“Freckles.”
Dad’s face turned sombre. “Did you know this young girl, Son?”
“Her name’s Dakota.” I spoke of her in the present tense.
“Dakota? What’s her second name?”
I couldn’t answer. My voice was quivering, threatening to quit. Suddenly, tears were running down my face. Everything was spinning.
“It’s okay, Son. It’s okay,” said Dad, leaving the table, edging towards me.
Of course it would never be okay. Not now. Not ever. And when I collapsed in front of him, that was the first blackout I had ever experienced. More would follow, all the way to adulthood.
That night, the nightmares started all over again. Only this time, Joey was joined by Dakota.
* * *
Over the next few days, details of Dakota’s horrific murder and equally horrific life began to emerge. Her father abandoned her at the age of two, leaving her in the care of a mother hooked on drugs and alcohol. Margaret McKenzie – Dakota’s mother – earned money for the drugs through prostitution. It soon became known that Dakota had been abused by some of her mother’s clients.
I wasn’t in the least bit surprised to hear that one of the clients had been Armstrong. My gut instinct had told me from the beginning that it had been Armstrong watching us in the long grass – not a frightened hare. It was little wonder Dakota had looked so terrified that day.
Over the next few days, the local newspapers made Dakota’s brutal murder a cause célèbre, and relentless pressure was put on Dad to bring the perpetrator to justice…
Despite this pressure, it was three long weeks before he was able to accumulate enough evidence to finally arrest Armstrong. Forensics had matched his teeth with the marks on Dakota’s buttocks. I shuddered when I overheard this piece of vile information.
It was only then, for me, that all the parts of the puzzle began falling into place. I had noticed the almost identical marks on Paul’s buttocks, months ago as we skinny-dipped. When he caught me looking, he became angry, accusing me of being a ‘homo’. We didn’t speak to each other for almost a week, until he eventually calmed down, and we were able to laugh about it. His explanation for the marks was a raid on Mister Johnson apple trees, and a weak branch.
Lucky I landed on my ass rather than my head. I thought of his explanation and how feasible it sounded then.
Not now.
I believed Paul had been lured to Armstrong’s trailer with the incentive of money – something Paul was always short of. That was how Paul knew all about Armstrong’s comings and goings at the trailer – knew of the liquid in the cupboard, which I suspected had some sort of drug in it. That’s why Paul insisted Charlie say he was thirsty, knowing Armstrong would go to the cupboard at the end of the trailer, and where Paul waited in the darkness to shoot. I shuddered at the thought of what happened to Paul, and now fully understood why he wanted to kill such an evil creature. It all made sense. Paul. Joey. Dakota. How many others?
As the weeks went by, Armstrong at first denied knowing Dakota, but finally admitted having what he called paid ‘consensual’ sex. The bite marks were part of the sexual act he enjoyed. She was sixteen, and there was no law against having sex with a consenting adult. Dad suspected the abuse of Dakota by Armstrong had started many years ago, but suspecting and proving were two different matters entirely.
After being held in the county jail for three months, Armstrong was eventually released through lack of substantial evidence.
As days turned to weeks, Dakota’s murder slipped down the list of priorities. The economy was in turmoil and people had more pressing things to think about such as jobs and livelihoods.
It was late December, when the town learned the news of Armstrong’s body being found at his trailer. He had been shot, once in the head. I’ll never forget the look of relief on Dad’s face, when he told Mum the news.
“I only hoped he suffered,” said Mum.
The newspapers held the same sentiments as Mum, but displayed them in a more professional manner, stating that sometimes justice takes a while, but once that while has come, it sure as hell takes. Someone said Christmas had come early for the town.
Three days after Armstrong’s death I ran into Charlie.
“He did it, Tommy. Paul went and shot the perv. He really did it.” Charlie looked terrified as well as excited.
“Don’t talk about it. Understand? No one knows anything. If word gets out, he’ll be arrested. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“No… of course not. We… we’re blood brothers, aren’t we?”
“Forever, Charlie.”
“Are… are you going to talk to Paul?”
“No. Best that we aren’t seen together.”
“Of course! I get it. They might be watching. Right?”
I nodded. “Best play it safe.”
Charlie nodded, also, and then hit me with his news. “I’m leaving here, Tommy. Dad got a promotion. We’re moving to Hastings.”
Before I met Dakota, Charlie’s news would have devastated me. But I had changed.
“That’s great, Charlie.”
“I’ll probably come back, every now and again.”
He was lying, of course. He had no intention of ever coming back. He was glad to be out of here, away from Paul, away from this town of monsters and bogeymen.
We shook hands, and I watched him walk away.
* * *
“Tom? Are you sure you’re okay?” Belinda’s voice brought me back from the abyss.
“Yes… really, love. I’m fine. Just need some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I went out to the garden, taking the newspaper with me. A cool breeze swept through me, and I stood in it, feeling every pore of my hot body cooling down. The breeze immediately reminded me of the evening I dumped Paul’s gun in the lake. When I went back to where he had hid it, I expected it to have been gone. But no, it was still there, in all its horrible glory, waiting for me.
