by G. M. CLARK
Mack snipes back, ‘That about covers it.’
‘Bullshit,’ Grimes replies. ‘Everyone leaves something.’ He talks like we’re two novices and it isn’t going down well.
‘All we have are the riddles, and no one has come up with any solid solutions to them,’ I say.
Mack is getting pissed off. ‘How about our beloved GCHQ? Any joy from them?’ he asks, knowing what the answer will be.
‘I’ve been on the phone to them all morning and all I’m being given is the fuckin’ run-around.’ A bead of sweat drips down onto his nose, then further to his lips; he lashes at it with his tongue.
‘How about a profiler now?’ I’m risking my life, I know. This time, he sits back heavily in his chair, slumped as though all the air is seeping out from him. For a moment I feel a pang of sympathy, but only for a moment.
‘Okay, I’ll call HQ; see if they can spare us anyone. You two pull your fingers out and get me some goddamn answers before I nail your backsides to the nearest desk.’
We both leave in disbelief. Is he going soft on us, or is he actually starting to take our side? He’s actually going to get a profiler in … wonders will never cease.
‘You got any ideas?’ asks Mack.
Normally I’d say forget about the victim, don’t even bother looking for a suspect, just concentrate on the only thing that can’t lie; the evidence. But in these cases – we don’t have any.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I walk out, leaving Mack looking confused.
I gently unlock my flat door, remove my shoes and jacket and softly pad through. Connie is standing under the kitchen window, light from the street lamps flickering over the golden tresses which fall in soft waves down her back. Her dressing gown is a claret red silk that highlights the flecks of colour in her eyes. The endless legs are still well tanned from a recent working holiday in Jamaica, where she managed to correctly profile David Evans, a local black youth who’d been killing and raping local girls, and running rings round the local police – that was until she got there.
Her skin is like that of a newborn child, so soft, without a blemish or a freckle. Honest to God, just the sheer sight of her puts a smile back on my face. She wanders over to me, pulling me in for a kiss.
‘Hey babe, it’s good to have you home,’ she whispers.
I kissed her back hard, the urgency of feeling her warm soft lips is almost too much to bear. I can feel her moulding into me, pressing against me, and I want to take her right there and then, but the damn phone rings instead.
‘Downey?’ says Mack.
‘Yes.’ I groan, as she slides against me, irritation flicking across my eyes.
‘That you?’ Jesus, he’s only known me for about twenty years, doesn’t he recognise my voice by now?
‘What is it?’ I snap.
‘Forensics have just been on the phone, not one damn piece of evidence anywhere. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Brilliant, make my day pal.’ Connie has got bored and wandered off to the lounge. Shit, I can feel the throbbing between my legs; I’ll have to take a cold shower instead – just bloody brilliant. ‘Say hi to Betty for me.’ I slam down the phone not waiting on his response. I feel bad about it.
I take the shower and prowl back through; now she’s sitting at the desk making notes, still trying to solve the riddles.
‘So how good are you at profiling?’ I ask.
‘Put it this way, luck has nothing to do with my success,’ she replies. That’s my girl.
‘Have you got one for me?’ I smile, trying to look enticing and probably failing miserably.
‘Do you understand any of the basics of profiling?’ She looks at me like I’m a child.
‘Nope – go on, enlighten me.’ She sighs, takes a large gulp of her wine and starts.
‘The first thing to consider is the crime scene… was the body placed or discarded? In your case, although I don’t know about all today’s events – the bodies were placed. An invitation for you to look, come and admire his handiwork. Always consider whether the scene is primary or secondary.’
‘What do you mean?’ I start to pay more attention to her.
‘Has the body been moved? Look around the surrounding areas, again this doesn’t apply in your case. So you then have to deduce motivation from behaviour, investigating the nature of the killer’s behaviour in relation to all the physical elements of the crime.’
I nod like I understand, but actually I feel like a first year student at one of her lectures.
‘In your case, the killer was motivated by sex, greed and control. He took the victims as a means of showing how easy it is, he raped or sodomised them, to fulfil his sexual fantasy, and then he placed the bodies as an open invitation for you to get a real good look at what exactly he wants you to see. Then he takes a trophy as a means of reliving the whole experience at a later date, but also just to prove to you that he can. Then the riddles, these I think are meant for you and you alone as you’re renowned in the murder investigation team as one of the best.’ I smile and let her continue. Was it really a compliment though?
‘Since you’re so smart, he’s decided to play a game of cat and mouse. Guess what, you’re the mouse. So if you’re so goddamn clever, you’ll figure the clues out, which may or may not lead you to him.’
‘What do you mean – may or may not lead me to him, surely that’s the purpose?’ Perhaps I truly was thick after all.
‘Not necessarily; you might solve the clues, but he might also disappear into the night. Also, if the clues are all sent after the murders, how are you going to know who’s going to be next? You won’t, and with no forensic evidence, you just can’t catch him.’
‘You’re telling me he can’t slip up?’
‘I never said that – usually ninety-nine per cent of all killers slip up at some point, you know that. But what if he’s the missing one per cent?’
‘You just know how to take a good man down.’ I see the glint flicker in her eye.
