. Gazala Kulkarni would have been pretty in life. In death, pain has transformed her into a hideous grotesque creature.

  The cause of her death is obvious. That she suffered unimaginable pain in her last moments more so.

  She’s naked. The blunt end of a thick iron rod protrudes from her vagina. The other pointed end has come out of her neck, pushing her head to one side.

  My teeth grind as I concentrate on not losing the contents of my stomach. The stench of voided bowels is bad, but not as bad as the trail of destruction on Gazala’s corpse.

  There are bite marks on her body where wild animals have feasted on a free meal. Her nose is missing and so is most of her right breast. I’m guessing foxes or maybe a bobcat. The damage speaks of small solitary animals. Had she been discovered by a bear, wolves or other pack animals there would be a lot more of her missing.

  A stream of blood has passed from her vagina. None is evident at her neck which means she died as the iron bar was forced through her body. I can’t stop the shudder that runs up my spine.

  I have an idea and it’s not a welcome one. I check my cell and find I have no signal; confirmation of my idea will have to wait until I can speak to Alfonse, or at least use my phone to search the internet.

  The chief touches my arm and points to the exit from the tent. I don’t need told twice.

  We walk back to his pickup in silence. I strip off the protective suit while he starts issuing orders to his men and making requests of the CSI team.

  My mind is chewing over the various aspects of my idea. If I’m right with my suspicions this death is linked to the others, and will without doubt be classed as a hate crime.

  If, however, I’m wrong, there are two groups of killers out there. Killers who don’t just kill, but who use horrific methods.

  Dead may be dead, but there are good and bad ways to die. None of these deaths could ever be described as good ways.

  I daren’t voice my suspicions to the chief until I have confirmed them as accurate in case I steer his investigation the wrong way. I’m lucky to be here and that’s not something I want to change.

  37

  The chief is talkative on the way back to Casperton. He’s bouncing ideas off me and looking for my take on the body we’ve just viewed. I don’t have a lot to offer him but I do share his belief that a gang of racists are behind these killings.

  The big question is how we’re going to identify the group. So far we have no leads worth following and can’t make anything except wild guesses at who may be potential suspects.

  As soon as my cell shows a solitary bar on the signal icon I call Alfonse. ‘Drop whatever you’re doing and have a look at Google for me. I want to know ten methods historically used for punishment or ritualistic killings in Asia. Let me know as soon as you have them.’

  Alfonse hangs up before I do. He’ll know from my tone and lack of salutation I’m in a hurry for the information.

  ‘What you thinking, Boulder?’

  ‘She was impaled. The Fourniers were crucified then burned alive. I’m wondering if they’re being executed in a way that’s relevant to their heritage or nationality.’

  He takes his eyes off the road to look at me. ‘That’s a good shout. I hope to God you’re wrong though. Because if you’re right, this is only the beginning.’

  ‘If I am, you’ll be able to call in the FBI.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if you’re right or not. It’s a call I’ll be making as soon as I get back from informing the family. You know what that means for you though, don’t you?’

  He’s meaning my involvement will become limited at best. While he can flaunt the rules, and consult a civilian when he’s nobody to answer to, the FBI agent or special agent who gets sent to investigate will want me kept out of sight and mind.

  ‘I’m not bothered about being involved if the FBI come. I just want those killers found and locked up.’

  It’s the truth. Or at least it’s the truth if the FBI are quick about their job. I sure don’t want to face off against any more killers. Once is more than enough. I don’t need any more fights to the death. Or nightmares.

  Anyway, just because the FBI roll into town, it doesn’t mean Alfonse and I have to stop our enquiries. It’d be easier to stop the proverbial runaway train than get Alfonse to drop this case. Anything we learn will be fed straight to Chief Watson.

  A beep from my cell indicates an email has landed from Alfonse. I send the acknowledgement of receipt he’s requested and scan my eyes down the screen as I scroll. He knows I understand the things I read better than those I hear.

  The third one down is what I’m looking for. He hasn’t just given me the requested information, he’s also included a few brief details about each one.

  Impalement is an historical execution method used in several Asian countries dating back to the fifth century BC.

  This information is all I need to know. Twice now, killers have struck against the residents of Casperton.

  The victims have been innocent people
. Their only crime being the colour of their skin.

