by Max Manning
Blake’s mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“What’s so crazy about it? You’ve got the skills. We need to at least try to do something. Lauren would want us to try. I know she would.”
“We can’t.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
Leah’s cheeks reddened. She took a minute to compose herself. “Are you unable to articulate your reasons?”
“I can give you reasons. The thing is, I don’t want to. I’m not going to.” Blake stood.
Leah reached out and tugged gently at his wrist. “Please sit down,” she said. He did as she asked. She kept her fingers resting on the back of his hand and took a deep breath. “A few weeks before she died, Lauren told me she believed you could straighten yourself out if only you’d do something positive with your life. Set yourself a challenge.”
“You mean run a marathon or climb a mountain?” Blake asked, shaking his head.
“You were a serious investigative journalist, weren’t you?”
Blake answered with silence.
“Make finding Lauren’s killer your challenge. That’s the least she deserves. Did you love her?”
“I really cared about her.”
“Then why not?”
Blake shook his head. “Leave it to the police. That’s what they’re for.”
“They’re not getting very far. If you find out anything important, you can share it with them.”
“Have you seriously thought it through?”
“I really have. Please think about it.”
Blake thought about it. Maybe it was the only way to put things right. He’d failed Lauren in so many ways. She’d given him everything, and all he’d offered her was disappointment. He couldn’t bring her back. Maybe this could be the next best thing.
He looked at Leah, his lips twisting into a tight smile. “I need some time,” he said. “I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad idea, but at least it’s an idea, and I haven’t had many of those recently.”
Nineteen
Fenton stifled a yawn and listened to the press officer. He certainly had a talent for talking.
“The newspapers and TV are going for broke on this story,” Partington said. “They keep using the IKiller hashtag. We’ve lost our ability to control the press coverage of the case. The killer’s using social media to set the agenda.”
Detective Chief Superintendent Bell scowled behind his polished oak desk. “You’re admitting you can’t do your job, that the force’s press office is an expensive waste of taxpayers’ money?”
Partington looked across at Fenton, as if hoping for some sign of support. The detective raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He wanted the meeting over with as quickly as possible. He had better things to do.
Partington wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and tapped deftly on the screen. “The second murder sent Twitter crazy. It got several hundred more likes than the Instagram message and was retweeted 20,282 times.”
His patience worn thin, Fenton snapped. “I don’t give a damn about what’s happening online. The most important thing is that we catch this killer, and I can’t do that sitting here talking.”
Bell’s scowl deepened. “We’re already being crucified by the media, and this case needs to be sorted out. The whole thing is making me look like a complete idiot.”
Fenton glanced across at the press officer, who smiled. “I know it’s not my job, but I can’t help thinking that the killer’s social media posts are the key to this case,” Partington said.
Fenton shrugged. “The cyber team’s doing everything they can, but they keep hitting dead ends.”
“That’s because it’s so easy to cover your tracks. If you keep creating a different generic email address and use the Wi-Fi at some random coffee shop or internet café, you’re going to be almost impossible to trace.”
Bell lifted his chin and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest. “The word ‘impossible’ is banned in my office.”
Fenton slapped a hand on the desk and rose abruptly to his feet. “I’ve got a murder investigation to run. We’re going around in circles here.” He half expected Bell to order him to stay where he was, but Partington intervened.
“Wait a minute, please,” he said. “There’s one more thing I wanted to mention.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Fenton sat down. It was the please that clinched it.
Partington nodded his thanks. “I was wondering whether you’ve got someone monitoring the online comments about I, Killer?”
Bell threw Fenton a questioning look.
“Of course,” Fenton said. “We have a civilian support worker on it full time.”
Partington winced. “I thought you might say that. The thing is, this is not a criticism—I’m trying to help—but I don’t think you understand the scale of the task.”
Fenton clenched his jaw. He wasn’t used to being told how to do his job but was too professional to put personal pride before the investigation.
“Apart from the I, Killer messages and photographs going viral across social media, people are discussing the murders on message boards and commenting on newspaper websites. We’re probably talking tens of thousands of posts and more every day. The killer could even be joining in the discussions, making comments of his own.”
Fenton took a moment to let Partington’s words sink in. If he was right about the size of the monitoring task, then they were going to need more manpower. “I’ll check it out right away,” he said. “Thanks for bringing it up.”
Partington seemed genuinely pleased to have made a positive contribution to the investigation, but Bell took the opportunity to twist the knife.
“Sort it out, DCI Fenton,” he said. “I need everyone on the top of their game right now.”
Twenty
Back in his own office, Fenton grabbed his computer’s keyboard and tapped #IKiller into the search engine. The results filled the screen. He clicked on the top one, #IKiller on Twitter. He had an idea what was coming, but the sheer volume shocked him.
Hundreds of the tweets condemned the murders as evil, hundreds accused the police of incompetence, and hundreds more expressed a fascination with the killer and the photographs of his victims. Fenton’s heart sank as he skimmed the messages.
