by G. M. CLARK
She hurls her glass of orange juice at the wall. It smashes into smithereens; oh good, more flying shrapnel, just what I need. The juice drips slowly down the wall, staining it.
‘You asshole! I have to devour all your reports, look at the crime scene photographs and get all those gruesome images ingrained into my mind. I then have to change into that victim, I have to physically imagine what they are feeling, I have to see that killer coming for me.’ She’s gasping for breath, anger burning into the very heart of her.
‘Then I have to imagine his hands coming around my throat, choking the very life out of me, knowing that I am going to die and that there is nothing that I can do. I have to feel every ounce of their pain, to try to understand what it’s like to be paralysed with fear, with sheer and incomprehensible terror, to scream my lungs out… knowing every minute, every second that it’s not going to help. I have to live through each one of their horrific deaths.’
I try to reach her but she pushes me away – hard.
‘Then, after all that… I have to put myself into the mind of your killer. To try and understand what exactly is making him tick. I have to try to see how he thinks, what he wants, to work out his plans, and then try to feel his gratification when he releases his own bloody, sick, sordid fantasy of dominating another innocent human being for his own perverted purpose.’
Dead silence in the room – the juice still drips. I can see her trembling, her anger, the rage now dissipated; all that is left is unguarded raw feelings. I never realised, never thought about what she had to go through. God, I’m a selfish bastard sometimes.
I can’t get to her fast enough, enveloping her in my arms, trying to make her safe. She sobs so quietly into my arms; I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard her cry, and it wrenches every ounce of my heart, knowing that I’m partly to blame.
‘I had no idea hon… I’m so sorry, God I’m so sorry.’ The words sound futile, useless as I say them.
‘Sometimes it’s just so damn hard, so wearing,’ she says softly, her voice drained, like the very soul of her has risen and floated away.
I hold her face in my hands, gently stroking away the tears. ‘Look, back off this one if it’s getting to you this much. Christ, it’s not even your job here.’
‘It doesn’t matter where I am,’ she says. ‘This is what I do… I can’t walk away now.’
I simply nod my head; she’s obsessed, just the same as me, in fighting for justice and protecting the innocent. Perhaps that’s why we’re so good together.
‘I need to check out some more facts. It’s going to be a long day and night,’ she says.
I’m stroking her, trying to comfort. ‘I’ll do my best to get back early and help you… I promise.’
Just as I’m about to kiss away her pain, my pager bleeps. Nothing like work to ruin a good moment. I don’t have a new mobile phone yet so I simply dial into work on the home line. Ernie Taggs has been released without charge. I don’t say a word, I’m too damn angry to speak.
CHAPTER 19
I park up at the Rosewood Funeral Home and watch the coffin of Kathy Garland being loaded into the hearse with such infinite care. Apart from what looks like close family, there seems to be no one else about. As we drive through light traffic to Springfield Church, I manage to keep a good distance between us; I don’t want the family knowing that I’m following their every move.
The coffin is made of cherry wood, the colours and hues so vivid against the stark white lilies that are piled high around it. One solitary red rose lies on top of the coffin. For some reason it tugs at my heart strings, perhaps because it appears as lonely in death as Kathy Garland had. There had been an air of innocence about the girl, and I’m truly enraged that someone could have such disregard for the sanctity of human life. She did not deserve it – no one did.
The ceremony is quiet, reserved; the church crowded but hushed, united together in grief. I sit at the far corner pew in the back, well out of eyeshot; I don’t want to distress the Garland family any more than I already have. I’m here for a purpose. It’s a known fact that killers often come to the funerals of their victims, it gives them a high to see the coffin and the grief in the family’s faces. I scan as many as I can; no one looks obviously out of place, but then I don’t really expect them to. I know plainclothes coppers are positioned both inside and outside the church, and at the burial ground. I’ve seen a few faces that I recognise from about the station, but I simply ignore them and keep my eyes averted.
