(2011) The Gift of Death

by Sam Ripley

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Cassie from the passenger seat.

  ‘I was just thinking about my dad. He hated the entertainment industry.’

  ‘But your mother used to –‘

  ‘I know, I know,’ she laughed. ‘I think it was one of those life-long differences of opinion that kept their relationship going.’ She thought of her own relationship with Josh – her former relationship with Josh, she corrected herself – and the things they used to argue about. No, she wasn’t going to allow herself to go there. She had promised not to think about him.

  ‘You said that you were a photographer now. Is that for a magazine?’

  Everyone assumed that. But she’d learned not to be offended.

  ‘No. I show my work in galleries.’ That sounded so pretentious. ‘I mean, I take photographs that my gallery then sells.’ Even though her work had been written about – and highly praised – in critical journals, she was careful not to define it as art. Well, at least not to other people. ‘It’s in Santa Monica. The Sansom. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Suddenly Kate felt foolish. Why on earth would she have heard of it? What a stupid thing to say. But she felt apologising would only make it worse.

  ‘In fact, I’m meant to be working on a series of photographs for a new exhibition.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Waves.’ The answer sounded trite, pathetic. ‘Waves as they swell, as they grow and as they break and die.’ That didn’t sound much better.

  ‘That’s what you were doing when -’

  ‘When I found the little girl. Yes.’

  The two women fell silent. Kate thought about the parents of Sara-Jane. She wondered how Susan was getting on. Perhaps she’d recommend a doctor for her, after all. But Susan would probably feel as offended as she herself had done when Dr Cruger had suggested she see a shrink. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. In fact, she hadn’t yet done anything about finding another doctor for herself. That was another thing on her list.

  ‘I think we’re nearly here,’ said Kate, turning down onto West Sunset Boulevard and then onto Tamarind Avenue.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror as she parked. The constant presence of the unmarked car, with the two protection officers, made her feel a little safer.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this?’ asked Kate. ‘There’s no need for you to come in with me.’

  ‘I think I’d like to,’ said Cassie, forcing a weak smile. ‘Really I would.’

  ‘If at any stage you want to leave, just let me know and we’ll go. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They walked arm in arm down the street until they came to an apartment building that looked like it had been built in the thirties or forties. The kind of place, Kate thought, that used to house aspiring actors and actresses who had travelled from Kansas or Alabama or Portland or wherever in search of fame. She remembered the story her father used to tell of a woman born in London who came to New York and then LA in the hope of becoming an actress. After one failure too many she had climbed up to the Hollywood sign and thrown herself off, killing herself instantly. She had been cremated in the cemetery that stood at the end of Tamarind Avenue, the other side of Santa Monica Boulevard. Saul often used to take her to Hollywood Forever cemetery and show her the graves and niches of the stars in the hope that the repetition of such sorry tales would squash any ambitions she might have had to become an actress.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Kate, running her finger down the series of names by the door. ‘Apartment 312.’

  She pressed the buzzer and waited. A moment later the door opened and the two women stepped into a nondescript stairwell, furnished with a table covered with free-sheets and fliers and a couple of mountain bikes. Across the hallway there was an elevator so narrow it looked as if it could only hold two people. Kate looked at it with suspicion and fear, the light of its call button an evil red eye.

  ‘It’s only two flights up. Do you mind walking?’ asked Kate.

  Kate guided Cassie up the stairs and along a narrow corridor that, on one side, opened onto and overlooked a central courtyard.

  ‘Remember, she’s likely to be as distressed as you are,’ said Kate, stopping on the corridor and squeezing Cassie’s hand a little tighter. ‘By the sounds of it, Roberta’s been trying to forget her father just as much as you have.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like to live with that monster,’ said Cassie, almost in a whisper. ‘Let alone be the daughter of such a man.’

  ‘It’s good that she agreed to see us,’ said Kate. ‘But she knows something is wrong and I suppose she wants to find out more. I think she also feels a certain gratitude towards Bill Vaughan. She knows that he spared her a great deal of heartache. When I mentioned on the phone that I had worked with him on the case she seemed to open up.’