Never seen a dead person before. #coolcorpses #IKiller
Thanks for sharing. Made my day. Can’t wait for the next one. #dyingformore #IKiller
Dead good photos. This is so evil…but I love it. HaHa. #adyingart #IKiller
Fenton closed the file and thought about repeating the exercise on Instagram but couldn’t face it. Partington had been right. He needed to assign at least two more bodies to monitor the messages and comments.
He reached into his in tray and started leafing through a hard copy of the Edward Deere forensic report. There were no spots of blood that didn’t belong to the victims, no clothing fibers, no stray hairs, no flakes of skin, no footprints or fingerprints.
Either the killer was extremely lucky, or he’d put a lot of effort into leaving the crime scene clean. Both murders were carried out in locations not covered by CCTV cameras. Fenton suspected there was nothing lucky about that.
His line of thought was broken by the sharp rap of knuckles on the door. He didn’t invite the visitor in, but the door opened anyway, and the head of a uniformed constable appeared.
“Excuse me, sir, but—”
Fenton cut the young officer off mercilessly. “No, I won’t excuse you.”
“Right, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“What’s your name, Officer?”
“Mackie, sir. Police Constable Mackie.”
“Well, Police Constable Mackie, can’t you see I’m busy?”
&
nbsp; Mackie’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t realize, sir.”
Fenton prided himself on not being an asshole boss, but the constable had caught him at a bad moment. “This is what’s called thinking, Mackie. You probably don’t do a lot of it at the moment, but if you get out of that uniform and become a detective one day, it’s going to be an important skill. When I’m thinking, I don’t like to be interrupted. Is that clear?”
Mackie nodded, pulled his head out of sight, poked it back into view, mumbled something unintelligible, and ducked out again, closing the door behind him.
Fenton checked his watch. He’d been at work for twelve hours. He hoped Tess wasn’t giving Marta too much trouble.
He stretched his legs, leaned back in the leather chair, and closed his eyes. He knew that sometimes killers preyed on a certain physical type. People who reminded them of the real target of their murderous urges. A mother, father, wife, or ex-girlfriend. Each time they killed, they got the satisfaction of revenge. Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere couldn’t have been more different. Neither of them were sexually assaulted, before or after their deaths.
Fenton opened his eyes, sat up straight, and took a notebook and pen out of the desk drawer. He flipped the notebook open and wrote, in capital letters, the words FASCINATED BY DEATH.
He wasn’t a psychologist, but he’d been around long enough to know that most serial killers are psychopaths, but not all psychopaths are serial killers. Some of the world’s most successful men and women, business tycoons and political leaders, have achieved what they achieved because they are charismatic, ruthless, lacking in empathy, and manipulative. All classic psychopathic traits.
Fenton tried to imagine the killer’s day-to-day life. He probably held down a job. Maybe even had a wife or family. Nobody suspected what he really was. During the killer’s childhood, there would have been unprovoked outbursts of violence, incidences of high-risk behavior. By now, he’d probably mastered the art of appearing normal. He’d be skilled at aping the emotions of non-psychopaths. Fenton put the pen to paper again and printed the words FAKING NORMALITY.
He reached for his white plastic in tray, grabbed the autopsy reports, and flicked through the pathologist’s conclusions. Inevitably, when someone’s throat is slit, there is an awful lot of blood. Did the killer choose this method because he liked to, needed to, see the blood pumping from the carotid arteries, watch life seeping from the bodies of his victims? Fenton added the phrase A LUST FOR BLOOD to his list.
Did the killer saw at the homeless man’s neck in rage, frustration, or out of sheer curiosity? In both cases, the initial cut to the throat had been clean, lightning quick, and fatal, the knife wielded from a freestanding position. The victims weren’t bound or held in position to ensure accuracy. That would require excellent coordination, strength, speed, and a lot of confidence in his ability to strike a fatal blow. Fenton closed the reports and dropped them back in the tray. He picked up the pen and grabbed the notebook. He paused for a moment before writing the words A TALENT FOR KILLING.
Fenton used the pen to drum a simple rhythm on the table. The internet photographs, the messages, the IKiller hashtags: the killer had an ego the size of a small planet, and it was going to need stroking regularly. He stopped drumming and made a final note. OBSESSED WITH FAME.
He slipped the notebook and pen back in the drawer. Fenton fished his cell phone out of his pocket and checked for a text message from the nanny about Tess acting up. Nothing. He headed for the door. Before his fingers touched the handle, it opened slightly, and Constable Mackie’s head appeared in the gap.
“What now?” Fenton asked. “I’m off home to read my daughter a bedtime story.”
Mackie edged nervously into the room. “I tried to tell you before, sir, but you were busy thinking. There’s been another woman attacked in Victoria Park. Stabbed in the neck.”
The constable’s words took a second to sink in. “Another body?”
