Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  “Or it could simply mean that he’s a crap shot!” MacReavie had dismissed her idea immediately.

  “Or because our presence made it awkward to recreate the killing perfectly.” And so had Krein.

  Jaswinder nodded, smiling, not disgruntled in the slightest. “Yes, valid points. But in this case I need you to bear with me. You see, what I’m saying is that I’ve never believed Paul’s illness is as cut and dried as schizophrenia, as the press are suggesting. But if he’s beginning to show lack of attention to detail, then that backs up my theory that he is suffering from a more general psychosis.” Somehow she’d managed to win them both over again, they both considered her, her beauty, her intelligence, and her words, carefully. “Now, there are three generally recognised forms of psychosis. Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and organic brain syndrome.”

  MacReavie laughed. “So he’s a healthy vegetable!” The attempt at a joke was wasted, he felt foolish.

  “Okay. Organic brain syndrome is a form of psychosis that is brought on by a physical cause, as opposed to a psychiatric cause. It could be brought on by metabolic imbalances, degenerative disease, or injury as in a stroke maybe. Or, as I believe I have mentioned before, a brain tumour. That list is not exhaustive, but you get the idea.”

  Desperate to appear educated, MacReavie grasped at redressing his credibility. “So something physical has made him go mad.” It didn’t work.

  Jaswinder regarded him pitifully. “It could loosely be put like that! Schizophrenia we have already covered, bipolar disorder we haven’t, and I do believe we can rule that out at the moment.”

  “That’s the new term for manic depression, isn’t it?” She nodded to Krein. “So why rule it out?”

  “I’m not doing so completely, I just don’t believe it’s the right diagnosis, call it a gut feeling, if you like. Although the condition can, and does, trigger violence, it’s counteracted by highs, and this doesn’t tally with Paul’s behaviour.”

  “Okay, you know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right, I think we may concentrate on the schizophrenic tendencies as a basis, but we should certainly be aware that there may be a physical cause, and also be aware that the symptoms of various mental disorders seem to, in this case, be overlapping. We cannot label him in any way without being able to complete diagnostic tests on his brain.”

  Krein’s captivation by her beauty ended and frustration took over. “In other words, we catch him, then you can tell us what’s wrong.” He stood up and began pacing.

  Jaswinder ignored his tantrum, unruffled and serene as ever. “The thing that concerns me regarding Paul’s next move is that his condition is worsening progressively, that part is scary. Psychosis covers a range of symptoms, including hallucination, delusion, loss of emotion, depression and mania. I can guarantee that Paul has suffered loss of emotion, for example he no longer seems to build up any form of relationship with the victim as he did with Maud Blessing and Katie Joyce. Hallucination, yes, I am sure that he will be ‘hearing’ instructions from A N Other telling him what he must do. Delusion, well of course! He believes he is a special person who was put on this planet to do these killings.

  “Whether an organic cause or a psychiatric cause, Paul is a very ill man who desperately needs medical intervention.”

  Krein was now standing by the window, gazing at nothing, and his shoulders were tensed with anger. His words were slow, considered. “We can’t give him to you to treat, Miss Kumar. He - keeps - fucking - eluding - us.”

  Her gentle laugh tinkled, agitating him more. “No need to be formal, Dave!”

  This bit him hard, he was always referred to by his surname at work. Somehow she’d won the battle, and he glared at her in defeat, before storming back to his chair. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t mean it.

  “I suspect that Paul won’t elude you for much longer, he’s degenerating fast, and he won’t cover his tracks so well. It’s common with serial killers who suffer from psychosis. They are smart at first, but eventually they have this desire to let people know how clever they are, how well they plan things, so they leave clues, they contact the police, they play games. I believe Paul is nearly there.”

  “Okay, okay. So what now? Where is he going next?”

  Jaswinder shook her head slowly. “As before, I cannot tell you that. He will still be doing copycat killings, that’s his bag, so your team, the Brady Bunch …”

  “The Black Museum Bunch!”

