The Shadowed Mind

by Julie Cave

  What a coward, thought Dinah of the killer, feeling anger surge. He chooses a sick, weakened man and a young girl to victimize.

  She glanced at Cage and could see from the expression on his face that the big detective was thinking much the same thing.

  "There isn't much else to note," continued Dr. Schlabach. "I didn't find any foreign DNA, hairs, fibers, or material on the body. Was the victim left at the murder scene or was the body moved?"

  "We don't believe the body was moved after the murder," said Cage.

  Dr. Schlabach nodded. "That explains the lack of evidence on the body itself. The killer chooses a very quick, neat method of death, and does not need to move the body afterward, all of which adds up to very little in the way of trace evidence."

  "I guess he died from the broken neck?" asked Cage. If he felt frustration at Dr. Schlabach's words, he didn't show it. It must be nice, Dinah thought, to be so calm and collected. She seemed to have emotions springing up inside her like unpredictable hot geysers, all of which played across her face.

  "Yes. As I've said before, this method is very uncommon." Dr. Schlabach positioned himself behind the head of Benjamin Steffan. He lifted the head and Dinah immediately saw the heavy, disconnected loll that indicated a broken neck.

  "His neck was broken by torsion," said Dr. Schlabach. "This obviously is very similar to the murder of the young girl, Lakeisha Tennant. Both murders are so similar and so uncommon I would imagine they're related."

  "Don't you see broken neck deaths occur reasonably frequently?" Dinah asked. "What makes this method so uncommon?"

  Dr. Schlabach paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "The bone broken in this case, the axis bone, is located very close to the base of the skull. In fact, only the atlas bone separates the axis bone and the head and it allows rotation of the head. Most neck fractures are caused by motor vehicle accidents or sporting accidents, and fracture occurs due to impact or pressure." Dr. Schlabach used his hands to illustrate.

  He continued, "A person diving into shallow water will compress the head and neck to a degree that the bone will break. A motor vehicle accident may involve impact or velocity that causes the bone to break. Very rarely do we see neck injury caused by twisting, which is known as torsion. It requires great force applied at precisely the right angle. That's why I say it's an uncommon method of murder."

  Dinah immediately thought of Zach's suggestion of martial arts groups extreme enough to include such a move in their repertoire.

  "Anything else you need to know?" Dr. Schlabach asked, as Dinah and Cage mulled this information over silently.

  Cage shook his head. "No, I think we're done."

  They watched while Dr. Schlabach gently pulled a sheet over Steffan's body and returned the trolley to the cold storage locker. All three of them stripped off their plastic protective gowns, booties, and masks and exited the building.

  As Dr. Schlabach locked the front door, he asked Cage, "How is the department holding up after the Internal Affairs investigation?"

  Cage glanced at Dinah and managed to convey in those briefest of seconds that he didn't want to talk about it in front of her. She was instantly intrigued.

  "Well," said Dr. Schlabach, after a few moments of awkward silence. "Good night, then."

  Dinah climbed into the passenger seat of the detective's unmarked police car and opened her mouth to start speaking.

  "Before you even ask," Cage interrupted, "I can't talk about it. It's confidential and that's the way it'll stay. Okay?"

  Dinah just smiled at him. "I was only going to ask what you have planned for tomorrow."

  Cage shook his head like he didn't believe her.

  ****

  Detective Samson Cage wanted to spend the following day learning more about the martial arts. It was one of few leads to follow, but it could be the break they needed. Dr. Schlabach was right in his summation that the method of killing was obscure and if they could find a school or master teaching this particular maneuver, it might just lead them straight to the killer.

  Detective Cage had arranged to meet with a Japanese-American man named Lawrence Tetyaki, who ran a karate school in the inner city. Tetyaki offered free classes for the city's disadvantaged youth, which often included gang members. En route, Detective Cage told Dinah about how he had met the karate master. During a previous case, a gang member, despite successfully evading the police, had still turned up faithfully to his free karate class. Apart from that particular young man, who'd been immediately arrested, Tetyaki had great success in teaching these unruly and angry young men and women about discipline, self-belief, strength, and confidence.

  The school was located in a run-down warehouse on the edge of the industrial precinct. While it looked deserted and unused from the outside, inside the place was scrupulously clean and organized, and bustling with activity. Dinah saw classes ranging from young children to middle-aged and older adults taking place, and she smiled at the sight of a little boy of about six enthusiastically showing off a series of punches and kicks while yelling at the top of his voice. She thought of her lost little boy, Sammy, and wondered had he lived, what sport or hobby he would have loved to do.

  Dinah felt the familiar heavy swathe of sadness settle in her heart as she and Cage were led to a small training room where Tetyaki was training one-on-one with a young man. She would have to deal with it later, she thought. For now, it was important to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Tetyaki had about 20 years on his opponent and was physically smaller, but after a flurry of moves, he had his student on the floor on his back. Tetyaki spoke softly to the student, then glanced up and saw his visitors. He nodded to them and approached while his student got up and left the room. Tetyaki was about 50 and only about five foot seven inches, but his frame was wiry, lean, and strong. He had a gleaming bald head and a thin, neat moustache.

