Without Conscience

by Michael Kerr

  At last, the old bitch was heading off, no doubt to clog up a counter in another store, as though she were a fatty deposit, narrowing an artery and stopping the healthy flow of blood.

  The assistant raised the corners of her mouth in a pseudo smile and said, “Can I help you?”

  Oh, yes, you can help me. You can suffer a brain haemorrhage or go blind, just as soon as you’ve served me. “I hope so. Do you have a copy of Missing Conscience by Doctor Mark Ross?”

  Turning to her terminal, ‘Doe Eyes’ punched in the relevant details.

  Strange, how book stores were almost as quiet as public libraries. Both had the same ambience as a church. It was an effort not to weaken and look about for a sign that in large black letters on a white background would state, or more aptly demand: SILENCE.

  “Yes, we have a copy of that. You’ll find it on the first floor under true crime.”

  “Thank you,” and a polite smile. It wouldn’t do to just walk away without a word and give the dummy any reason whatsoever to remember the brief encounter. Though the cold weather had made disguise easy. A woollen hat, scarf, coat collar up, and glasses – not needed, just a prop – were not out of place.

  The book was in good company, cheek to jowl with case histories of crimes, biographies of retired coppers, and hyped-up tales of has-been gangsters and killers its close neighbours. Same old drivel: Brady and Hindley, the Great Train Robbers, the Yorkshire Ripper, the Krays, Dr Harold Shipman, Ian Huntley, Fred West and his wife. The list was endless; mostly regurgitated accounts of crimes and of criminals who’d caught the media and publics’ imagination. The morbid fascination for bloody murder and sexual deviance was alive and well. It would be fun to spend a few hours swapping dust jackets, to treat the geriatrics to some surprise; gory bedtime fare that would lurk, waiting like a fat spider to shock them with its dark, foreboding appearance.

  Missing Conscience had a Gold FBI shield on the front cover. But it was inside the flap at the back where the main interest lay. The black and white author photograph showed Ross as he had looked several years ago. He was even-featured, dark-haired, and had the semblance of a smile playing on his lips, though no humour was discernible in his clear, penetrating eyes. Underneath the photo was a brief bio’.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A native of Colorado, Dr Mark Ross excelled as a Special Agent with the FBI, attached to the Behavioural Science Unit at Quantico.

  He is now a criminal psychologist, living and working in the UK.

  Hands sweating. Must get home and read the book. This was the professional manhunter who had appeared on the front pages of newspapers. His sole and undivided attention and efforts would be channelled into solving the Park Murders.

  He will not find me. I will read his words and understand how he operates. And if the time comes when I perceive him to be the slightest threat whatsoever, I will kill him.

  It was hard to be patient and wait to be served. On this floor, the register was manned by a beanpole kid with raging acne, blue-black hair shorn at the sides with the longer top carefully styled to resemble an unmade bed, and an overbite that made him look and sound like Janet Street-Porter. Count to ten...Count to ten.

  Twenty minutes later, sitting on the speeding, swaying tube with the metallic pounding sound of wheels on rails, the other commuters ‒ who made an art form out of seeing everything whilst appearing to look straight ahead into the middle distance, or chattered inanely into brain-scrambling mobile phones ‒ dissolved as the prologue and then first chapter were avariciously devoured.

  Almost missed the station. The book was hard-hitting and gripping. All the more engrossing because these were the thoughts of a new enemy; a man who had been fool enough to set down for posterity how he worked, and explain his techniques.

  Blink.

  Back in the house, with no recollection of leaving the train or walking home. Now a sudden need to eat. Cold beans in a pan on the hob would do. Must get a grip and be more house-proud. Everything seemed to be coming apart of late. With the periods of blanks and the ongoing mission, the place was a fucking mess, especially the kitchen. The sink was piled high with pots and pans that had the remains of food set solid to them like dried puke. And the whole house stank like a landfill site.