  They continued to walk along the corridor until they stood outside 312. They pressed the bell and a moment later the door opened. Kate had never met Roberta before and she was immediately struck by her. A slight creature she looked more like a girl than a woman. She had light auburn hair, pale skin and a few oat-coloured freckles around her nose and mouth. She smiled as she stretched out her hand to greet her callers, but Kate noticed that there was a sadness in her light blue eyes.

  ‘Hi, I’m Kate Cramer and this is Cassie. Cassie Verginer.’

  ‘Hi, there.’ She looked down to the ground, as if she were a little ashamed. ‘Come on in. Sorry everything is a bit of a mess, but I’ve only just finished work.’

  Roberta led the way into a sparsely furnished lounge consisting of a blue Futon and an old wooden rocking chair. She caught Kate looking at the storage crates in the far corner of the room.

  ‘I’ve been here for two or three months, but I still haven’t had time to unpack. Sorry, there’s not much room, but please sit down.’

  Kate guided Cassie towards the sofa and then took a seat next to her.

  ‘Would you like some coffee? Tea? Juice?’

  ‘We don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said Cassie.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ve got some coffee on the go anyhow.’

  Roberta disappeared into the small kitchen to make the coffee while Kate and Cassie remained sitting in silence. A few moments later Roberta returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits.

  ‘I really admire your kind of work,’ said Cassie. ‘When I was losing my sight I had the most wonderful care from the nurses at the clinic. Not just with physical things, you know, but in terms of support. It must be terribly draining, though.’

  ‘Yes, it is, at times,’ said Roberta, sitting down in the rocking chair. ‘Of course there are moments when you think it’s just too much, and it is tiring, but the rewards are high. Obviously I’m talking about the personal rewards, not the financial ones.’ She gestured around the apartment with a thin smile of apology.

  ‘Did you always want to be a nurse?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I’m not sure. But I do remember dreaming about being nurse when I was a little girl. I would dress up in a little outfit my best friend’s mom made me and pretend that I was helping someone get better. For some reason, in my head it was always a lady who was ill. Of course now, I realise what I was doing was trying to bring my own mother back.’

  ‘You never knew her?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘No, she died giving birth to me.’

  ‘And you were brought up by your father?’

  ‘Yes, and my older brother, Ryan,’ she said, looking down. There was an embarrassed silence. ‘I know on the phone you said I might be able to help with something. You mentioned Mr Vaughan’s name, but he passed away some time ago, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, ten years ago now.’

  ‘He was a nice man,’ said Roberta. ‘Sometimes I think how differently my life would have turned out if I’d had him for a father, instead of –‘

  ‘It’s about your father we need
to speak to you about,’ said Kate.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just over three weeks ago I found a baby girl floating in the sea outside my house.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Obviously she hadn’t read the piece in the Times.

  ‘About two weeks ago Cassie was sent a package containing a number of human fingertips.’

  Blood seemed to drain from Roberta’s thin lips and her already pale face turned a ghostly white.

  ‘And then Jordan Weislander – who led the prosecution against your father - found a human tongue in his icebox.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Obviously, the link between Jordan, Cassie and me is – was – your father.’

  Panic invaded her eyes. ‘You’re not trying to suggest -?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that.’

  ‘But then who -?’

  ‘We think it could be someone your father went to prison with. Maybe somebody he helped when he was inside. Or it could be some psychopath who feels some kind of affinity with Gleason. Sees him as some kind of hero figure or whatever.’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘But we just wondered if there was anything – or anybody – you could think of. Any kind of link or motivation?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing. As you know I never saw my – him – since the day I left for college.’

  ‘And there’s nobody from your childhood that could be behind this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tears started to form in her eyes.

  ‘I realise this is difficult for you to talk about, Roberta. And I’m sorry. But it really is extremely important.’ Kate took a deep breath. ‘Roberta, I know about the abuse. Bill Vaughan told me. God only knows, it must have been awful for you.’

  Roberta nodded her head as tears began to form in her eyes.

  ‘But was he the only one? Your dad, I mean. We know what he was capable of.’ Kate swept her hand through her silver hair. ‘Do you remember him bringing any of his friends to see you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, Roberta. I really am.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. Honestly.’ Her face was creased by pain now, as if each of the questions was a stab in her heart.

