by Mark Romain
He smiled in satisfaction.
He had chosen well.
◆◆◆
Standing alone, Tyler surveyed the body in silence. If Hell was the afterlife version of a jail sentence, he hoped the needless mutilation of this cadaver would guarantee that the perpetrator, a creature Jack envisaged as something less than human to start with, and all the more dangerous because of it, spent all of eternity in Prison Hades.
Like most detectives, or cops in general for that matter, he liked things to be clear-cut: cause and effect equals end result. Unfortunately, things rarely seemed to work out that way, at least not in real life.
In any homicide, it helped to know what motivated a person to commit such an extreme crime. Love, hate, greed, revenge, and jealousy; at least one of these factors usually appeared in the matrix.
It was equally true that, on the odd occasion, there was no discernible motive; the murder had occurred simply because the pressure of a particular situation, or of life in general, had proved too much, causing the killer to snap without warning.
He’d known from day one that this killer was different from any other he’d dealt with before; he’d said as much to Tony Dillon. No matter how hard he tried, he still found it impossible to fathom the evil behind these atrocities.
The woman lying before him had been senselessly murdered, her corpse unforgivably mutilated. A teenage boy had discovered her while cutting through St. James Passage on his morning paper round; it was an experience that would scar the poor sod for a long time to come.
As Tyler looked down at the lifeless husk on the flowerbed, he felt his anger rise like bile. There were those who argued that there were no evil people in the world, just individuals who were incredibly sick; Jack knew differently. This killer’s actions went way beyond sick. They were acts of unspeakable evil, carried out by a dark force inhabiting a flesh-coated shell that was cleverly disguised to appear human.
The killing had occurred within City of London jurisdiction and, technically, this was their investigation. However, after lengthy discussions at the highest level, it had been agreed that it made sense for the Met to take primacy as this was part of an ongoing series they were already dealing with.
The forensic team was standing by to enter the crime scene, ready to begin the lengthy process of crime analysis. As usual, they had been instructed to wait until they were given a green light from the SIO. Sam Calvin, the Crime Scene Manager, had just arrived and was in the process of unloading his van.
Tyler asked for a few moments alone with the victim, so that he could study the scene without interruption. The deceased looked to be in her mid to late thirties at a guess. From the way she was dressed, Tyler doubted that she was a prostitute. Had the killer mistaken her for one? She was lying flat on her back, her right leg bent at a forty-five-degree angle, her left one straight. The full lips of her open mouth were already blue where cyanosis had set in.
“Poor cow,” he said softly.
The woman’s throat had been cut open in a similar fashion to Tracey Phillips, leaving a frightful wound that gaped open like a second hungry mouth. There was no evidence of an arterial bleed, so either she had been killed elsewhere and then dumped here or the incision had been inflicted post-mortem. Jack suspected the latter, and if that were the case it was a deviation from the previous attack. Both eyes had been removed, and her nose had been sliced off – her ears, too.
The second murder had been totally unexpected, and it had thrown a massive spanner in the works. Everyone had Winston pegged for the murder of Tracey Phillips, but he was in the hospital under armed guard and couldn’t possibly have killed this woman. The implications were both obvious and catastrophic: Winston had an unbreakable alibi for the second murder, which effectively cleared him of the first. Not only were they back to square one, the fact that they had got it so wrong would leave the hindsight police, those pious bastards who earned a living out of criticising other people’s honest mistakes, rubbing their hands with glee. The pressure to find the killer would now be magnified by a factor of ten, and if progress wasn’t made pretty damn fast, heads would start to roll. Tyler pinched the bridge of his nose, reeling as his world threatened to spiral out of control.
When he felt able to focus again, Jack forced himself to concentrate on the victim’s clothing, which had been soaked through by a combination of blood and rain. Her coat, a Burberry if he wasn’t mistaken, was undone. Her dress had been sliced open from the neckline down to the hem, exposing her entire body, which had been hacked open in much the same fashion as the dress.
For some strange reason, the killer had modestly arranged the top sections of the dress to cover the woman’s breasts. In contrast, the bottom had been deliberately peeled back to ensure her genitalia was fully exposed. As with Tracey, there was no sign of her underwear, and this woman definitely did not strike him as the type to go native.
In another deviation from the first killing, there was no obvious sign of genital mutilation.
Dillon appeared behind him, placing a large hand on his shoulder to get his attention.
“Sam Calvin’s ready to start, Jack,” he said quietly, gazing down at the lifeless form on the floor.
“Good. Bring him over please, Dill.” Tyler spoke flatly, without taking his eyes from the body.
When Calvin arrived, he wasn’t alone. “Jack, this is Dr Andrew Mackintosh. He’s the same FME who attended the last one.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mackintosh said formally. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes and Tyler was warmed by the man’s obvious humanity.