When I went to Armstrong’s trailer, I had no plan, only determination. That smile on his face was there, permanently etched like a guilty clown. When I shot him, he crumbled like a pile of dirty clothes.
I walked back to the lake, and threw the gun as far as I could, hoping it would rest where Joey’s body had once been. Over the next few days, I waited to be arrested, but there was little interest shown by Dad or any of his colleagues.
Armstrong had so many enemies, it would have been impossible to even know where to begin, he told Mum. Besides, the town is saying Armstrong got what he deserved, and they don’t want valuable resources being used up to find his killer or killers. Everyone is relieved.
Now, re-reading the newspaper article, I wondered how many would still be relieved?
DNA Evidence Reopens Murder Case
Newly discovered DNA proves that Norman Armstrong was not the killer of a young girl, Dakota McKenzie, over twenty years ago…
* * *
The story continued with the confession of a serial killer in prison wanting to clear his ‘conscience’ before being executed.
Armstrong’s face kept staring out at me from the page. I could no longer look at it…
~~~~~~~~
About the author
Sam Millar is a best-selling crime writer and playwright from Belfast, Northern Ireland, UK. He has won numerous literary awards and his books have all been critically praised. He is the recipient of the Aisling Award for Art and Culture, the Martin Healy Short Story Award, the Brian Moore Award for Short Stories and Cork Literary Review Writer’s Competition. He has also had his work performed by the BBC, and published in over thirty literary journals throughout the world, including the USA, Australia, Europe and Africa.
Sam’s work has appeared in best-selling anthologies, and he has written a number of crime novels. To find out more visit his website: www.millarcrime.com.
A Killer Week
Cathy Cole
A game of hide-and-seek
I like it when they beg. It adds a certain frisson, sending blood rushing through my veins, igniting my nerve endings, making them tingle. However, that is for later. For now I am content to watch and wait.
My latest Thing is Barbie-doll pretty, all flicked blonde hair and emaciated waist. She buys with careless abandon – a waft of a hand here, a glossy pout of lips there. Sales assistants fawn over her, rushing to her aid.
Rich bitches. They’re all the same – flaunting their money, their bodies, themselves.
Today, I do a little ‘flaunting’ of my own, buying a pair of cool trainers, courtesy of my good friend, Bert, whose card and pin number I’ve borrowed. He won’t miss the money, and if he does… tough. He owes me. He owes me, big time.
Thoughts of Bert agitate. I can feel my anger growing, swelling until it causes actual pain, stinging, like thousands of pinpricks on my skin. I can no longer contain myself. I have to have her.
Now.
Today.
I decide to take her in the car park. She starts at my approach, six-inch heels scraping cement as she turns. Now the moment is at hand I want to prolong it, to enjoy it. I duck behind a pillar, waiting.
“Who’s there?” She peers into the darkness, voice unsteady with fear.
Her fear excites me, so I wait some more. It’s a game of hide-and-seek. Soon I will be the only one in the game, and seeking is much more fun.
I step from the shadows, holding my hands up in apology. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I’m looking for the exit to Baker Street?” I smile and see her eyes widen in appreciation.
“Oh, right.” She giggles, becomes Barbie again. “I can, like, show you the way.”
I lower my hands, allowing myself, and my smile, to relax. She is easy – like all the others.
When I step closer, close enough to inspect the open pores beneath the perfect make-up, she preens, tosses her fake curls. And when I take the stun gun from my shopping bag and jab it into her chest, she just stands there, looking at me with her big cow eyes asking, why?
Then she drops.
Pathetic!
I prise the keys from her unresponsive fingers, open the trunk and bundle her inside. Humming, I walk to the driver’s side and get in. I leave the car park of the Odyssey using a ticket I obtained earlier – I had to pay a hefty fee, thanks to my Thing’s shopping marathon, which she, in return, will pay for later. The barrier lifts, and we’re off.
I can’t afford to draw attention to myself so I drive within the speed limit. No sense taking chances. Anticipation is almost as much fun as the kill.
Almost.
Burger to go
“Your daughter, Ally… is her first name Mohammad, by any chance?” Police Constable Sara Steward grinned at her boss as she left the car.
“Hilarious,” Dickie said. He slammed the car door and stomped towards the cafe.
Sara followed, still in full flow. “Maybe I’ll order some black-eyed peas for lunch, what do you think?”
Dickie touched his swollen eye. Teaching his fifteen-year-old daughter self-defence had seemed like a good idea, telling her she had to return an expensive t-shirt she’d bought, in the middle of one of their bouts – not quite so inspired. “It was a lucky punch,” he snapped, wishing he’d never opened his mouth in the first place. “But I’ve docked her pocket money, in case she tries to repeat it.”
Sara giggled. “Let’s hope all her punches are so lucky.” Her voice lost its smile, “’cause there’s a whole lot of ugly out there.”
Dickie didn’t need reminding. He’d spent many a sleepless nights worrying about it. “You going to flap your lips all day, Steward, or do you want something to eat?” He glanced at the specials, barking out his order, wondering how long they’d get for lunch today.
Sara was still learning. She perused the menu, debating the nutritional merits of fish versus gammon (plus or minus sauce), before placing her order.