  Four hours of hard graft and the place was pristine. Cleanliness was next to godliness, so mum always used to say. Although that was hard to believe during her last year, as she had become incontinent and refused to wash, never mind take a bath or shower.

  A glass of milk and a cheese sandwich smothered in brown sauce for tea. The milk tasted on the turn, and some of the bread had developed small, green florets like lichen on gravestones. Three slices were salvageable: ‘waste not, want not’ was another of mum’s old sayings. How long had she been nonexistent? Not important. The past seemed as unreal as a half-forgotten dream. Memories were unreliable and became distorted by time. It was easy to rework events and make them more palatable. The whole of life could be recreated in the mind and made perfect, subtly manipulated, tweaked to suit, and altered like a poorly fitting garment.

  Now, take the car to the supermarket and stock up. Then settle down with the book and see where Dr Mark was coming from. But first, a few minutes in the gallery with Caroline.

  The effulgent glow from the orange light bulb gave the photographs in the alcove of the bedroom a gentle warmth. Over a hundred shots featuring Caroline were Blu-Tacked to the wallpaper. They depicted the cool and callous bitch: walking, alone and with others, eating, drinking, entering and leaving the BBC, at the door of her apartment block, at the theatre, in a pub, smiling, laughing and frowning. In all her guises she taunted and provoked. Her multiple images plagued, pleased, uplifted and depressed the spirit at once. She was a thorn to be removed, so that the wound could begin to knit and eventually heal over.

  Blink.

  Still standing at the foot of the bed. Caroline’s many faces swam back into focus. An hour had gone by, leaving no memory of its passing. It must be a combination of fatigue and the new orange pills that the psychiatrist had prescribed for what the stupid bastard decreed was a mild form of schizophrenia. Would have to stop taking them. The side effects of antipsychotic drugs were unacceptable.

  Shopping done, thank God. Snuggled up in bed, facing the gallery again and reading Dr Mark’s journal. It was a How-to book, and should have been titled: How to catch a Serial Killer, or, The Practical Guide to Profiling. It contained sections on working a crime scene, gathering trace evidence, the methodology employed to isolate and apprehend the offender, and many more. Dr Mark called the unknown subjects he hunted, unsubs, and purported that they generally suffered from one or a combination of several personality disorders. It would be interesting to know how he had profiled the so-called Park Killer. He probably thought that he was hunting for a Looney Tune; a wacky, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ cartoon rabbit, who was as mad as a March hare. These profiling pricks apparently relied heavily on the method employed to kill. They studied all the evidence, then stirred in a large helping of the magic ingredient, gut feeling. No wonder so many repeat killers were still on the loose. Their hunters misspent a lot of time looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  Finished. It had been a good read. Now to use its contents to build a self profile. Try to see how Dr Mark would evaluate and write up the killer.

  Comfortable. In the living room at the old, scarred desk, with heavy curtains drawn against the night, and a green-shaded banker’s lamp concentrating its light on the large notepad in front of it. A cracked and stained Star Wars mug full of sweet tea and Missing Conscience were at hand; the latter for instant reference.

  A heading: THE PARK KILLER. Sub heading: Criminal Personality Programme.

  With the book as a tool, it was a piece of cake, easy-peasy, lemon squeezy, no sweat. More aptly, a walk in the park. Ha! It was fun. First an index of sorts, prior to the actual formulation of the profile:

  Behaviour: Principle is that behaviou
r reflects unknown subject’s personality.

  The profiling process that follows is divided into seven categories.

  Evaluation of the criminal act.

  Comprehensive evaluation of the specifics of the crime scene or scenes.

  Comprehensive analysis of victim/victims.

  Evaluation of preliminary police reports.

  Evaluation of medical examiners autopsy protocol/protocols.

  Development of a profile with critical offender characteristics.

  Investigative suggestions predicted on construction of the profile.

  Consult with local investigators and suggest proactive strategies they might employ to gain response from the unsub.

  If there is a ‘signature’ aspect to the crime, the personality can be recognised

  and predictions of past offence behaviour may be made from this insight.