The coffin is walked past me; I say a silent prayer for Kathy and vow to her that I will find her killer – and I mean every word. Mrs Garland is supported, by her sister I presume, and it looks like she has aged about twenty years in a matter of days. The black coat is drawn tightly around her, the collar up high, and a small black hat with a veil partially covering her eyes, which are wet with tears. She stops momentarily, directing her gaze straight at me and nodding. Obviously I’m no longer that good in the covert avenues. Still, in some ways I’m glad that she’s seen me; I want her to know that I am still looking, still hunting the killer, and that I will never give up until I catch him.
When I jump back into my car I switch on the new mobile phone which I’d bought first thing; one of these new-fangled machines that lets you take and send pictures – seems far too complicated for me, but there you go, I’m not exactly a man of the computer age. The phone instantly buzzes into life with what can only be described as a tune from rap hell. Jesus, I’ll have to figure out how to change that – it could prove embarrassing.
‘Downey here.’
‘We’ve got a shooter in Princess Street,’ says Mack, and I can hear horns blaring as he talks.
‘What the hell’s happening?’
‘We’ve got two cars with rear windows blown out, occupants okay, and one car with a direct hit in the driver’s side. One young female shot in the head. It’s fuckin’ chaos.’
‘I’m on my way,’ I reply.
From one death to another, I think.
I turn on the ignition, slip it into first and slowly drive away from the funeral. I’d like to floor the Alfa, but decorum prevents me.
I flick on the siren on the roof to get through the traffic as I near Princess Street; it’s jammed solid for about ten streets. The stone buildings are solidly built, and scattered amongst them are some new high-rise luxury buildings, but due to the recession and judging by the amount of estate agent signs, it seems that a fair few are lying empty.
An ambulance is pushing its way through in front of me; I swerve the car and follow in its path, weaving in and out of cars with stunned drivers as the news is slowly beginning to filter through. At long last I pull up beside Mack, who’s talking to a man clearly shaken. He’s mid-twenties, with long floppy hair, his left hand keeps shoving it out of his face; his gestures are frantic. The street is now seething with police. Firearms units are combing the areas that they think the killer was firing from. I sidle up to Mack, who’s passed the young driver over to the ambulance team to give him the once over; he probably just needs something for the shock.
I can see a car up ahead being screened by tarpaulin; that’s obviously the victim.
‘How long ago?’ I ask.
‘About thirty minutes,’ replies Mack.
‘Where was he firing from?’
Mack nods to the general area on my left, and I take in a quick scan of the area.
‘We think he was in one of the office buildings, searches are being carried out now.’
‘Do we know how many victims?’
‘Just the one – fatal,’ says Mack. ‘Two others had their rear windows blown out, lucky if you ask me.’
I lift the tarpaulin sheet and glance inside, being careful not to compromise the crime scene. She was young, about twenty-one at a rough guess. Her head is resting on the steering wheel, the eyes facing towards me; she has a startled look, like a rabbit caught in glaring headlights. Her long curly red hair is now matted with blood, and I c
ould actually see where her brains have splattered. Oh God, what a waste of life. Was this someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, or could it be my killer? All my gut instincts say it could be him, but then I am a man possessed at the moment; he takes over every waking minute of my thoughts. The facts are that this killer looks to have picked his victim at random; it was mere luck – if you could call it that – that she was the only one who’d got hit. This doesn’t follow the pattern of the serial killer who’s scaring the shit out of the city. No doubt this is probably a nutcase taking vengeance on anyone just for the hell of it; it’s a fact that killings happened all the time here, that’s just the way it is now.
‘Have you got a name?’ I ask Mack.
‘Driver’s license says it was Stacey Bun, aged twenty from the north-east of the city.’
I can actually feel the despair wash through me like a tidal wave in mid-flow; it swirls and pulls me under, locking me below the surface, no breath to be had.
‘Downey? Downey, you all right?’ Mack’s arm is holding onto me.