  I tell the chief about Alfonse’s email. He curses for a whole mile without repetition.

  When he stops cursing he looks at me with a heavy expression. ‘What kind of monsters are we up against? It’s bad enough killing people of a different creed, but to make them suffer like this…’

  He tails off his sentence, unable to find the right words to describe what he’s feeling. As far as I’m concerned, curse words are the best fit.

  ‘Are you going to alert the public?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell do you want me to say? That there’s a gang of murderous psychos who are targeting people of colour, or that all blacks should stay home?’ There’s enough scorn and incredulity in his voice to strip paint.

  ‘Of course not.’ I match his tone as my own frustrations pour out. ‘You’re the chief of police and you have a responsibility to protect the citizens of Casperton.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, telling me about my responsibilities?’ The chief takes a corner too fast and has to swerve to avoid a truck coming the other way. Lights flash and a horn sounds. I have just enough time to see the truck driver flip off the chief.

  The near collision gives us both a chance to take a deep breath and calm down.

  ‘My point is that it’s better you put out a warning of some sorts, than the public reading about it in the Casperton Gazette.’

  ‘Dammit, Boulder, why do you always see things before I do?’

  I don’t answer him. The truth will do neither of us any favours. I’m a cynical pessimist by nature. I expect the worst and prepare methods to combat it.

  Trust isn’t something I give away easily. Not to people I don’t know well, or to the government and certainly not the press. Even a free-speaking crusader like Ms Rosenberg puts her own spin on things. Her exposés may keep local government in line, but Ms Rosenberg is a journalist which means she’s a sensationalist. Whatever life event moved her from New York to Casperton may just be reversed if she’s the one to break the news of a hate group escalating from preaching to heinous murders.

  The chief, by contrast, is an accepting man. For a police chief, he’s too keen to see the best in people. By now he should have replaced Lieutenant Farrage and all his deadweight cronies. I suspect he hasn’t because he feels he can train them into becoming good detectives. Perhaps they’ve got down on their knees and begged him with tears in their eyes. He’d fall for that. He doesn’t possess the cynical nature of a hard-bitten detective who’s met so many kinds of liar he doesn’t even trust himself.

  I respect him for not being like me. He’s a good man. If I’m honest with myself, a better man than I.

  38

  Noelle cradles Oscar’s head in her lap. He’s done little but groan in pain since they were pushed into this shack.

  Upon leaving their house, she’d been pushed into the back of a van. Oscar had been tossed in to land at her feet. Two of their captors had joined them. They’d been silent and still. Their only movement had been kicks aimed at Oscar whenever he rolled near them.

  Once the van had stopped, Oscar had been dragged out, the back of his head bouncing off the tow-hitch as he fell to the ground.

  The masked men had laid into his body with their heavy work boots. She’d yelled at them to stop but they’d ignored her. If her hands hadn’t been bound she’d have tried to intervene; to shield him.

  They’d concentrated their kicks on his body. From his chest down the blows rained, but never above the line from his nipples. With hands and feet bound he’d been unable to defend himself.

  The one saving grace was the fact they’d removed his gag prior to their attack. Coupled with the excessive alcohol intake the previous night, the kicks to his stomach, ribs and kidneys had sent violent streams of vomit from Oscar’s mouth.

  As a final insult, to add to the multiple injuries, one of the men had the others hold Oscar in place while he delivered a serious of vicious kicks to Oscar’s groin.

  They’d cut Noelle’s bonds free and had pushed her into this rough shack. Oscar had been dragged in after her. His bruised body too damaged for him to offer any resistance.

  For some reason she’d looked at her watch then. That had been five hours ago.

  It’s now twenty after eleven and Oscar still hasn’t regained any strength or reasonable degree of consciousness.

  The knot in her stomach could be there for a dozen various reasons. Hunger, revulsion, a desire to go to the bathroom, or just plain fear are her best guesses. Any one of these would explain it but she knows fear is the greatest contributor.

  Not fear for herself – while they’d been rough with her, the men hadn’t gone so far as to strike her. She was afraid for Oscar, the beating he’d taken must have caused some internal damage and the Lord alone knows what may be ruptured inside him.

  There’s also fear for their baby. There’s no way the variety of hormones her body is dumping at the moment can be good for a baby.