‘Well, I’d like the chance.’ She smiles sweetly.
‘How about getting me a profile?’ I throw down the photocopied documents on Frankie’s case.
She smiles. ‘You do know what you’re proposing is totally illegal.’
I haul her to her feet and yank off her robe. It falls softly to her feet and she’s naked underneath, all tanned, silky skin and full breasts.
‘Oh what I propose is totally illegal,’ I say, pulling her back down to the floor.
She laughs.
I never hear the phone ring – but God, I wish I had.
CHAPTER 11
Passion consumed us for most of the night. I couldn’t get enough of her, so after we hit the bedroom, I pounced on her several times; perhaps it was the pent-up tension needing release, but this morning I feel like I can barely walk. Still, I’m not a man to complain, and neither had she. As I wander into the kitchen for a slug of orange juice, something catches the corner of my eye. The fax machine – something had come through in the middle of the night. I take one look and nearly punch the nearest wall. How did the son of a bitch get my home phone number, which is the same as my fax; like any good policeman who frequently deals in murder will tell you, we’re always unlisted, so how does this bastard know everything about me? I grab some latex gloves and a bag, and slowly pull the fax from the machine. Here we go again, I think.
To Whom It May Concern: perhaps Frankie Bush.
When time is the bearer of age to the place
I will own the tears and lines from your face
And when the hours from the sun, vary each day
I can light up or dim, have it your way
I can weep and smile at the same time as you
Yet nothing you say, can I dearly hold true.
What am I?
Your nemesis.
Now I’m really pissed off. No, more than that, I’m seething that this killer had got more access to my home. I try last caller and get nothing, now the
re’s a surprise. I quickly phone the station and get patched through to the crime techs. Putting them in the picture, they say they’ll send a van over in about twenty minutes; at least that was getting shorter with each new clue.
I know that the number the fax has come from could have been rerouted through hundreds of numbers. Still, if the computer nerds can just get me a lead, any sort of lead, it would help. I take the phone off the hook just in case anyone tries to call. Who knows, the nerds could get lucky on that too.
I know it isn’t difficult to get an unlisted phone number if you really want to; you could have a friend who works at the phone company, or hire one of our lower end detective agencies, and they’d soon find your number. Anything for quick money; it doesn’t matter to them one iota if I’m a copper or not, nothing matters to them but money, and preferably large amounts of it. Considering a lot of retired coppers now worked at detective agencies, this irritates me further – isn’t brotherhood grand?
Soft footsteps announce Connie’s arrival. Strangely she looks rather tousled this morning, her hair not it’s normal mass of gleaming tendrils. Her face is pale and there are dark circles under those wide eyes. Perhaps I’d worn her out after all. She takes one look at the plastic bag and knows what has happened.
‘From him?’ she queries, already knowing the answer.
‘As I don’t know any other arseholes out there sending me riddles… go figure.’ I don’t mean to snap her head off; it’s just my sheer frustration. She turns and strides into the kitchen. I can hear the kettle being filled, the coffee percolator starting and fridge doors banging open and shut. Obviously I’ve pissed her off too.
‘I’m sorry babe.’ I wrap my arms around her.
‘I know.’ Her voice is polite; nothing more, nothing less.
‘It’s driving me crazy, that’s all. It’s like he knows everything about me, and I know sod all about him.’
‘He doesn’t know everything about you. Yes, he knows your address and your phone number, and he’s trying to wind you up.’
‘Well, he’s succeeding.’
‘Then don’t let him.’
The doorbell rings just as I’m about to kiss her. For God’s sake, I think, give me a break.
I let the techs in white suits in. In the space of about thirty seconds they have my phone and fax machine dismantled and have hooked up their own equipment.
‘Can you trace it?’ I ask the bald, heavy set guy who looks like he’s in charge. He looks at me as if I’m dense.
‘Contrary to what the public believe, it’s pretty easy nowadays. Digital switches have sped up the process, and with the electronic systems we can identify any caller’s number within a fraction of a second,’ he says.
I’m starting to like the sound of this. He continues, ‘There is no foolproof way to avoid tracing on a network when making a direct call.’
‘What if he rerouted it?’ I ask, my stomach beginning to tense.
‘Very unlikely as it was a fax.’
‘How do you know it was a direct call?’ One of his colleagues hands him a sheet of paper.
‘Because I’ve just got the number.’
Jesus Christ, a breakthrough at last. ‘Where’s it from?’ I almost scream.
‘It’s from a twenty-four hour phone shop on the north-east side. Cars are on their way now.’
I turn to Connie and smirk; I must look like a goddamn grinning Cheshire cat. ‘Jesus, at last, something tangible.’ She nods in concurrence.
At the same time, I wish that I’d stayed at least half awake last night. I’m normally a light sleeper and I would’ve heard the fax go. If I’d picked it up straight away, we could’ve had a chance of picking the son of a bitch up. Still, it’s worth searching the shop for CCTV and questioning whoever was on duty.
I’m still in a state of euphoria when my mobile phone rings. Expecting it to be Mack or Grimes I snap it open. No such luck – we have another body.