  He bowed slightly and greeted them. Cage stiffly bowed his huge body in return, but Dinah didn't know what to do, so she just smiled.

  "Still trying to keep the streets safe?" Cage asked as they sat in chairs at the edge of the room.

  "Aren't we all, Detective?" the karate master replied in a melodic voice. "Are you here to arrest one of my students again?"

  Cage laughed. "Not this time, unless you think I should," he said. "We're actually after some information."

  Tetyaki raised his eyebrows in inquiry, and Cage explained the unusual neck fractures in their two victims.

  Tetyaki frowned as he listened. When Cage had finished, he sat in thoughtful silence. "This is troubling," he said, at length. "While karate emerged many years ago as a type of combat, these days it is practiced as a sport, for self-defense, and for self-development. And while it is a contact sport, students are usually extensively trained in both attacking and defensive techniques so no one really gets hurt. I don't recall ever teaching any of my students techniques that would make them capable of killing another person. It doesn't sit right with me."

  He fell silent for a time, and then said, "You'll need to move away from the more mainstream martial arts, such as jujitsu, taekwondo, and judo. None of these advocate the level of violence needed to execute the neck torsion of which you speak."

  "What's the difference between the different martial arts?" Dinah asked. "I know next to nothing about any of them."

  "They all differ in technique and form," explained Tetyaki. "The biggest difference is from where they originated, and I should add that it isn't exclusively an Asian concept. Ancient civilizations such as the Babylonians and Egyptians show some signs of hand-to-hand combat in their ancient murals. Essentially they were all established as a form of hand-to-hand combat to defend oneself from physical threat. Some martial arts focus on a particular area of combat. I speak very broadly, but for example, karate concentrates on open-hand strikes, while judo incorporates throwing, grappling, and pinning techniques. Jujitsu focuses also on submission holds."

  "Would any of these types of m
artial arts teach this neck torsion as an example of what not to do?" asked Cage.

  Tetyaki considered. "Perhaps. However, even the arts that practice choke holds or submission holds, such as judo, do so in a way that minimizes injury. A choke hold could obviously kill someone if applied for long enough, but it's not a particularly sophisticated maneuver. Similarly, any of the throws executed sloppily might lead to a knee, elbow, or shoulder injury rather than a potentially fatal one."

  "Okay, so if we're looking at a less well-known, underground type of martial art, where should we start?" Cage asked.

  Again, Tetyaki was silent for some time. "Every martial art has the capacity for a rogue master to teach skills that are life-threatening. It is difficult for me to say. I will look into it for you. However, my first guess would be to look into the arts used by guerrillas and mercenaries in the jungles of Asia. They would certainly know how to kill a man with their bare hands. In the meantime, I would start with some basic Internet searches. There are forums and discussion boards for all sorts of topics and eventually you will stumble across some important information."

  "What are those arts called?" Cage asked.

  "Start with Muay Thai and Maharlika Kuntaw," suggested Tetyaki. "The former originates from Thailand and was used by the military in training soldiers. Before it was regulated by the Thai government it was a particularly vicious form of the art. The latter is Filipino and their history tells us that Magellan was repelled by warriors trained in Kuntaw — in fact, many of Magellan's men died during that battle in 1521. It is thought that Kuntaw was used by Filipino guerrillas during the Japanese occupation in the 1940s. While both of these arts are respectable and reputable today, both have the capacity to be manipulated into something much more brutal."

  "Great. We'll start there," said Cage, after copying down the names of the two martial arts in his notebook.

  "I'll make some inquiries. I have many contacts in many different arts, and if there are rogue masters operating, I think I'd hear about it," said Tetyaki.

  "Thanks, Master," said Cage, bowing again. "Keep up the good work."

  "You, too, Detective," smiled Tetyaki, bowing in return.

  He turned to Dinah and, surprisingly, took her hand. "Go gently," he said, looking at her directly. "I see your sadness burdens you."

  Touched, Dinah didn't know what to say, but bowed her head in gratitude.

  Chapter 8

  Dusk sent long shadows creeping across the windows, while the summer evening light filtering through the windows turned into golden filigree filaments. Ella just stared out of the family room window, approaching exhaustion. Had she eaten today? She couldn't remember. She thought she'd managed to have a shower, but it seemed so long ago. I am close to burnout, she thought, but I am too lethargic to do anything about it.

  The fight to find a place for her father in a nursing home facility seemed too hard. Holding interviews and discussions to employ a caregiver would require a huge effort. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a week, without the pressing concern of whether her father was wandering through the streets or scaring a small child.

  As the twilight deepened, she sat in the darkened room, feeling as though she couldn't even find the energy to get up from the chair and fix dinner.

  Suddenly, she heard a rushing sound and felt an extraordinarily sharp, bright pain flare above her left ear. Stunned, she stumbled out of the chair, holding her hands to the painful throb in her head and she wildly tried to work out what had happened.

  Standing in the darkened doorway was her father, with his shoe in his hand, a scared and anxious look on his face. His other shoe lay to the side of the chair, where it had glanced off Ella's head.