‘You know what?’ He looks at me, concern written in his eyes. ‘I’ve seen too much death lately, enough death for a lifetime.’
‘I know,’ says Mack, ‘but it goes with the job.’
I grab hold of Mack by the collar; I don’t know what I’m doing. Pure unadulterated anger rages, boils within me and overflows. ‘She was only twenty years old! She’d only just started her life, probably just fell in love for the first time, got her life all mapped out before her, then bam, one bullet and she’s splattered over the damn car.’
Mack slowly moves my hands away. ‘You gotta take it easy.’ He’s concerned, I know, but right now I didn’t care.
‘Take it easy? With a bloody madman on the loose and a sniper killing just for the shit of it? Oh yeah Mack, life’s just one great barrel of laughs right now.’
I can actually hear my heart in my chest going into overdrive, can feel the heat of senseless deaths consume me, images of the dead filling each particle of my mind until I feel rancid, porous to the touch.
Ian Seaton, head of the firearms unit, marches over, his black body armour clamping his stocky frame. He points to a flat.
‘We’ve got the shooting place, a third storey vacant flat with the window blown out. We’ve got three ejected shells, looks like they’re from a BAE Systems L85A1.’ He obviously notes my blank expression.
‘The L85A1 is a selective gas-fired rifle with a forward mounted pistol grip, fed from a magazine with a thirty round capacity. It’s often fitted with scope mount and illuminating aiming pointer.’
‘So what you’re telling me is that this guy could have popped off a couple of magazines if he’d really wanted too?’ I say.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Then why didn’t he take out more cars?’
Ian shrugs his shoulders. ‘Could have been he got scared. Maybe someone was getting too close to him?’
‘Why not pick up the shells?’
‘It’s a common sniper rifle, currently used by many units and armies around the world, including our own; chances of matching up either the bullets or the shells to a specific gun already marked by ballistics is minuscule.’
‘Great, another bloody dead end,’ barks Mack.
Grimes arrived, his face thunderous, his brow creased with sweat. I know he’s taking real heat at the moment from the chiefs, and another murder in central Manchester is not exactly what he needs.
‘What we got?’ he thunders.
‘Three bullets fired, two victims unscathed, the third a young woman, Stacey Bun, dead, bullet to the left side of the temple.’ I try to keep the rage inside me.
‘Have you got any forensics?’
‘They’re still finishing up with the body, she’s about to be moved to the morgue any moment,’ I say.
‘Let Cooper finish up here, you need to get your arses back to headquarters and see if you can turn something up on the serial.’
‘You don’t think it’s connected then?’ I ask.
He stares at me as though I’m something nasty crawling up his sleeve. ‘Why would our serial start sharpshooting in Manchester city?’
‘Just a thought,’ I reply.
I turn and stride back to the car as the FME’s van pulls out in front of me with the body of Stacey Bun inside. I watch that van for the twenty minutes it takes to clear out onto the main road heading downtown, and all I can think is death strikes again.
There’s now going to be yet another family ripped apart with sorrow for the child that has been senselessly murdered. Another mother will sob at the empty bed of her daughter, smelling the floating perfume of her scent that remains on any clothing. She probably won’t allow anyone to change a thing in her daughter’s room as she clings to the last moments of her daughter’s life. She will remember their last words, the last time they had told each other that they loved one another; she will see her happy smile in pictures only, with that flame red hair tumbling around her pretty face. And instead of looking forward to planning her daughter’s wedding sometime – now she’ll have to plan her funeral in its place.
Death makes no sense to me; I’ve never understood, in all my years as a policeman, how taking someone else’s life can make a situation better. The raw grief that I’ve seen over the years was reminiscent of a swimming pool full of hot tears. How can one person destroy so much, in so little time?
The damn rap music blares from my mobile phone and I slide it open, a picture of Connie standing in the flat by the fax machine appears on my screen. I know before I’ve even read the text.
To Whom It May Concern: perhaps Stacey Bun.