“It’s tough bringing up a teenager on your own,” she said, as she sat down.
“And you would know?”
“I was a teenager myself – and not that long ago.”
“You surprise me.”
“I’m just saying if you ever need to talk…”
Dickie glared at her, more because he was tempted to take her up on her offer. Maybe she could explain why everything he said either made Ally furious or tearful – no in between. Whether it was a woman thing, or a teenage thing? Not that it mattered. He didn’t understand either species. Times like these he missed Rachel the most.
Sara didn’t push. “I get it,” she said as the waitress appeared with his meal, “no personal stuff.”
“Yup,” Dickie muttered around a mouthful of meat, “That’s rule number two.”
“Two? What’s number one?”
Dickie grabbed his burger as their beepers sounded. “Order faster.”
He let her drive while he finished his meal.
“Where to?” Sara asked.
“Odyssey Shopping Centre. Girl’s gone missing. Name’s, Krista Conwell.”
“You think it might be The Cutter?” Sara tried to keep the excitement out of her voice.
Dickie hoped not. The Cutter, as the papers had dubbed him, left one hell of a messy crime scene. He forced down the last of his burger, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Even if it is, we’re just there to do the grunt work,” he warned, “before CID show up and take over.”
Sara didn’t care. This might be her first homicide and she was determined to experience as much of it as possible.
A job well done
I know where I’m going. I have a place picked out. It is beautiful, perfect, and, more importantly, secluded. It’s a setting that lives in my childhood, a golden memory that stays with me because it is the only one I have. It is also the last time I saw my parents together, and my mother, Nancy, sober.
However, I don’t think my Thing is going to enjoy it quite so much.
* * *
When I finish, I dump the body and abandon the car, key in the ignition, on the Ravenwell Estate. It doesn’t last five minutes. It passes me, engine revving and radio blaring, doing sixty-five in a thirty zone. Before nightfall, I know it will be in pieces, neatly stowed in some back-street garage, or burnt to a crisp on Wilson Common. Either way, there will be nothing to tie me to it. I congratulate myself on a job well done. To celebrate, I buy a large fish supper with the leftover money from good old Bert.
Nancy hovers while I eat, engulfing me in a fog of eau de vodka, until I feel like stabbing her with my knife. I need a place of my own – somewhere I can take my Things, play with them a while. The thought holds me. How cool would it be to keep them for a day or two, see the fear blossom over and over again.
My mind takes flight, making plans.
Later, in my room, I lie awake while an exquisite ache teases my nerve endings. I re-run the day in my mind. Apart from a few pieces of paper, my memories are the only thing I have to hold onto, because I take nothing from my Things. I watch CSI, I know trophies will get me caught, and I’m too smart for that.
The need rises, grows.
I need another Thing.
Soon.
Lust and Piles
She was no older than Ally.
Dickie swallowed back the greasy lump of burger reversing up his throat, and tried not to think about his daughter. It didn’t help that the corpse was wearing the same, exorbitantly priced t-shirt they’d fought about that morning.
He wondered if Krista Conwell had fought with her parents before going out. The probability was that she had – something daft, unnecessary, normal, until you realised it could never be taken back.
“So young to have taken such a grown-up step,” Sara said, sounding shaken, and not a little embarrassed by her original enthusiasm, “and in such a terrible way.”
“Yeah, in a perfect world death would be confined to the elderly, and we would all die peacefully in our sleep, in our own beds.” Dickie hawked, wante
d to spit, but knew better at a crime scene. They hadn’t made it as far as the abduction site, diverted here before they’d gone more than half a mile.
“What’s first?” Sara had her notebook out, pen ready. Gone was the joker, the agony aunt, she was all business.
Patrol officers were doing the necessary, taping off the perimeter, holding people back. Dickie surveyed the scene. “Talk to our audience,” he motioned to the crowd, “and get someone to take photos. I want names, ages… you know the drill.”
Sara nodded, scribbled in her notebook. “Got it. Bastards usually stay to watch.”
“Clarke will help.” He waved to a uniformed officer, calling him over.
“Glad to see you’re keeping the scene warm for me, O’Neil. And speaking of keeping me warm, Rachael says hi.”
Dickie bit back a curse. He turned. Miles Henderson stood behind him, close enough to count the fillings in his teeth as he chomped on a huge wad of chewing gum. A younger man appeared at his side.
“You gonna’ introduce us?” Miles gave Sara an appreciative look.
“Sara, meet Piles and…?”
“Guy,” the other man said, eagerly holding out his hand, forestalling Miles’ angry protest. “Guy Warner, nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Sara said.
Dickie gave an exasperated sigh, cleared his throat and looked pointedly at their clasped hands.
“Er… right. Sorry, Sarg.” Sara flicked her notebook closed and backed away. “I’m gonna…” She waved a hand towards the crowd and scurried off.
“You dating, O’Neil?” Henderson gestured to Dickie’s black eye, smirking.
“Why? You want more of my cast off’s?” It was a cheap shot, and he knew he’d pay for it, but it still felt damn good.
Crime After Crime Page 3