Viper jk-2

by Michael Morley

  Stern removed his glasses and used his arm to blot sweat from his brow. 'When your fire experts arrive they will be able to tell you much more about her last moments. But looking at the skeleton, and particularly the skull, I would say the murderer started the fire at the top of her body.'

  'Why?'

  Stern replaced his glasses. 'Come around this side. I'll try to explain.'

  They picked their way into a position closer to the victim's head.

  'See down there, around the tops of her legs?' He pointed out the area. 'While there is no skin left, there is still some tissue and burned muscle. Now look here; the upper skin that should be around her neck and skull is completely missing, front and back.'

  Sylvia caught his drift. 'Fire rises; so if the blaze had been set at her feet then you'd expect most damage down there, rather than at the top of the body?'

  'Absolutely right.'

  'So you'd say he doused her in petrol and set her head alight?'

  'That might be what you would say, my dear. I don't think so. I think your killer was a little more precise in his practices. Look at the skull. There is incredible damage around the mouth. I think he may have forced a rag, probably soaked in some accelerant, into her mouth, pushed it deep into the back of her throat, and then set it alight.'

  Like a garden lamp, thought Sylvia. Her killer used a petrol-soaked rag like a wick in an outside lamp.

  'There is also extensive burning on the chest. He probably threw accelerant over her once she was ablaze.' Stern lowered his mask so it was below his nose and sniffed. 'Paraffin, I think, not petrol; but I could be wrong. These days my nose is better suited to sniffing a good Barolo than anything else. Again, the fire team will know for certain.'

  Sylvia had seen enough. 'Excuse me for a moment, Professore. I just need to go outside for a while. I'll leave you to get on with your work.'

  He smiled knowingly at her. 'See you shortly.'

  Sylvia was keen to escape from the charred corpse and get to the other side of the crime scene. She was desperate for a smoke. Jack and Pietro caught Sylvia as she ducked out of the forensic tent. A packet of cigarettes was already in her hand. Before the two men had reached her a voice stopped her in her tracks.

  'Capitano!'

  Sylvia turned to see a young male Exhibits Officer beside her. 'You need to come to the other side of the pit.'

  'Why? What is it?'

  'We've found some things in the far corner, in an old chest of drawers.'

  'Things?'

  Jack and Pietro followed, a pace behind.

  'Underwear. Tissues used by women, smeared with make-up, old lipstick – those kinds of things.'

  When they reached the corner of the pit, Jack stepped back and tuned out the fast-spoken Italian comments being exchanged. Old planks and plastic sheeting had been arranged to form a sort of shelter and forensic teams were now erecting their own protection around this area as well. A rusty oil drum lay on its side in the treacly mud and there were footprints everywhere. It looked like investigators had rushed into the scene and probably compromised it. There were some forensic walkways, but not enough. He was saddened to think of what might have been lost. A crime-scene photographer flashed his camera at something being shown to Sylvia. Jack was in no hurry to see it. He was still trying to decode the importance of what was in front of him.

  The pit was at its deepest at this point. The place with the planks and the oil drum was most sheltered from the elements. It had been carefully chosen. This was his place to linger. He sat here to savour the blaze. Wanted to be alone with his thoughts. The drum was his seat. The drawers now being rifled by Forensics were his treasure chest. He was a regular – no, more than that, he was a routine visitor. Jack looked again at the makeshift shelter. It really wasn't very big, and certainly not sophisticated. Some old wooden doors – one a front door of a house with splintered panels that looked as though it had been staved in during a drugs raid – formed the sides of the shelter. A small trench, about six or eight inches deep, had been dug in the ground so the doors would slot in. Planks of wood – rough flooring timbers and pieces of cheap plywood – had been crudely layered on top and nailed down. Old plastic sheeting had been fed and trapped beneath them to form some kind of waterproof membrane. Whoever had done this wasn't tall; the height and poor design of the roof showed he'd struggled to arrange things with any real neatness or competence. More than anything there was a real sense, though, that he'd spent a lot of time here – he'd come with a spade and tools and had collected the right combination of wood and sheeting to make the shelter. This undoubtedly was his place.