If you dig down deep
A part of me you will use
Play me in a game
You may win you may lose
I have a family that you have seen
I rule them all, we are thirteen.
What am I?
Your nemesis.
I jam on the brakes – hard. Bloody hell, I was right; the sniper was indeed our boy. How had he known which car to hit? That means that he must have been stalking Stacey Bun to have known her usual movements, what car she drove; but why shoot out the windows on the others? Was he just proving a point? I can do it, I can do anything I please and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. What about the trophies? He didn’t take one this time. Why change the MO now? I need to speak to Connie and fast.
I pull a hard right and cut for home. I have a bad feeling about Connie; could she be a victim, is she going to be killed? I can feel my heart thumping almost out of my chest. If that son of a bitch lays one finger on her, or harms one hair on her head, I swear to God I’m gonna hunt him down until I can shoot him point blank in the face – repeatedly. I don’t own a gun, but hell I would get one. The lines between right and wrong are becoming blurred, and I know it.
My feet take the stairs three at a time; she opens the door for me.
‘I said don’t open the door for anyone.’ I can feel my voice quaver, my legs unsteady, but she is calm and neutral as always.
‘I saw you get out the car, besides you’re not… anyone.’ At any other time I’d be pleased, but not right at this moment; I’m too damn concerned for her safety.
‘I’ve already phoned the station, the computer nerds are on their way,’ she continues.
‘What time did it arrive?’ My heart is still thumping in my chest.
‘About fifteen minutes ago.’
I sink into the nearest chair and put my head in my hands. This case is falling to pieces and I’m completely jammed up for answers.
‘He’s changed the MO,’ I say, and I know I sound defeated – I feel defeated.
‘Not necessarily,’ she replies, and I try to stay with her train of thought.
‘I could really use some of that fine brain of yours right about now.’
‘Just because he’s changed his method of killing, doesn’t mean that he’s changing his mission.’
&n
bsp; ‘Meaning?’
‘He’s not picking these victims at random, they have a purpose.’ She begins pacing.
‘Well I wish I knew what the hell it was!’
‘You’re not supposed to know.’ Her voice is cool, icy calm.
‘Jeez, that just makes me feel a whole lot better,’ I snap.
‘Don’t ever make the mistake of taking his MO for granted, a good serial killer can mask it in a heartbeat.’ She stares at me as if I’m a tad dense; and yes, I do take offence.
‘I don’t understand.’ My head feels heavy, my brain fuzzed. I can’t seem to raise a single clear thought, and what I actually want to do is put this bastard in a cell and throw away the keys.
‘So why send the fax here again?’
‘He wants you to know he’s watching your every move,’ she says.
‘Has it ever occurred to you, that he might be watching you?’ I ask.
‘Frankly, after he arranged to have my mobile phone stolen, I’ve known he was watching me.’ She’s cool, calm and collected. I’m the complete opposite; the thought of that bastard watching, waiting for her, is almost more than I can take. I feel like I can’t breathe.
The computer nerds arrive, and start doing their thing; I haul Connie into the bedroom.
‘You have to leave.’ There’s no room for argument in the tone of my voice.
‘Pardon?’ She looks at me blankly.
‘Get your stuff packed, find a safe place to go, not to Mel’s, or anywhere else in the city; I want you far away from here.’
‘You don’t have to go protecting me. I’m not some little woman who needs looking after.’ Her voice is clipped, insulted.
‘Connie, I don’t have the time for this, just pack.’ I start throwing her belongings onto the bed.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she yells, her hands on hips, the eyes glaring, defiant.
‘For Christ’s sake don’t you get it?’ I scream back.
‘No, I obviously don’t.’ I swear she wants to smack me one.
‘I can’t stand the thought that he could get to you, yes I know you can look after yourself, I know that you’re a black belt in ju-jitsu, but that doesn’t mean shit to this type of killer, it’s not gonna help if has a damn gun trained on you from the other side of the street.’ I try to pull her close, but she’s distant, unsure of me, unsure of what I’m up to.