  Again the tinkling laughter, she’d been joking and he’d missed it. Krein felt foolish. “Well, they must continue to research previous murders, sites, and victims, and you need to police those areas at the right times. I’d be particularly conscientious over past shootings, the gun makes murdering easy for him.”

  Krein sighed. “Helpful as ever!” He’d not meant to say this out loud, and realised too late how rude he’d been.

  “On the subject of being helpful, I suggest you contact the major hospitals. You see, if there is a physical cause to his psychosis, he may well be getting serious headaches, even black-outs, and this may lead him to needing emergency treatment. It would be a good precaution to ask them to let you know of any male admissions with brain trauma.”

  Dressed in smart casuals that had once belonged to Jackson Brooks, Paul had cut a handsome figure as he’d boarded the bus in Burton Overy two nights before, and the light trickle of sweat that had dripped from his forehead after running so far went unnoticed. He’d travelled back to London overnight, and now sat on the floor of a disused warehouse in the Docklands. Almost fully undressed, he hugged his knees to his chest and rocked backwards and forwards. Paul was terrified, he was bleeding, and he didn’t know why. He’d tripped a few times whilst running through the farmland the night before, but couldn’t remember injuring himself. Maybe God was punishing him, maybe the bullet had missed Bella Wright.

  Realisation. That was it, he must have missed the girl. He was sure he’d seen her fall from the bike before he’d sprinted away, but maybe he was wrong.

  Paul dabbed at the blood with the towel taken from Jackson’s bag, it absorbed the flow easily, but he couldn’t shake off the pulsing headache. It ground, scraped, grated, scratched, the pain driving him insane. A quiet voice twittered inside his head, he drowned it out, shouting out loud, he hated that voice. “Shut up! Shut up! I will only listen to God. Shut up!”

  Mopping once more as the blood oozed, his head exploding with agony, the tears flowed, increasing the pressure on his brain. “Talk to me, God. Please. What do I do? Please.” Rocking, back, forth, back, forth, his own hugging arms comforting like a mother to a child. “I’m sorry God, I didn’t mean to miss her, I didn’t mean to miss her. Please talk to me, forgive me, please make me stop bleeding. Please talk to me.” The silence in his head deafened him, he wasn’t used to being alone any more.

  Krein read the email with interest. Although the investigation had centralised in London once more, he was keeping a close eye on the details. Barry Harner, heading the Black Museum Bunch, had stipulated two more past murders, alerting all interested parties. Krein glanced up as Jaswinder came in, carrying two plastic cups. She laid one before him, and took the other to Raynor’s desk. In his absence, she sat, crossing her legs daintily. “Go on.” She could tell by Krein’s expression that he needed her advice.

  He read from the screen. “Case Number One: Ninth July, nineteen forty. Cottage called Crittenden near the village of Matfield, five miles south east of Tonbridge in Kent. One woman found shot lying on the drive of the cottage, name of Charlotte Saunders, aged forty-six. On a subsequent search by the police of the three and a half acres that surrounded the cottage, they found the body of Freda Fisher, aged twenty, in the gateway to an orchard. She was shot in the back. They also found the body of Dorothy Fisher, forty-eight, also shot in the back, at the other end of the orchard. The murderer, Florence Ransom, was convicted.”

  Krein shifted his position to face Jaswinder. “Three women, I don�
��t think that’s Paul’s style, do you?”

  “No, it’s unlikely. For a start he’d have to find three victims, any one of which could overpower him as he went for the others. And the grounds are bound to have been built on since nineteen forty.

  “It can’t be ruled out, but my feeling is he won’t do that one. Is that it?” Jaswinder sipped her tea, blowing on it gently.

  Krein’s gaze returned to the screen. “No, there’s one more. Case Number Two: Ninth July eighteen sixty-four. On the North London Railway Line. The train left Bow at ten oh one pm. Arrived at Hackney Wick at ten oh five pm. Thomas Briggs, aged sixty nine, was pushed from the train between these two stops, having been hit twice on the head, fracturing his skull. The murderer, Franz Muller, was hanged.”