  Cassie stood up and, using her hand to guide her, moved across the room towards Roberta. She reached out her hands and gently placed them on Roberta’s shoulder and neck.

  ‘Hush,’ said Cassie. ‘It’s all in the past now. He’s gone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, looking up at Cassie’s blank eyes. ‘I’m sorry for what he did to you.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Kate. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘Sometimes I think if only I had stayed at home with him then none of it would have happened.’

  ‘You can’t think like that,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Then he wouldn’t have needed to seek out those other girls. All those lives taken. What a waste. If I had stayed with him at least it would only have been one life, my life.’

  ‘Do you have any surviving relatives?’ asked Kate, in an effort to change the direction of the conversation.

  ‘An aunt in Oklahoma, my mom’s sister,’ she said. ‘We speak on the phone and send cards, things like that. But apart from that, no, no-one.’

  ‘If anything occurs to you you’ll let me know, won’t you?’ said Kate, drinking the last of her coffee and standing up.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Roberta, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m sorry not to be of more help to you.’ She stood up from the rocking chair to face Cassie. ‘But it was good to see you. Difficult, but good. At least I know he didn’t ruin your life completely. You’ve survived. That’s wonderful.’

  Cassie thought of the nightmares, the blackness that grew inside of her like a mutant child, but she pushed it from her mind.

  ‘Yes, I’m a survivor,’ she said, and smiled.

  She touched Roberta’s face, and felt a wetness on her hand. She ran her fingers down her cheek to her jaw. She remembered the feel of Gleason’s pock-marked skin and the rough contours of his face. Father and daughter shared a similar bone structure, the same square face, high forehead and strong jawline. An irrational fear clawed the back of her neck. Then she felt a sense of pity. Imagine what it must be like, she thought, to look like the mass murderer that was your father. Much better to be one of Gleason’s victims than his daughter. She felt a sting of guilt inside her.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Cassie, squeezing Roberta’s hand. As she left she regretted she had not wished her good luck too.

  18

  There was an air of expectation in the investigation room. Harper had scheduled an urgent meeting to discuss the Gleason case and its poisonous fall-out. He had his own theory – something he had been discussing with Jennifer Curtis - but he wanted everyone present to share the information they had gathered over the last 48 hours. He looked at his team and felt a sense of pride. They were, he knew, the best in the business. But would they be able to work out what the fuck was going on? A wave of anxiety, compounded by an overwhelming tiredness, swept over him. He took another swig of his black coffee and cleared his throat.

  ‘Okay, Lansing,’ he said. ‘What have you got?’

  Lansing stood up and addressed the room.

  ‘As you know I flew up to San Quentin and spent a day interviewing the governor, staff and some of the inmates.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It seems that during his time there – those two years between 1998 and 2000 – Gleason was very much a loner. Of course, he was confined to his cell for most of the day, but when he was allowed out he didn’t seek company. It seems, from what I can gather, that most of the other prisoners were afraid of him. One of them, a,’ he looked down to consult his notebook, ‘a man called Lee James – who by the way was one tough guy – described Gleason as pure evil. I asked him how he knew this and he said that he could just sense it. Bear in mind that James had spent most of his adult life in prison – he was a serial rapist – but even he said he was afraid of Gleason. Said there was something about his eyes, like he was looking into the face of something that was not human.’

  ‘And what about these other men? Garrison? Lomax? Federline? Hornbeck and Tomlin? By the way, Helen, they’ve all been located now, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Officers have been sent out to bring them in. I’ll let you know when they are in custody.’

  ‘Thanks, Helen. Lansing, about Gleason and his fellow inmates.’

  ‘I asked around and everyone told me the same thing. Gleason did not talk to anyone. He made it his business not to make friends, or acquaintances even. Jim Abend, the governor, reiterated this. I asked him about what James had said – about Gleason being the embodiment of evil – but he dismissed it. ‘Nine out of ten of the men in my prison are evil,’ he said. ‘What other word can you use to describe their behaviour?’ He then called in one of the guards, Henry Dean, who has been working at the prison for the last 15 years. Dean told me that Gleason did not speak a word to him during the two years he was there. Not a good morning or a goodnight. And he never saw him talking to any of the other prisoners, including the five men on our list.’