“You’re the unfortunate man in charge of this dreadful case, I take it?” the doctor asked softly.
Jack offered his rubber-gloved hand. “DCI Tyler, but please, call me Jack.”
“Andrew Mackintosh. Most people call me Mack.”
Tyler indicated the figure sprawled on the floor in front of them.
“I understand that you examined the girl in Quaker Street, Mack. I think this is the work of the same killer. Unfortunately, I can’t get a pathologist down to examine her, so I could really do with a leg up. Anything you can give me would help.”
The doctor nodded sombrely, understanding Tyler’s needs all too well. “I’ll do what I can, Jack, but don’t expect too much at this stage,” he warned.
The examination was thorough. Jack was impressed by Mackintosh’s methodical approach. He stated his findings as he worked, seemingly unperturbed by their presence. “Tremendous force was used to cut the throat. The backbone is visible and the windpipe has been severed completely. I’m reluctant to commit myself without the benefit of an autopsy, as I’m sure you can appreciate….”
“But…?” Tyler encouraged.
“But I’m fairly confident this was done post-mortem. Even accounting for all the overnight rain, there is just too little blood.”
“Any theory on why he would slit her throat after she was already dead?” Jack asked Calvin. He was desperate to understand what made this killer tick. Calvin shook his head in disgust. “There’s no rational reason for it, not that I would expect this nutter to be well acquainted with rationality.”
“You can see that the eyes are missing, gouged out as opposed to being surgically removed,” Mackintosh, said continuing his examination, “whereas, her nose and ears have been cleanly sliced off.” The FME paused as if struck by a sudden thought. “I wonder,” he said, gently easing the victim’s mouth open and peering inside. “Well, well, well,” he declared.
“What?” Jack asked.
“The tongue has been cut out – or at least the front part of it.”
“What made you think for to check that,” Tyler asked, impressed.
Mackintosh gave a sad shrug. “I suddenly thought of the old adage: hear no evil; see no evil; speak no evil,” he replied.
“And the nose?” Calvin asked.
“I don’t know,” Mackintosh said. “Smell no evil, maybe?”
Jack shook h
is head. “More like don’t stick your nose where it’s not wanted,” he said, wondering if the facial carnage was the killer’s way of sending them a cryptic message.
Mackintosh started probing the torso; his hands unnaturally pale in white rubber gloves.
“My God,” Tyler gasped as the doctor peeled aside the top sections of the blood-drenched dress. Both breasts had been neatly sliced off. This was yet another disturbing deviation. Was the killer becoming more daring, the attacks more deranged as he grew in confidence? Was he experiencing a need to make each episode progressively more intense just to maintain the same thrill level?
Mackintosh said nothing as he stared up at the two policemen. The injuries spoke for themselves. There was no sign of the eyes, nose, tongue or the breasts in the immediate vicinity of the body. Dillon slipped away to organise an urgent search, making sure that it was done discreetly.
“The torso has been opened up from just below the ribs in a single, fairly neat cut, but until the pathologist has a poke around inside, we won’t know how much internal damage has been caused.”
“Do you think it was done here, Mack?” Jack asked.
The doctor gave the matter serious consideration. He looked around thoughtfully, taking his time before replying. “Very, very unlikely, I would say. He would have needed time to do all of this. A minimum of fifteen to twenty minutes, I reckon.”
Jack let out a low whistle. The rain would have driven most people off the streets, but even so, Jack couldn’t imagine the killer spending that much time in the open.
“But there are no lividity markings, Mack, so he must have moved her straight after she was killed.”
“I agree, which probably means he killed her nearby and then brought her here in a vehicle,” the doctor said.
The rain was a damned nuisance. They would be lucky to find any trace evidence from last night. It was another stroke of luck for the killer. So far, things were definitely going his way.
Hopefully, there would be CCTV covering the route into this place. If they could identify the killer’s vehicle it would even the odds a little. Jack looked around the square. There were several wall-mounted cameras, but they all seemed to be pointing inwards, along the building line.
“One more thing that I feel I should mention,” Mackintosh said reluctantly. He removed the gloves as he stood.
“Go on,” Tyler said, eying him pensively.
“The cuts I’ve seen today strike me as anything but random, and I think your killer might have some sort of medical background. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the PM reveals he’s been harvesting organs. Was anything missing from the last one?”
Jack shook his head. “No, not unless you count a section of her intestine, but we put that down to the fact that the killer had shredded her abdomen and rearranged her innards to taunt us. Tell me, Mack, did you suspect that the killer had medical knowledge when you examined the Phillips girl?” Jack asked.
The doctor hesitated a moment and then nodded. “I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure, and as a professional, I only deal in solid facts.”