  Jaswinder shook her head. “No. That’s not Paul. For a start there’s no guarantee the victim would die, and secondly there’s too much risk of getting caught.”

  “I agree. Jaswinder, in all this time there’s only been one recreation where the original murderer was convicted. Do you think this is a theme worth pursuing, because that alone would rule these two out?”

  She thought long and hard before answering. “It may be, but Candice Albrough, Jackson Brooks, and potentially Annabel Keeley, if we ever find her body, don’t fit with that theory, so we cannot rely on that. My advice would be to concern yourselves more on the Matfield one, he may just decide to recreate one of the victim’s murders instead of all three, so I agree it needs considerable police presence, but I personally don’t believe either of these will be of interest to Paul.”

  Krein nodded his thanks. “I’m going to request a temporary secondment to London. I want to be part of this.”

  Jaswinder tenderly laid her hand on his, her soft skin sending a thunderbolt through him. “I think you need to be part of this. Regardless of who’s in charge, this is your case.” He was married, he shouldn’t feel like this. But Linda had never understood him in the way Jaswinder did at this moment. Krein withdrew his hand. He was married. Simple as that.

  Thursday 10th July

  Wednesday the ninth of July came and went. Two dozen officers descended onto the small village of Matfield, worrying the residents, and fuelling the gossips. But their vigilance was unnecessary, nothing out of the ordinary happened: workers left the village in the morning, mothers took their children to play during the day, the elderly residents chatted with each other in the street before they did their shopping. It was as normal as ever.

  And neither were any sixty nine year old men thrown from train carriages in London. Nor any men of different ages, or any ladies, children, or dogs. The policing, although necessary, had brought them no closer to catching Kopycat. And the Black Museum Bunch continued researching, hungry to find the next date to cover.

  Paul had stayed inside the warehouse in the Docklands, he was scared to move on until the, now occasional, bleeding ceased completely. He couldn’t understand anything any more, he was confused, scared, and alone. God had stopped talking to him, the only company he’d had in four days had been the whiney voice that refused to go away. Without God, Paul felt he had no direction, no way forward, and he’d forgotten how to make decisions. He knew he’d messed up somewhere, and this was his punishment, but that didn’t make things any easier.

  His stomach growled painfully, over and over, he hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived, and the only drink he’d had was some lemonade he’d brought with him, the resulting dehydration intensifying his headache.

  “God, please speak to me.” He begged for the thousandth time.

  Nothing. The other voice tried to come through, but Paul clenched his ears tightly, violently shaking his head to drown it out. “Go away. Go away. I don’t want you. Go away. I want God.”

  Finally his pleas were rewarded, God’s voice rang in his head, loud, authoritative. “You must kill yourself, Paul. You are too weak to complete your duties. You must kill yourself.”

  The tired, grateful smile spread across Paul’s drawn face. “You’ll forgive me for missing the girl if I kill myself?” He knew the answer without a reply. Slowly, Paul took his clothes and pulled them back onto his body, now the bleeding had subsided to the point of barely a drop, they wouldn’t stain. He rummaged in the travelling bag that had once belonged to Jackson Brooks, locating six of the remaining bullets, and took the gun from a side compartment.

  He opened the barrel preparing to feed it, when God cackled. “Make it more fun, Paul, just put one bullet in.” Paul followed instructions and, nerves making him shake involuntarily, cocked the hammer, placing the barrel lightly against the skin of his temple.

  His hand trembled, the little, unwanted voice grew insanely until it was shrieking at him. “Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” Regardless, he pulled the trigger. Silence. Paul clicked the barrel round. “Paul! No! Don’t do it!” It got too much, the voice was screaming, screeching, it echoed inside his head until it pounded and throbbed, he quickly cocked the hammer and tugged the trigger. The silence enveloped him once more, and he threw the gun, it skidded across the cement as he clutched his head, tears of frustration flowing. Hugging his knees to his chest, Paul cried like a baby, until the flowing from his dehydrated body ceased.