Mackie shook his head. “She’s on her way to the hospital. The attack was interrupted by a couple of joggers. They chased the man and held him down until a patrol car arrived. Detective Constable Ince is at the scene, sir.”
Fenton pushed Mackie aside and sprinted down the narrow corridor.
• • •
Half a dozen spotlights lit the crime scene. Inside the lights, police tape sealed off a rectangular area of grass. Inside the tape, four crime scene investigators wearing plastic overalls, hoods, and face masks crawled in formation. Fenton spotted Detective Constable Ince talking to two female uniformed officers outside the tape on the edge of a children’s play area. Both of the women were laughing loudly at something the detective had said. Ince noticed his boss approaching and ushered the uniforms away.
“What have we got?” Fenton asked.
“Attempted murder of a woman in her thirties, sir. It looks like the suspect tried to slit her throat, and she twisted away but wasn’t able to avoid being stabbed in the side of the neck.”
“She’s alive?”
“The paramedics reckon she’ll survive. The blade just missed her left carotid. She’s in a medically induced coma for now. She was lucky.”
Fenton thought Ince looked as if he was enjoying the gory part of the job a little too much. “You call being stabbed in the neck and being put in a coma lucky?”
Ince had the good sense not to respond.
“And what about the suspect?”
“The park was pretty deserted—it closes at dusk—but a couple of students out for a run were heading for the eastern gate when they witnessed the attack. They dialed 999, disarmed the suspect, and sat on him until the uniforms arrived. I think they were rugby players, sir. You know, big buggers.”
“Where’s the suspect now?”
“He’s cuffed, in the back of a patrol car and on his way to the station.”
Fenton buttoned up his jacket and shivered. “What about the weapon?”
Ince grinned. “We’ve got it. Once we match the cutting edge to the other wounds, it’s done. Case closed.”
Fenton blew on his hands and shivered again. A dangerous man was off the streets. There was no doubt about that, but Ince’s smugness made him uneasy.
Twenty-One
Interrogation could be the hardest and, at the same time, the most satisfying part of a detective’s job. There were rules to be followed, techniques to draw on, and plenty of psychological plays to snare a criminal in his own web of lies.
Fenton sat in the corner of the interview suite, observing the suspect as Daly, his team’s most experienced interrogator, fired off the questions. For thirty minutes, they went unanswered. The suspect, tall, muscular, and in his midtwenties, sat upright, his white-knuckled hands gripping the edge of the table, his eyes flickering constantly around the room.
When asked repeatedly to give his name, he gave no sign that he’d even heard the question. He said nothing when told he was being questioned in connection with two murders and one attempted murder.
The breakthrough came after a police constable entered the room and handed Daly a piece of paper. She scanned it and passed it to Fenton. Daly stopped pacing and sat opposite the suspect. She tried to look him directly in the eyes, but he shifted his head, just a fraction.
“We know your name is Ellis Taylor. We know you are twenty-six and live at 22a Butterfield Road, Bow.”
The suspect turned slowly to face the two-way viewing mirror spanning most of the wall to his left and stared at his reflection.
“That’s not me,” he said. “I don’t know no Ellis Taylor.”
“That’s weird, because according to our database, you’ve got his fingerprints.”
Taylor kept his eyes on the mirror, behind which Bell and Ince were watching in the dark. Daly waited patiently until Taylor turned back to face her. This time, he let their eyes lock.
“We’ve got offi
cers on their way to your apartment, others digging deep into your records. Within the hour, we’ll know everything about you. There’s no point playing this game anymore.”
“I’m not playing. She deserved to die. She was an evil bitch.”
Daly glanced at Fenton. “You knew her then?”
Taylor nodded. Strands of dark hair fell from behind his ears, framing his narrow face. “I knew all about her. She deserved to be punished.”
“Punished for what?”
Taylor twisted his lip. “The soul who sins deserves to die.”
“What was your relationship with her?”
“I don’t have relationships with sinners.”
Daly took a moment to consider her next question. She looked at Fenton again. He gave nothing away.
She turned to address Taylor, only to find him staring at the mirror again.
“If you want, we can postpone this interview until we get you a lawyer. You’re entitled to legal aid.”
Taylor kept his head still. “I don’t need no lawyer. I’ve done nothing. Only good things.”
“Stabbing Tanya Reid in the neck is good? Killing Lauren Bishop and Edward Deere is good? We have witnesses. The men who apprehended you saw you stab Miss Reid. We have the knife; we’ll be able to match the blade to the murder wounds. You cocked up this time.”
Taylor looked straight ahead and released his grip on the table. “I must be careful. They’re watching me. Watching and listening. Happy is he who does not condemn himself.”
For a moment, Fenton thought he had worked out that the mirror was two-way, but as he watched the corners of Taylor’s mouth twitch, fall still, and twitch again, he realized the real reason for his outburst. Paranoia, plain and simple.
Fenton caught Daly’s eye and raised a hand.
“The interview is suspended,” she said. “I think we all need a few minutes.”