Connie can tell from the look on my face that he’s struck again.
‘His time span is getting shorter.’ I see her eyes narrow, as worry flicks on by.
‘I know.’ I grab my coat and keys and am almost out the door as she yells.
‘Oh by the way, I’ve solved the second riddle – it isn’t a dream. It’s IMAGINATION.’
My beeper goes off, so I just nod, blow her a kiss and leave her with the computer nerds. Sorry, hon.
Mack is tied up investigating the phone shop, so this one’s all mine. As I drive to the latest crime scene, thoughts flicker through my mind. Why target me? Is it as Connie stated? Just because I’m the lead copper in the case in the field, or is it something more personal? I don’t have an answer.
As I draw up outside the house, the media frenzy has already begun in earnest. I also see Grimes’s car sitting further along the street. Great! I try to get out of my car unseen, but it doesn’t work; as usual microphones are thrust in my face with anxious reporters at the other end.
‘Have you got any idea who it is?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have we got another serial killer in Manchester?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have MI5 been called in?’
‘I said… no comment.’
Fury burns within me as I realise that the city has taken on the fear of the killer, just as he wants it. Snapping into my protective suit, I stride into the house while flashbulbs and rolling cameras continued to cover my every move.
A hand motions me through to the lounge where Mandy Arthur is lying on the floor, minus her legs. I see Grimes talking to forensics, ignore him and get as close to the body as I can without compromising any evidence.
Bloody hell; she’s lying face down, the body entirely naked. Cuts run the full length from the base of her skull down to the base of her spine. I can actually make out portions of the spinal column. The legs have been hacked off, similar to Frankie Bush; hard swinging had caused downward cuts on the bones protruding around pools of red blood. She isn’t long dead, I know that for sure.
The FME, Clive Chambers, is a relative newcomer to the field, and I’m a little disappointed that it isn’t my lovely lady again. He carries out the usual tests for body temperature, sexual acts, and forensic evidence. Grimes catches me off guard while I’m watching; it proves a deadly mistake.
‘I’ve got a copy of the third riddle, does it make any sense to you?’ asks Grimes.
‘Nothing makes any sense at the moment,’ I reply, feeling like my brain is fried.
‘Mack’s been down to the store, no CCTV,’ he says. I didn’t really expect it; this is one clever son of a bitch who wouldn’t have made that simple a mistake.
‘We’re in the process of interviewing the staff, but no one seems to recall anyone who looked suspicious,’ he snaps.
How can you tell what a serial killer looks like? It’s not as if he walks in with a sign stapled to his head. In fact, most of the serial killers that I’ve read about came across as quite intelligent, normal-looking people.
By the time Grimes has moved off, the body has been placed in a bag and is being wheeled out. I can see from the impressions on the bag that she’s now been turned face up. Damn it! I grab hold of Clive Chambers, and yank him towards me.
‘How long have you been doing this job?’
Faces stare at me from all around the room as if I’ve gone crazy.
‘About two months,’ he replies, looking hesitant.
‘Didn’t they teach you anything at medical school?’ I snap, my fist clenching and unclenching as if it can’t make its mind up whether to smack him in the face or not.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he falters.
‘Didn’t you see the spots of blood on her back?’ I reply.
‘Yes, arterial spotting from the cuts,’ he eyes me like I’m some sort of raving lunatic.
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘But just what if, for argument’s sake, the spots had come from the killer?’
‘Wh
at do you mean?’ His face visibly pales as I can see his brain cogs slowly begin to whirr round.
‘Even I noticed that those blood spots were a different pattern to the ones round the edges of the cuts. Now let’s take it a step further; if the killer had hacked through her legs first, the blood would’ve sprayed up at him, causing him to have blood on his body. Then say he decided to cut through her back for the hell of it, so that when he leaned over the body, hacking into her, the blood fell from him, splashing onto the back.’ Realisation dawns onto his face.
‘You mean we might have had some of the killer’s DNA mixed in there?’
‘You catch on real fast.’ I do want to punch him in the face now, I so want to.
He shakes his head in despair. ‘Oh shit.’
‘Well it’s all long gone now.’ Rage infests me, and writhes throughout me.
‘We can turn the body back over,’ he replies lamely, his head lowering.
‘It’s too late; the remaining blood in her back will have seeped out, washing all the spotting away. Any evidence we might have had has now been either completely eradicated or compromised.’
He has the good grace to look completely mortified, but I don’t give a shit.
‘You’re a star, Clive, bound to go far in the job with an intellect such as yours.’
‘Lay off, Downey,’ says another forensic. ‘We all make mistakes.’
I glare at them both for what seems a very long time. ‘Tell that to the next victim.’
I’m still as mad as hell; this could’ve been a prime opportunity to have actually got some of the killer’s DNA. We might not have, but at least we would have tried.
I know that it’s standard procedure in most cases to turn the body the right way up; this ensures that the red cells sink to the back of the body, ensuring an easier job for the embalmer at the funeral home. However in a murder crime scene, this is a catastrophe; a complete and utter waste of crucial evidence.
I finally let go of Clive, as more forensics appear. ‘Did you take pictures of her back?’
They nod.