  'Jack. Look at these.'

  He responded slowly to Sylvia's voice, carefully stepping on to a short walkway that had just been put down. It took him to the heart of the group.

  The young Exhibits Officer held a long drawer across his arms and a camera whirred and flashed from somewhere to the side.

  In the left side of the drawer were maybe six or seven pairs of panties. From their size and style they looked as though they'd been worn by slim – probably young – women. Next to them was a pile of used cosmetics. Lipsticks, eyeliners, blusher, powder, even some hairspray aerosols. In the right side of the drawer was a strange mix of papers – tissues that had yellowed but still bore marks of lipstick or make-up, old letters that had been crumpled up and then straightened out, torn photographs of girls' faces that had been Sellotaped together again.

  'You recognize any of these girls?' asked Jack.

  'Not yet,' answered Sylvia, 'but I wouldn't be surprised if at least some of them turn out to be our missing women.'

  'These are trophies?' said Pietro. He pointed to the tent that covered the place where the last woman had been burned. 'He kills his women there, then he collects here what he wants to keep from them.'

  'Maybe,' said Jack, his attention caught by two forensic officers struggling to move heavy cans in an adjacent corner. 'What have they got there?'

  Pietro interrupted the search. He lifted one of the cans, his face beaming with an ear-to-ear smile. 'Paraffina! Looks like we've found your paraffin.'

  59

  Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Antonio Castellani was on the toilet cursing his haemorrhoids when the carabinieri rushed his caravan. By the time he'd come out, frightened and still hurting, his grandson Paolo was flat on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  They were both read their rights and told they were being taken to the carabinieri barracks for questioning in connection with three murders. The arresting officers noted they looked genuinely shocked. They also noted that another Castellani – Franco – was missing. His grandfather made frantic protests about needing to stay to run his business but his words fell on deaf ears. Confused campers crushed around the two separate police cars that flashed their blue lights and sped away.

  Search teams poured into the old man's van and the one that Paolo and Franco shared. They found nothing in Antonio's office, except accounts, scrap-books of his younger years, old clothes, a cupboard full of cans and dried foods, some letters from his wife and enough medicines to stock a farmacia.

  Things were different in the other caravan.

  Forensics were having a ball.

  Mud from the pit was all over the place, but especially close to one of the stinking bunks. There were specks of heroin all over the floor. They stripped the bed sheets and sent them off to be tested for other substances – specifically gunshot residue. The pillow cover was pulled off and bagged. Something soft tumbled lightly on to the floor.

  Alberto Morani, a veteran forensic investigator, felt his heart thump. 'Stop! Don't touch it until you've photographed it.'

  His assistant, newcomer Giulietta Sielli, pulled back her hand. She flicked round the camera she was holding and took several pictures of what even she knew could be hugely significant.

  Lying on the floor by Franco Castellani's bed was a pair of tiny yellow panties. The type that undoubtedly matched the
yellow bra that had been worn by Rosa Novello.

  60

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Within seconds of seeing Antonio Castellani being interviewed in the holding cell, Jack knew he had nothing to do with the triple murder on his land. The old man's body language showed he was completely confused by the whole affair. His brow was furrowed, his eyes startled, but there was no indicator of guilt, only genuine bewilderment.

  Sylvia was gentle but firm with him. First she explored his relationship with his grandchildren and the absence of their parents. Then she moved on to his business and the kind of activities that happened at the site. From the viewing window in the adjoining room Jack listened to the man's strange Neapolitan dialect. It was nothing like the Italian he'd learned. What was clear, though, was how arthritis had stiffened the old guy's joints, how old age had bent his spine and slowed his responses. Antonio Castellani would have trouble swatting a fly in his filthy caravan, let alone hunting and killing humans.