  Blink.

  A feeling of having been away. Tea now cold. Eyes tingling with a sensation of pins and needles. Fucking medication. And there were pages of writing, compiled with no memory of having written them. Dizzy, and a little confused. Mouth dry. Must move. Need to take a piss and have a cigarette, and then read what had somehow been formulated and penned while on auto pilot, standby, or wherever the fuck it is that I go when someone switches the light off in my head.

  Fifteen minutes later, composed, back at the desk.

  “Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin,” said to the ether in the small, dismal room. “Eyes down and look in. Read and learn.”

  1. Evaluation of the criminal act itself.

  Redirected rage, resulting in violent attack, mutilation and murder of victims. Hallmarks of Sadistic Personality Disorder. Unsub used physical and psychological pain to establish control and domination. Obsessed with person other than victims, who unsub has contacted to intimidate and make known his intentions. Victims were exemplars. The murders were not random.

  2. Comprehensive evaluation of the specifics of the crime.

  The scenes were open ground (city parks). The crimes were committed under cover of darkness. The choice of location was rational and made discovery of trace evidence impossible, in conditions that were contaminated by weather, and the fact that many other persons had frequented the sites.

  Hairs and fibres collected from scenes to be cross matched.

  The victims were physically attacked. A sharpened length of tree branch was forcibly inserted into their vaginas. They were manually strangled, and their hearts were removed with a serrated knife.

  3. Comprehensive analysis of victim/victims.

  Victims were unknown to each other and had no discernible connections.

  All three (3) were young, slim, female redheads. They had been selected because:

  a). Of their similarity to Caroline Sellars.

  b). Due to their habit of jogging/running in isolated surroundings between dusk and dawn. Their professions and status were not a consideration.

  4. Evaluation of preliminary police reports.

  Not available, but presumed to be insubstantial - little more than time, date and place. No witnesses or survivors.

  5. Evaluation of the medical examiner’s autopsy protocols

  Not available. Informed conjecture of findings is that:

  a). Sharpened tree branches found in vaginas were inserted ante mortem.

  b). External bruising to throat and subsequent internal inspection of trauma to windpipe and larynx would confirm that all three deaths were caused by manual strangulation.

  c). Removal of hearts was post mortem with a sharp serrated blade.

  d). Scrapings from under victim 3’s fingernails would yield DNA from blood and tissue deposits.

  6). Development of a profile with critical offender characteristics.

  To follow.

  7). Investigative suggestions predicted on construction of profile.

  Follows profile.

  Psychological profile of the Park Killer.

  The unsub is not a serial/ritual killer in the accepted sense of the definition, and has contacted the intended PT: – Primary Target: Caroline Sellars.

  The three victims (to date) were mutilated and murdered to instil fear in the PT. They all bore a physical resemblance to her. The unsub also shows traits conforming to a Schizoid Personality Disorder type, with sadistic tendencies, not fitting perfectly into a recognised type, and will tend to be introverted and would find it difficult to form lasting social relationships, should that be desired, which would be highly unlikely.

  This individual may be a classic loner, with the possible exception being close family members. The perpetrator will be intelligent, but incapable of showing any genuine affection, and will be more likely attracted to solitary activities.

  Given the nature of the crimes committed to date, there is every reason to believe that the unsub has no interest in physically indulging in sexual acts, may be impotent, and has fixated on the PT, and may believe that she has offended him/her, and is more than likely obsessed, and has formulated a plan to gain maximum mileage out of terrifying and dominating the intended prey before ultimately killing her.

  The staged murders show a total lack of compassion, and an inability to feel guilt or remorse.

  Physical aspects.

  Historically, statistics show that the overwhelming majority of serial killers are Caucasian males aged between the ages of twenty and forty. The Park Killer is confident in his/her ability to physically overcome chosen victims, suggesting a comparatively fit, young person.

  Investigative suggestions and predictions.

