by S. Burke
The following morning a photograph arrived at The Times editorial desk. The man was bound. The message was the same. The countdown to day eight had begun.
Trish Clayton took the call from the editor. “What the fuck? How? That’s impossible, she’s been under watch twenty four seven. She couldn’t have done this. How?”
She phoned Mike and listened to him scream, then contacted Nigel Cantrell and the rest of the team.
Thirty minutes later most of them were in the conference room. Those still on duty when the call came from the editor were dressed appropriately, the other arrivals were in various stages of day off clothes.
The doctor looked less than formal in tight jeans and tee shirt. He was in good condition, and Trish was surprised at the muscular frame that had been hidden beneath the suit.
Mike was in a track suit and looked tired but otherwise together. She was still wearing jeans and a sweater.
The photograph was carefully checked for prints, the editorial staff at the newspaper well aware of how to handle the pictures by now. This one didn’t match any of the photos of missing males. Yet another John Doe. For now.
The image was sent to all law enforcement agencies. They needed to identify this male, and fast. He was dark haired, appeared to be tall even when seated, broad shoulders, long legs, and a look of utter hopelessness sat on his handsome face.
The enlarged image was on the file handed to each person; file number nineteen. Unknown victim. Day One. Sunday. 7:15 a.m.
“Doc? What’s going on here? She’s been under surveillance since she left. She physically could not have done this.” Mike Matheson kept his anger on a tight leash.
Nigel Cantrell carefully studied the photograph.
“Doc? Is this copycat, do you think?” Mike asked.
“Possible, Mike. Anything is possible. I doubt it though. Look at the bindings; they are the same, crisscrossed in the same manner. The pictures released in the press showed only the faces, not the binding. Exactly the same. That information was not available to the public. Is there any way she could have slipped past the surveillance team?”
“NO! No, none. She hasn’t left the room since that bartender went last night. The room’s wired and she is under twenty four hour watch. She couldn’t have done it.”
“Not without help.” said the doctor.
“What are you saying? She has a team deal going?” Trish asked.
“Good call, Trish. In the face of this new photograph, that looks decidedly possible. Either that, or she is not the perpetrator at all.”
“Bullshit! You know it’s her. We all know it’s her.” Mike exploded.
“We may know that at gut level, Mike, but we can’t convict her on what we have.”
Mike began pacing. His agitation was infectious and the other agents all picked up on the aggression.
Nigel Cantrell watched the man for a few moments and then said, “For God’s sake, sit down, man. All of you focus away from the anger. Look at the photograph. I need input. Is it identical in every way? What are we missing here? Anything?”
Mike sat, unhappily aware that the doctor was right.
Trish Clayton walked over to the enlargement of the picture. “Compare it to all the others and look for any differences, okay. Anything else?”
“How long will the press hold this?” the doctor asked.
“I’ve spoken to the editor. He’ll do whatever he can to assist,” Mike said.
“I’d recommend he release it now. Let’s use the public to I.D. this guy. The sooner the better.”
“Makes sense, yeah?” Trish agreed.
“Doc? What are the chances we are looking at another ‘Manson family’ deal?” Mike asked.
“I wish I could rule it out, Mike. It’s possible. I’d say at this point we are at the very least looking at a team. Someone is taking their orders from our suspect perhaps. I doubt other possible perpetrators would be the leader. Sheila is way too dominant a character for that.”
“Trish, call the editor and ask him to release that photograph, same as always, head and shoulders only; no details. Tell him we need a ‘Do you know this man?’ headline. Use the linked number. Oh, and Trish? Call downstairs and organize more uniformed people to handle all the calls.” Mike rattled off his instructions.
The woman seemed about to say something, then merely nodded and headed to a desk to make the calls.
Nigel Cantrell looked at Mike. “Can I speak to you outside?”
“Now what?” Mike said, but followed the doctor into the corridor.
“It’s none of my business, Mike, but do you always speak to Trish as if she’s your secretary?”
“Huh? I don’t do that. Shit! Do I?”
“Yup, you do. She was pretty steamed about it too.”
“I could have said the same thing to one of the guys!”
“Yeah, you could have, and that would be preferable to having the second highest ranked officer in the room doing a junior’s task.”
“But she always …” Mike shook his head and looked across to where Trish was on the telephone. “Yeah, I just answered the next question I was gonna ask you. I always have her do this stuff, but mainly because I trust her to do it properly.”
“You ever tell her that?”
“No.”
“I’d recommend it.”
The Agent looked at the smaller man and grinned. “You know … I may have misjudged you, Doc. You’re okay.”
“Don’t smile too soon, Mike. I can be an utter bastard.”
“Trust me. I wouldn’t notice.”
Nigel Cantrell grinned and walked back across to where the other team members stood in a huddle. He knew it needed Mike and Trish to be at ease with him before the others would relax enough to share their thoughts on this case.
He kept his own thoughts quiet for the moment. He would need help with this, and fast.
He made a call.
Chapter 7
Three Days Earlier
Deputy Sheriff Barry Osborn sat in the patrol car as he did every morning, tucked in behind the tree line.