  On the other side of the viewing room, Pietro Raimondi was in another interview area using completely different tactics on Paolo Falconi. He was leaning half across the thin grey table that separated them; his broad neck bulged with bloated veins and stretched muscles, his eyes piercing and provocative. 'Don't mess with us, Paolo. You know something about what went down, now tell us.'

  'I told you. I don't know a thing.'

  'Rosa Novello. You had the hots for her, right? You've been sniffing around her like a big bad street dog just waiting for the chance to grind up against her leg.'

  Paolo shifted in his chair. 'No!'

  'No?'

  'Yes – no! How many times do I have to tell you? I don't even know who you're fucking talking about.'

  'Hey, watch your filthy little mouth.'

  Paolo backed up in his seat and looked away from the big lieutenant. He was staring straight off into space, right at Jack, but couldn't see him through the one-way glass.

  The profiler studied him. Paolo was stressed to the hilt, anxious, aggressive and panicky under pressure. But was he really clever enough, mature enough and controlled enough to carry out a triple murder? Not on his own. Certainly not on his own. Did he have a killer instinct? They were about to find out.

  Pietro undid his pistol from its holster and slid it across the table. 'Pick it up. Cock it. Aim it at me.'

  'What?'

  'You heard me. Do it! Now!'

  Paolo fumbled with the Beretta. He picked it up and swapped it between hands. He ignored the safety and raised it. Pointed it, not at Pietro – but off into space, well wide of his left shoulder. His finger wasn't even inside the guard.

  Jack had seen enough. The stunt with the gun – unloaded, of course – had been his idea. He could see that Paolo had no affinity with the weapon. He was cautious, clumsy and almost scared when he handled it. The real killer would be more than comfortable with a firearm. Even if he'd tried to disguise his familiarity with a gun, there would have been telltale traits in the lifting, levelling, sighting and gripping. Even the putting down of the weapon would have betrayed him.

  Pietro holstered his gun and stared into Paolo's eyes. It was a look of controlled violence. A visual threat that stuck needles in the brain of anyone on the receiving end. 'A pair of girl's panties were found in your caravan. What were you doing with them?'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'You don't know what panties are?'

  'Yes, of course I do. But I don't know about any in my van.'

  'Well, they were found in there. Nice yellow ones, G-string type. You know, the type that Rosa would have looked really sexy in.'

  Paolo looked angry. 'I told you – I don't know any Rosa and I don't know anything about her underwear!'

  Pietro slammed a hand on the table and Paolo jumped back. 'Let me jog your memory. Rosa is the dead girl we found not far from your van. She's the pretty kid who was staying at your camp and whose brains were blown all over the inside of a car. The girl who, according to her mother, owned yellow panties, just like the ones we found in your caravan. So, I think you do know Rosa. And I think you'd better start talking to me now, before I charge you with her murder.'

  Jack could see sweat rolling down Paolo's cheek. Seconds passed while Pietro's words sank in. Paolo rubbed away the salty drizzle from his forehead. 'Franco, my cousin. I think he must have had the panties.'

  'Explain.'

  Paolo sweated some more. Finally he gave up what he was holding back, 'I've seen him with women's underwear before.'

  Pietro read his face – it was full of secrets. 'What else, Paolo? You're not telling me everything. What else about Franco?'

  Paolo sucked in air. All the pressure in the world seemed to be on him. 'Look, he's my best friend. Franco and I are like brothers. I'm not saying anything else.'

  'As you like. But then you both end up in jail. We will find him, Paolo. It's only a matter of time. You know that, don't you?'

  Paolo looked away. Stared at the wall. Stared at his hands on the table. Looked anywhere in the room except into the face of the cop who looked like he wanted to tear his head off.

  'Paolo, look at me. Pay attention. This is for your own good.'

  He turned his head slowly towards the big policeman. Did his best to stare him down.

  'From what I know, your cousin's not well. He's sick and he's in trouble. Unless you tell me what you're holding back, things are only going to get worse for him – and for you.'

  Paolo held his silence. Looked into the dark-brown eyes that were boring into him.