  Eliminate all known friends and associates of the PT from inquiry. Suspects without cast-iron alibis are to be DNA profiled.

  The unsub does know Caroline Sellars.

  Previous victims were murdered on first Friday of consecutive months. It is highly likely that another murder will take place in a city park on the first Friday of December.

  That was all, but should be enough. How much more could Dr Mark come up with than that? His profile would have reams of police reports and the details of three complete autopsy findings. But the bottom line was, they had no idea who they were looking for. It was tempting to work-up the profile on the computer and send the celebrated, hotshot Yank a copy. In fact, the urge to do it was irresistible. If the professional manhunter was sitting back feeling clever and thinking that he was on top of this case, then he was sadly mistaken. It would be fun to interact with him. The next understudy for Caroline would not be taken when or where the doctor and the plods expected. The first Friday of December would come and go without incident. The police and Dr Mark would breathe a sigh of relief, only to be suitably shocked, dismayed and even more confused when a day or two later, number four turned up. They were zeroed in on patterns, but their assumptions would not be rewarded. There was only one games master, and it was not the hired gun that the police thought might prove to be their salvation.

  Blink.

  In front of the alcove yet again. The multiple images of Caroline were evocative and disturbing. And yet they instigated an inner sense of expectation that lit up the darkness within, like the sun’s rays breaking through parting clouds to bring warmth and light to the cool earth.

  Time to go to bed and have sweet dreams. Snuggle up and imagine Roy Orbison’s candy-coloured clown tiptoeing into the bedroom to sprinkle star dust and whisper, ‘go to sleep, everything is all right’.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In the dream, Amy was walking along a wide, high-ceilinged hall, her short heels clipping on the mosaic, tiled floor, echoing rudely through the acres of walled-in space.

  Broad shafts of light – akin to World War Two or Hollywood searchlights cutting through the night to signal yet another air raid, premiere or glitzy function – pierced the high windows at intervals, striping the way ahead with mote-filled celebration of the bright day outside that would not be denied. And as she decided that it must be a museum, antiquities and artefacts materialised
to give sleep’s fantasy venue appropriate props. Visitors plinked into existence as illusory dressing to a scene that could have been situated in London, Paris, Rome, New York, Cairo, or any of a thousand other museums.

  Pausing, she looked down through the glass top of a large display case, and was intrigued by the remains of a mummified body. It was partly covered in tattered, tea stain-coloured bandages. A boy king, she thought, examining the exposed, shrunken face, with its sunken eyelids and too-large, dirty ivory teeth protruding from tightly moulded black lips. The leathery skin of the long dead Egyptian youth was a visible promise and curse to all who gazed upon it; that life and all its pettiness was but a fleeting torment. An epitaph that she had seen on an old gravestone crossed her mind: ‘Where you walk now, so once did I. Where I am now, you soon will be’.

  A sudden and awful sorrow pricked her heart and weakened her. She gripped the edge of what was a glass encased sarcophagus in the belly of a brick-built sepulchre. The museum was a place where the bygone, ancient and dead resided in a time warp in which the passage of millennia no longer played a part in their existence, but moved around them in hushed reverence.

  The boy king’s face began to rise, as bread dough in the sun will, to fill out and regain its prior form and vigour.

  Fear and morbid fascination gripped Amy in equal parts, superseded by mind-numbing shock that threatened to unbalance her both physically and mentally.

  The closed eyelids, now convex with substance behind them, sprung open to reveal sharp, hazel eyes that met Amy’s in mutual recognition.

  “It... can’t...be,” she whimpered in a distressed, choked voice, before sagging down to the cold, ice-slick tiled floor in a dead faint.

  Rearing upright as the nightmare exploded into non-existence like an imploding light bulb in her befuddled mind, Amy kicked at the sheet and blankets that were bunched around her, clinging to her perspiration-soaked body. Hunched on the bed, head in hands, she sobbed long and hard until she was finally cried out and her stomach muscles ached with the contractions.