“Well, between you and me, the pathologist shares your view that the killer has, at the very least, some rudimentary medical knowledge” Tyler confided. “But that’s not public knowledge, and I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself for the time being.”
“Don’t worry; you can rely on my discretion, Jack. I won’t mention this to anyone else,” Mackintosh promised.
◆◆◆
As the car pulled up in Hanbury Street, Julie turned to her friend with a look of trepidation.
“Look, Terri, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Let’s just call the police and let them handle it. It’s what they get paid for. We’ll still get the exclusive. What do you say, um?”
Teresa Miller rolled her eyes. If the truth were known, she wasn’t too sure about this either. But they had talked it over in great detail before coming to their decision – a joint decision, democratically reached. If Julie was going to bottle out, then she should have done so back at the apartment, before Terri had called the city news desk to speak to their editor.
“Christ, Julie! It was hard enough persuading Deakin to let us run with this story in the first place,” Terri said harshly. “Don’t you dare let me down.”
Julie’s bottom lip began to quiver.
Terri closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Jules,” she, said, taking her friend’s hand. Her voice was softer, kinder. “I know I act like I’m tough, but trust me, underneath I’m as scared as you. Look, we’ll just make sure that we’re not being taken for a ride by some joker who gets his kicks by scaring the shit out of dumb female reporters. If it’s not a hoax we’ll go straight to the cops. If the girls in those photos are already dead, then another few minutes won’t hurt, will they?” she reasoned.
“I guess not,” Julie agreed, although she sounded far from convinced. Her earlier resolve to go through with this was rapidly waning now that they were actually here. Still, she had to admit, Terri’s suggestion made sense. And she had come to trust Terri implicitly.
As the two women got out of the car, Julie instinctively checked the settings on her digital camera. Like Terri, she was trying her hardest to establish herself in Fleet Street circles. Her aim was to obtain a permanent photographic post with one of the papers, but so far, the best she had managed was freelance status. There were plenty of freelancers on the circuit, and the competition was fierce, which meant she only worked on a part-time basis. She supplemented her spasmodic income by doing portrait photography at a local studio during the week, and by shooting occasional weddings.
Terri looked at the address she’d written in her notepad, and then started checking house numbers.
“What will we do if someone’s still in there?” Julie fretted. “Or if it’s all locked up?” The whole thing had seemed so incredibly adventurous back at the apartment, the intrepid reporter and her trusty photographer, fearlessly going into the unknown in search of a great story. Now that they had reached their destination, she was having second thoughts. Hell, she was having third, fourth and fifth thoughts as well. “I’m not trying to put obstacles in the way, Terri,” Julie whined, “but what if the killer’s luring us into a trap? We could end up like the poor bitches in those bloody Polaroids.” She was unable to suppress a small but noticeable shudder.
“What was that for?” Terri demanded.
Julie sifted her feet uncomfortably. “I’m scared.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” Terri said dismissively. “If he wanted me dead, he would’ve waited outside my apartment door and jumped me as soon as I got home. Why would he bother going to all this trouble?”
“Maybe he wanted to get us both together.”
“Listen, Jules. On the phone, he gave me an address and said I should check it out. He told me it would be empty and the door would be open. If the house we want isn’t both of those things we know that the caller is a crank and we can forget all about it. If he’s right, then we call the police without being made to look like complete fools. Now, are you coming with me or do I go alone?” Terri stared hard at her friend, waiting impatiently for a reply.
“But we don’t even know what we’re looking for,” Julie pointed out.
“He said there would be a message in clear view. He said we couldn’t miss it.”
“I must be mad!” Julie said unhappily. Nonetheless, she linked her arm through Terri’s and started walking.
Typically, the house they were looking for turned out to be right down the other end of the street, nestled amongst half a dozen equally dilapidated buildings that were waiting to be demolished. Terri pulled out the Polaroid and compared the image to the derelict building standing in front of them. There could be no doubts, this was the place.
She raised an eyebrow at her photographer. “Why couldn’t you have parked down this end of the street?”
“I was following your directions,
” Julie replied defensively.
“Excuses, excuses.”
“But I –”
Terri held a hand out to silence her friend. “Julie, I’m just pulling your leg,” she said, smiling kindly.
“Oh.”
“Just trying to lighten the atmosphere,” Terri explained, realising her attempt at humour had backfired.
“Ah.”
The terraced house looked dark and foreboding, like something out of a sixties horror film. The street door and all the windows facing the street were boarded up. The wood appeared old, as if it had been there some time. The local yobs had decorated the lower panels with graffiti. Terri noticed there was a passageway between two of the houses, several doors along to their left. She nudged Julie’s arm. “Look, there’s a side entrance. Let’s check around the back first,” she whispered,