  It’s bad enough she may lose Oscar. The added horror of potentially losing his baby as well is more than she can take.

  She digs a nail into the soft skin between her left thumb and forefinger. The pain serves its intended purpose. It focuses her.

  A few cracks between the boards forming the walls allow slivers of light into the shack. It looks bare in the dimness.

  Noelle uses gentle movements to lower Oscar’s head to the dirt floor and tries the door.

  It’s locked.

  A search of the shack’s walls reveals one boarded-over window and no weak spots. The dirt floor offers the possibility of tunnelling under the walls. Or at least it would if the dirt wasn’t so hard packed.

  Five minutes spent pawing and scratching earns her two torn nails and a hole the size of a soup bowl.

  She looks round for a tool of some kind. Her eyes find nothing but dirt on the floor.

  The walls are bare timber. There are no shelves or anything that can be pried loose to aid her digging or use as a weapon. The men will have to open the door at some point.

  It’s better if they don’t. If they open the door it will mean more pain for Oscar. She’d face the pain herself if it wasn’t for the baby.

  She has another, more terrifying thought. What if they never come back? What then?

  She knows Oscar will die from his injuries and she’ll starve. As her body starts to devour its fatty tissues, the baby will suffer from malnutrition first.

  The dryness of her mouth gives her another, greater fear.

  Starvation won’t be what kills them. Dehydration will.

  She’s aware the human body can survive three weeks without food, but only three days without water. Oscar’s alcohol intake last night will have put him at a minus to start with.

  Noelle presses her ear against the door but hears nothing.

  Her eyes peek through the one crack she’s tall enough to reach. She sees brushwood and scrubland surrounded by hills. Her best guess is they’re in a valley somewhere.

  With nothing left to gain by stealth, Noelle resorts to desperation.

  She yells for help. None comes.

  She screams, hoping the shrillness will carry further. Nothing changes.

  With no reaction to her yelling and screaming, Noelle figures the men have abandoned her and Oscar to die.

  Noelle reasons that the door is the weak point and backs herself against the opposite wall. She runs the four paces and throws her shoulder against the lock side of the door.

  This time her scream is fuelled by pain rather than fear. The shack’s door stands firm against her assault, making her shoulder numb with the impact.

  If there’d been the slightest hint of give in the door, she’d try again regardless of the pain. She’s about to try kicking out at the boards forming the wall when a voice interrupts her. ‘Hey, bitch. Stop your hollerin’. From now on, every time you make a noise or try and escape, we’ll come in there and beat your
beaner lover some more.’ Just like the previous night, the voice is muffled by a hand.

  Noelle sinks to the floor and goes back to cradling Oscar.

  Tears run down her face and fall from her jaw as she wonders why they’ve been kidnapped, and what the men plan to do to them.

  39

  I can tell the chief is close to losing his patience and unless the person he’s speaking to is an imbecile, they’ll know it too.

  He’s spent the last five minutes getting the run-around from someone I presume is a junior desk clerk at the FBI office in Salt Lake City.

  While he drums frustrated fingers on his desk, I read through the file he handed me after glancing at it himself.

  The file is an initial report from the CSI team detailing the items found in the immediate vicinity of where the Fourniers were discovered.

  I ignore the technical jargon and look for the salient facts.

  The crosses were three by six-inch pine – available from any lumber yard. They’d been jointed with a half lap joint. I don’t know a lot about carpentry, but I do know that a half lap joint doesn’t require a cabinetmaker. Despite this, the report says the joints were well made and showed a degree of skill.

  The nails used to affix the Fourniers were standard six-inch nails which could be purchased at most hardware stores or builders’ merchants.

  There’s nothing enlightening in the report until I reach the pages concerning the items found on the track. Various candy wrappers and so on are all discounted due to them being aged by weeks, or months, on the forest floor.

  The cigar butt offers more. It’s a rare brand called a Royal Jamaica Extrafinos No. 4.

  A quick search on my phone shows them to be retailing at over ninety bucks for three. The fact I can source them on the internet with less than a minute’s searching says more about their retailer’s marketing expertise than the actual rarity of the cigars. Tracking down local retailers – and purchasers – of the cigars is a job best left for Alfonse.