  “You disobeyed me, Paul. I will leave you again.”

  Now Paul was angry. He was angry at God, angry at the whiney voice, angry at himself. He stood, he grabbed a wooden crate and launched it across the warehouse, it smashed as it landed. He snatched another, and another, he screamed, he shouted, he threw things, he punched things, he kicked, he snarled, he roared. And as he pounded across the floor towards another crate, Paul failed to notice the hook set in the concrete floor. He tripped, landing heavily, his furious head cracking as it hit the ground. And again, silence.

  Krein had travelled to London, permission had been granted for his temporary transfer. A meeting had been called by Detective Superintendent Rubenski, and Krein was attending alongside Spencer, Barry Harner, and seven other officers of varying rank. Harner had brought a refreshed list of murder anniversaries, with a summary of the details of each, and the group had discussed each one. Rubenski paced the room, deep in thought, whilst the other officers huffed and sighed, each thinking the same thing. Paul was unlikely to do any of these.

  Krein snatched his copy of the list from the large conference table, adding to the collective sighs. “It’s not him. Not a single one. Until the Jack the Ripper anniversaries in August.” Rubenski stopped his march and stared at Krein, along with nine other pairs of eyes. “That’s my opinion, anyway.” His manner was not as apologetic as the comment.

  Rubenski was striding again, fingers stroking his clean-shaven chin. “My gut is the same as yours, Krein. Can you contact Jaswinder Kumar for her opinion?”

  The mention of her name jolted his stomach against his chest, he swallowed hard. “No problem.” Rubenski had moved to his desk, and lifted the handset as Krein walked towards him.

  Jaswinder listened carefully as Krein summarised each murder anniversary, taking notes, considering each detail. When he had finished he waited, he knew she would deliberate in silence until her opinion was formed and decided. It took minutes, and the officers behind him were restless, regardless of having an elongated coffee come toilet break. Eventually her delicate, yet articulate voice returned a verdict.

  “Two things, and they are contradictory.” Another pause. “Yes, I agree that, from the list, the only ones that I think Paul will consider bothering with are the Ripper anniversaries. But I don’t think he will be able to wait six weeks to recreate another murder. Are you sure Barry Harner’s team have found every anniversary before that?”

  Krein knew he was attracted to Jaswinder, but she certainly knew how to irritate him too. He bristled. “Of course they can’t have, but they’ve ploughed through books, through the Internet, through police records, they’ve done their best.”

  “I know that, I’m sorry. Okay, my suggestion. Police the anniversaries, say, ten extr
a officers per site. But if you still haven’t caught up with Paul by August, then swamp Whitechapel with a hundred extra officers.”

  No-one in the room spoke after Krein had related her advice.

  Natural endorphins helped to kill the pain as Paul’s eyes flickered open, but not completely, his head was in agony. His vision blurred, he tried to sit, he needed to see his ankle, the pain he felt was competing with his headache. It was a mess. A large gash across the top of the foot into the ankle, and dried blood surrounded the area. He must have been unconscious for a while.

  He tore off his T-shirt and gnawed with his teeth until the material tore easily, making a tourniquet to support the joint whilst soaking any fresh blood. He was desperately thirsty now, his dehydration exacerbated by the blood loss. He tried to stand, but was unable.

  Coldness clamoured at his bare arms, he crawled painfully towards his case, his injured head pounding with deep, dull thuds. He put a fresh T-shirt on, followed by one of Jackson’s jumpers, and the shivering abated after a minute or two. Paul realised his duties would need to wait until his wounds healed, he dragged himself to sitting, propped against the icy stone wall, and removed his organiser from the case.

  Clicking through the database, it dawned on Paul that he had no idea of today’s date. He was starving, dehydrated, badly injured, and God appeared to have left him again. Even the whiney voice hadn’t piped up for a while. He felt himself bristling with anger again, anger at God. He’d been so good at his duties, and God was punishing him regardless.