  'Paolo!' Pietro slammed his hand on the desk again. 'You want us to make a mistake? To chase after him and shoot him down in an alleyway? You want to risk all that?'

  Paolo swallowed. Looked around. Fought the doubt in his mind. 'He's got a gun. My grandfather lets him use one of his guns to kill rats on the site. I looked yesterday, and it's missing.'

  61

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Twenty minutes after Paolo's interview, the photograph of Franco that his grandfather kept in his wallet had been copied and wired to every carabinieri patrol in Naples.

  Sylvia and Pietro sat with Jack and compared interview notes. Soon, life at the Castellani campsite became clearer. The two grandsons collected garbage and burned it in the pit. It was Franco's job to do the incineration, a job he guarded closely, one he liked so much he wouldn't let anyone else do it. Paolo merely helped drive the van and load up. Old man Castellani wasn't capable of even helping with the heavy garbage sacks, so they all agreed that he could safely be ruled out as a murder suspect. When it came to the night of the murders, Paolo had said he'd been asleep in his bunk – no real alibi. Nevertheless, it seemed to tally with his grandfather's version of events. What's more, none of the team felt Paolo alone had the potential to be a killer. He was too passive, too nervous. And then came the more obvious pointers. Franco was missing. What looked like Rosa's panties had been found beneath what was now established as his pillow. Other items of underwear and female 'trophies' had been discovered in the pit where only he went. On top of all that, his grandfather had admitted finding Franco using heroin. Finally, Paolo had confessed that his grandfather's old Glock was missing.

  Pietro was convinced Franco was their man. Sylvia and Jack were more cautious. They could both see the clear links connecting Franco to the triple murders at the site, but struggled to see any connection between those three murders and the killing of Francesca Di Lauro. And what really troubled Jack was that he was sure the triple murders were linked to the Di Lauro case. He was certain because he couldn't believe that two separate killers would both choose to use fire as a means to murder a victim. Such an MO was highly uncommon. It was impossible to think that two such killers would spring up at the same time in the same area.

  As Sylvia and Pietro went in for a team briefing, Jack sat alone and tried to make sense of it all. If what they were beginning to think was right, then Luciano Creed was entirely innoc
ent. He could live with that. The guy was creepy as hell, but maybe that's all he was – creepy as hell. Whoever said the world of psychological profiling didn't have its fair share of sex-obsessed perverts?

  So, what about Franco Castellani?

  News was now in from search teams that shoes recovered from Franco's caravan looked as though they matched prints at the murder scene. Analysis of soil samples from clothing was already underway to further test the link. For Jack it was another so what? Given that Franco regularly went to the pit, they were bound to be able to forensically place him there. It was all a hell of a puzzle.

  Jack looked down at the photograph of Franco. The kid's face was a mess. Beaked nose, horribly wrinkled skin. He looked like a shrivelled sparrow. Mother Nature sure had fucked up. Sylvia had said he was suffering from Werner Syndrome. Jack knew little of it. He hit Google on the office computer in front of him and soon got lost in a mass of medical extracts. The snippets he pulled were disturbing. It was an awful disease. It kicked in around puberty and aggressively got worse until you died at an all too young age. He noted the facts: * Cause – mutations of the WRN gene. Passed on by parents, each of them showing no symptoms but both having copies of the defective gene. * Frequency – higher incidents in Japan than USA and Europe. Medical estimates vary from a frequency of 1 in a million to as high as 1 in 200,000. * Life expectancy – death usually occurs between 30 and 50 through atherosclerosis or malignant tumours. Poor bastard.

  Life could be awfully cruel and unfair.

  The facts prompted Jack to think of a whole new batch of questions.

  Had the disease stopped him having normal sexual relationships?

  For sure it had.

  Would it screw you up to the extent that you might torture women who are repulsed by you and reject you?

  It certainly might.

  Could rejection by a mother and father at an early age, and a hard underprivileged upbringing, worsen your feelings of alienation and unfairness?