  "What are you doing?" she cried, the familiar mixture of frustration, anger, and despair surging up in her throat like bitter bile.

  "What are you doing in my house?" demanded John Barnett querulously. "Get out now!"

  "It's me, Ella," she snapped, unable to control her anger. "I live here!"

  "You do not live here," retorted the old man. "Now get out!"

  Something inside Ella let go, perhaps the last vestige of self-control, the last piece of empathy and compassion she could muster. "I will stay here," she said, with fearsome quiet, "because I look after you. You have no one else. You cannot live on your own. You are totally dependent on me! Do not tell me to leave again!"

  Right on cue, her father let go of the other shoe, again aimed at her head.

  This time Ella ducked and sustained no blow on her head. Her anger overwhelmed her and she found herself only inches away from her father's face. "How dare you throw things at me!" she raged. "I am so sick of being stuck in this house and looking after you. I am sick of having no life of my own. I am sick of being abused in my own home. I hate this stupid disease and I hate what it's done to you. I hate what it's done to me! I wish you'd just leave me alone for even an hour so I can have some time to just think! Why do I feel so obligated to you? I wish I could just put you in a nursing home and be done with you. You know, sometimes I wish you'd just die!"

  Stunned by the violence of her own words, Ella gasped and stepped back, looking at the man she'd just verbally abused. His eyes were wild and scared, his fear at not understanding his surroundings palpable. He hunched away from her, probably wondering if this stranger bore him any goodwill at all.

  The guilt pierced Ella's heart as surely as a blade of steel. With a torrent of self-loathing pouring through her, she shakily led the old man to his chair in the family room. She was barely able to keep control of the raging emotions within her. Once he was safely in front of the television, Ella fled to her bedroom and shut the door.

  Flinging herself on her bed, she allowed the tears to flow. Her face buried in her pillow, she sobbed hard like she hadn't done since she was a child. Then, she could count on her father to find her, kiss her cheeks, and make her world all right. Now, she felt terribly alone and tired and guilty. The most crushing sensation was the realization that there would be no reprieve from the endless task of caring for her father.

  Inside, she knew that she was most upset at the truth contained in those words. Usually, she clutched those secret, terrible thoughts close so that nobody else knew. But without the safeguard of self-control, she had allowed the truth to ride a wave of angry words.

  In bald truth — she did wish he would die. She hated seeing him decline from an intelligent, caring father to a shrunken shell of a man who could no longer look after his own basic needs. She hated the severance of the relationship between them — she no longer had a father, but equally, no grave to visit for closure. She hated the loss of her own independence, her inability to work or see friends, and the freedom to relax.

  It was true: she looked forward to the day when she no longer had to battle through each day and deal with such weighty issues. She looked forward to the day when her father would be at peace and no longer trapped in his own torturous, deteriorating brain. When would the shadows in his mind eventually claim him?

  Had her father had the clarity of mind to ask her for euthanasia at this moment, she knew she'd have done it. Had he expressed a desire to die, she would have honored it.

  I am some kind of monster, she thought. How can I even contemplate his death? I should be grateful for the limited time we have left together. And how could I show my face at church?

  Heartsick, Ella stood and went to her window, looking down at the neighborhood below. She wished she could swap lives with any of them, just for one day.

  ****

  Senator David Winters stood at his office window and stretched. He'd instructed his secretary and aides to give him some privacy for an hour, so his office was blessedly silent, save for the hurried footsteps of those traversing the halls outside.

  The Senate had just sat a marathon session, lasting into the early hours of the morning in an attempt to have the Health Reform Bill passed. For Winters, there was much riding on the success of the bill being
passed, not the least of which was a sizeable deposit of cash in his bank account.

  Suddenly, his office door swung open and a large man strode through the door, with Winters' secretary following anxiously.

  "I'm sorry, sir, he just wouldn't listen to me," she said, trying to get past the bulk of Winters' intruder.

  "Don't worry, Trixie," Winters said, looking at the conservative senator, Jerry Devine, bemusedly. "Make sure we aren't interrupted any further."

  The two men stood, staring at each other like the combatants they intellectually were.

  "This is most improper," said Winters finally. "You might have knocked."

  "Do you think for one second I don't know what you and your colleagues are trying to pull?" Devine demanded. The senator from Texas glared at Winters with the full force his six-foot-five frame could garner.

  Winters shrugged. "How about you tell me what you're whining about, chief?"

  His belligerence seemed to infuriate the Texas senator further. "Somehow you manage to cobble together a bill that's over two thousand pages long," he said venomously. "It gets thrown to the Senate with the expectation that it will be passed in only a couple of days. There is pressure from every liberal puppet you can find popping up in the media saying that we should deal with the bill expeditiously. Then I see none other than yourself on the news last night, blaming any delays on the conservatives who in your words, 'want to deny millions of uninsured Americans their fundamental right to health care.' This is your one chance to explain to me why it's so important we pass this bill without actually reading it."

  Winters swallowed several curse words and maintained a casual, indifferent air. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't think it were true."