He sipped at his now cold coffee and munched on the last doughnut. Bored as always, he forced his eyes to remain open and watch the road. The hill crest to the east wasn’t far, and vehicles speeding from the long straight toward the west always found it difficult to run when he hit that siren. They faced a sudden and unexpected turn, then immediately a hill climb. He hadn’t had many this past month, what with most folks choosing the highway and four lanes of freedom from hidden cop cars.
The van caught him by surprise and he clocked it as it began to apply the brakes. One hundred and four miles per hour!
“Fuck!” He hit the siren and pursued it. “What the fuck is under that hood?”
The driver responded to the siren and pulled over.
He took a look at the rear of the van and called in the plates. No wants or warrants, the vehicle registered to some company called ‘Heaven's Gate’.
Still chewing the last of the doughnut, he walked towards the van. He stooped and looked briefly in the driver’s window. The driver was a female. Officer Osborn indicated that she should wind the window down. She complied.
“Morning, Ma’am. Are you aware you were speeding?”
She didn’t respond.
“Ma’am, I need your license and registration, please.”
The dark-haired woman reached for a handbag on the seat next to her, moving an old Polaroid camera out of the way to get to it. She looked in the bag, appearing confused. As she did so he noted that her hand appeared to be covered in blood. She turned to the officer, without removing anything from the bag.
“Ma’am, are you hurt?”
Again no response.
“Ma’am, this appears to be blood. I ask again, are you hurt? Do you require assistance? Paramedics?”
She looked at him blankly, not appearing to comprehend.
“Ma’am, do you understand what I am saying? Do you speak
English?”
Osborn was now concerned and uncomfortable. She’d understood when he’d asked for the license and registration. Well, maybe she just anticipated that, she hadn’t given him the documents. “Ma’am, I need you to step out of the vehicle. I believe you may be injured. Please unlock the door and step out and away from the vehicle.”
The woman made no move to comply. Osborn opened the door and stood back, pantomiming that she needed to exit the van. She swung her legs out and stood up. The front of her dress was splattered with blood. Her right hand looked to be bleeding freely. Osborn took out his fresh handkerchief and bound the wound before making his way quickly to the police cruiser. He called in a medical alert and then removed the first aid kit from the police vehicle.
“Ma’am, I need you to sit in the cruiser. There will be an ambulance here shortly to take a look at that hand.”
The woman looked young, around twenty four or so. Pale, but a real beauty none the less. She walked ahead of him to the cruiser and sat in the rear seat leaning back with her eyes closed.
Patrolman Osborn was worried. What if someone else was hurt and laying in the rear of the van? “Ma’am, I need to look inside the rear cab. Ma’am, do you understand?”
Still no verbal or visual response. Fuck this. Could be someone bleeding to death back there.
He walked quickly to the back of the van and opened the rear doors.
“Holy shit! What the fuck is this?” The entire rear of the van was covered in blood. Pools of it congealing on the floor and the walls sprayed thick with more.
Jesus H Christ she ain’t cut bad enough to bleed that much. He hastened back to the cruiser.
“Ma’am? Can you tell me, are you hurt badly anywhere else?”
She had her eyes closed and appeared to be sleeping. Osborn called in for back up. Something was very wrong here.
The ambulance arrived and the paramedics attended to the woman. The cut was neat, a long thin slice, and didn’t require stitching, but the woman might need a tetanus shot. Osborn called over Frankie Williams, the attending paramedic and an old school friend.
“Frankie, I need you to look at something with me.”
“‘Sup, Barry?”
Osborn opened the rear of the van again, this time using gloves and being cautious not to touch the handle too heavily. He wished he’d thought of that earlier.
“Take a look-see.”
“Fuck me! What is all that blood? What you got here, man?”
“She ain’t cut bad enough to bleed that way, is she?”
“Shit, no! That cut’s nasty, but that amount of blood didn’t just come from a slice on the hand.”
“That’s what I figured. I have backup on the way. Is she fit to wait a few minutes or do you need to transport her?”
“She’ll do fine; couple minutes aren’t going to make a difference. What the hell caused all that blood, man?”
Osborn shook his head. “I don’t know. But something tells me we have a real problem here. I’m gonna take a look in front.”
He did so, careful not to touch anything, “Frankie, take a look at this.”
The paramedic joined him at the side of the vehicle. “What am I lookin’ at?”
“Any ideas on what sort of camera that might be?”
“Sure I do, I had one myself when I was a kid. That a self-developer, probably Polaroid by the look.”
“Polaroid?”
“Uh-huh … why?”
“Probably … nothing. Just curious is all.”
The backup arrived and the officers stood in a huddle talking. The female officer detached herself and went to the rear of Osborn’s cruiser. “Ma’am? I need to ask you a few questions. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The woman again didn’t respond by word or inclination of her head. She sat quietly, calmly, and stared at the officer without expression.
“Make sure you read her rights, Furnell,” said Osborn.
Officer Furnell rejoined the group. “What are we arresting her for, bleeding? Did she try and run when you signalled her to stop, Osborn?”
“No.”
“Well then?”
“The amount of blood in the van is enough probable cause for me, Furnell.”
“Yeah. Okay, I can see it is. She doesn’t seem to understand anything I’m saying. The Miranda won’t make much difference.”
“Read it to her, and make certain one of us is with you when you do. You can accompany her to the hospital while she has a tetanus shot. Get the docs to check her hearing. She may be deaf, maybe that’s why she’s not responding. I’m callin’ this one in. Let me ask you all somethin’. What type of camera is bein’ used for the ‘Countdown’ murders?”
“What?” It came from three different directions at once.
“You heard me.”
“Are you saying that this woman may have something to do with the Countdown Killer?” asked Furnell.
“There appears to be an old Polaroid camera on the front passenger seat.”
“Shit … you have got to be kidding me? The Countdown murders? Man, oh man … what a collar that would be.”
“Go read her rights. Get her to the hospital. Don’t anyone touch the damned van. I’m calling in the captain on this one. I think he needs to call in the Feds and that special task force. I could be way off base, but I got a gut feelin’ about this one.”
“You don’t seriously think that the pretty lady in the back of your cruiser killed … what is it now? Sixteen men?” said Furnell.
“It’s up to eighteen. And why not?”
“Look at the size of her, man; she’s tall, sure … but there is no way that woman killed eighteen men. You gonna make a damned fool outta all of us.”
“Furnell, keep your damned opinion to yourself. I would rather look a fool than let a serial killer go just because she don’t look capable of murder. Remember Aileen Wuornos? Yeah.”
“She was a big old dyke.”
“She was a female capable of killing seven men. Get my drift? Get a move on. I’m calling the captain.”
The woman was transported to hospital, she had a tetanus shot, they checked her hearing, but with difficulty, as she didn’t respond to any of the questions. The doctors were of differing opinions, she could be in some form of shock, yet her vitals didn’t indicate that. She was more likely not responding by choice. Her eyes were checked and no signs of concussion or blunt force trauma were present.
She was released to the FBI and transported to the task force HQ for questioning and observation.
Present Day
Nigel Cantrell stood as Deputy Sheriff Barry Osborn entered the room. He extended his hand and shook that of the patrolman.
“Please sit, Deputy Osborn. I need to ask you some questions about Sheila Harrington, the woman you pulled for speeding two days ago.”
“The serial killer?”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“Am I in trouble here?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Nuthin’ but I did call it in as suspicious. You guys still holding her?”
“No.”
“Lawyered up, did she?”
“Something like that. Can I talk to you off the record?”
“Off the record?”
“Totally.”
“Yeah, sure … don’t know how much help I’ll be, but go ahead. Ask away.”
“Thanks. Did this woman speak at all in your presence?”
“Not a word.”
“You are certain?”
“Yeah, I’m positive. We all tried to get her to talk, just a word, anything. She just sat and stared at us, or kinda like through us like we weren’t even there at all.”
“What was her body language like? Was she agitated? Jumpy?”
“Cool as a cucumber, which was pretty strange. She had a bad cut that had to be hurting like mad, and she didn’t even look at it when it was wrapped. Like it wasn’t bleedin’ or someth
in’.”
“How did she react when she was read her rights?”
“No reaction, she just kept staring straight ahead. I was sure she could hear what was bein’ said. The doctors at the hospital said they didn’t think she was deaf or mute, and she didn’t appear to be in shock. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen. She just didn’t respond.”
“Was she fidgety, anxious, looking around her?”
“No, sir. She sat quiet like. Even her eyes were still. Come to think of it, I recall thinking it a bit odd that she didn’t blink. Not that I saw anyways.”
“I want you to think about this for me, what was it that made you check inside the back of the van?”
“I guess her behaviour was so odd, and I was worried there might be somebody else in back, hurt like she was, only worse. That’s when I saw all that blood and that plus her behaviour had me call it in, and … well, here we are.”
“Had you seen the van on that road before?”
“No, and I’d remember it, ‘cause it’s been custom built and refrigerated, I haven’t seen one anything like it around these parts before. She has no wants or warrants though. That van would have cost a heap to customize.” Osborn drew breath. “So, is she connected to the Countdown murders, Doc?”
“That’s exactly what we are trying to find out. Thanks for your help, Deputy Osborn, I appreciated your time. Keep our little conversation to yourself for now; we can’t afford to have this leaked to the press. Not yet.”
“Understood, Doc. But I can’t guarantee the paramedics and the other cops will do the same thing.”
“Fine, thanks we’ll have their C.O. handle that. You may be called to testify if we can arrest her.”
“Not a problem. She’s a dainty lookin’ woman, Doc. Maybe it’s her fella that’s doin’ all the killin’?”
“That’s exactly what we need to find out. Don’t ever let a female’s size fool you though. Size has nothing to do with the psychology of a murderer, especially a serial killer.”
“Pretty much what I told my partner, like that Aileen Wuornos woman, she killed seven, didn’t she? Size don’t matter a damn if you use a gun, but these fellas were all decapitated, yeah? She’d need to be damned strong to do that, unless she poisoned the poor bastards first. I kinda hope she did, you know. Knowing you’re about to get ya head sliced off would be a really horrific way to go, eh doc?”