the Blooding (1989)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  --RIMM and SOMERVILL

  By the bloody month of May, the murder squad had bloodied 3,653 men and boys, yet only 2,000 had been eliminated, due to the workload under which laboratory technicians labored. The police had by then received an incredible 98 percent response for the voluntary testing. Yet it seemed that one donor kept leading to another, and they always learned about new ones.

  They ultimately decided to bloody everybody, regardless of alibis. Police estimated that they had about 1,000 more men to contact, and they were down to twenty-four officers.

  Aside from police work Derek Pearce had one passion: cooking. Mick Thomas and Phil Beeken--and a few others who genuinely appreciated his efforts--used to drop by for his stuffed trout, or his chicken in wine sauce stuffed with leeks and Stilton, or prawns in brandy and cream sauce with lots of garlic. He went to great lengths with his salads, putting little teeth in the radishes, and feathering the tops of spring onions so they'd hang over just so. The presentation mattered as much as the taste to this perfectionist.

  Pearce's kitchen, which he'd built himself, was spacious, with lots of cupboards full of spices. He was keen on Indian dishes, kept twenty kinds of curry ingredients, and was always eager to marinate chicken in yogurt with tandoori sauces. Pearce prided himself on having several delicious and sightly meals that he could "whack up quickly" if a friend popped in.

  Sometimes after a great meal, and wine, and drinks after dinner, he could even relax enough to lower his defenses. On those fleeting occasions when Derek Pearce alluded to his ex-wife he'd unwittingly reveal himself. In that he was so often described as "abrasive" it was surprising on those relaxed occasions to hear him say shyly, "I know I'm not good-looking, and I'm very hard for a woman to live with."

  It was rather touching because he obviously meant it, perhaps explaining the full beard. Yet his self-assessment wasn't accurate. Without the theatrical beard--more important, without the look of driven intensity --Pearce could be called attractive. His features were regular and strong. He had good, dense dark hair and expressive eyes. His nose was well shaped, with a slight character-giving bend. He had a boyish smile, was a glib, enthusiastic talker and was very popular in the secret pubs he shared with no other cops.

  Though he couldn't stand to be at rest, he claimed never to suffer from stress.

  "Give me a problem," he said, "and you've given me life! I have to burn off part of me so I can put my head down on a pillow at night. Four games of squash don't help. I need problems to solve."

  Pearce lived with acrophobia so severe that he felt unreasoning terror on stepladders and even open-air buses. Sometimes he'd talk about it. During those telling glimpses, one could conclude that the fuel powering Derek Pearce was pumped from a well of insecurity, causing the behavior that made them say, "You either like him or you don't."

  Pearce certainly had never endeared himself to lady friends when he said things like "No matter how much I care for a woman, I'd rather go to work."

  He was so defensive he kept his emotions combat-ready, occasionally making preemptive and unprovoked sorties on the world around him. Yet the man who was so difficult to live with hated to be alone.

  Those colleagues who liked him seemed instinctively to understand that his insecurity was at the heart of his conduct. Those who didn't like him .. . well, there were many of those, some in high places on the police force.

  A fellow detective on the murder squad said of Pearce, "When Derek's not fully occupied he gets in a bit of bother. He needs a lot of outside pressure or he gets bored and then he gets himself into dodgy places." He was to get himself into a decidedly dodgy place.

  During the Lynda Mann inquiry a female police trainee caught his eye, when he watched her walk. She was then only seventeen, but two years later she joined the force and was assigned to Braunstone Police Station, under the jurisdiction of South Division CID. This put her technically under the jurisdiction of Derek Pearce. The fifteen-year difference in their ages, and the difference in their police ranks, made a romantic relationship a bit dicey.

  On an evening in May 1987, Derek Pearce and Insp. Mick Thomas were called to the home of Supt. Tony Painter to discuss staffing levels. At the end of that meeting Pearce made a decision to visit the young policewoman at her Braunstone flat. It would rank among the worst decisions of his life.

  One of Pearce's thirty-five-year-old lady friends tried to explain it to him. She said, "You can't mess with a twenty-one-year-old's feelings the way you do with mine"

  Pearce looked enough like a repertory company Petruchio that maybe he decided to play the role in earnest on that May evening. The local newspaper carried the story:

  POLICE ENQUIRY INTO OFFICERS' ROW

  A disciplinary enquiry has been launched by Leicestershire police after an incident in which a female officer was hurt during a row with a detective inspector outside her home.

  Distressed neighbours called the police to the incident in Braunstone. When they arrived they found Det.

  Insp. Derek Pearce and WPC Alison McDonnell arguing.

  WPC McDonnell, who has lodged a complaint against Det. Insp. Pearce, is understood to have suffered minor injuries to her face, and the front door of her home had been damaged. A complaint has also been lodged by the owner of the house, WPC Elizabeth Pell.

  A spokesman for Leicestershire police confirmed today an incident took place leading to disciplinary proceedings. Neither officer was being suspended while enquiries were made.

  He said the incident happened more than three weeks ago. Mr. Pearce, who is aged 36, and divorced, is one of the leading officers in the investigations into the murders of schoolgirls Dawn Ashworth and Lynda Mann. Dawn was found dead in Enderby last August, not far from the site of Lynda's murder in November 1983.

  WPC McDonnel, aged 21, is based at Braunstone Police Station and was featured in the Leicester Mercury two years ago when--just seven weeks into her police career--she helped deliver a baby.

  Neither officer could be contacted for comment today.

  Referring to the quirky charm of Derek Pearce, one of his men said, "He was the kind who could grab a handful of daffodils and make antagonistic people respond to him."

  But this time there were no daffodils. Criminal charges were initiated. Pearce wouldn't talk about the case at all, except to say he was innocent.

  He continued to work on the murder inquiry, though in a rather more subdued fashion, while the internal investigation into his own case was quietly under way. Pearce was a valuable commodity, especially in this critical stage of Dawn Ashworth II.

  In early June, a seventeen-year-old girl from Oadby spent the evening with friends in Wigston Centre. She got into an argument with her boyfriend, left him, and decided to walk home. It was just after midnight when a blue car pulled up beside her.

  The driver said, "Where you going, m'duck?"

  She looked inside and asked, "Are you going to Oadby?"

  I'd only had three hours' sleep the night before, but I had to go out that night. Carole was gone with the kids on a Saturday night camp. When I got on a high like this I had to drive around. Sleep and fatigue just didn't matter. You become superhuman! So at midnight I went out for a wander .1 drove through the center of Wigston and saw a young girl saying good night to another girl and a bloke. She walked off and I drove round the block and come up to the roundabout and out comes her thumb! I thought, "Fuckin hell, Colin! This is your lucky night, ain't it?"

  "I'm going up the A-Six," he said. "Any help?"

  "Oh, superb!" she said, and hopped in.

  "What's your name, m'duck?" he asked.

  "Liz," she answered.

  I knew she was no older than eighteen, blond and full of bounce. Lives with Mum and Dad. Been out with friends for the night. Just the type!

  She secured her seat belt and they rode for a few minutes, but Liz started getting very nervous. He was expressionless and didn't speak anymore. She hadn't liked his menacing grin.

 
; "Where do you live?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "You said Oadby was on the way to where you were going." "No," he said. "No."

  They were driving to the center of Oadby then, to the junction of the main A6 road.

  "That's the turning there!" she said.

  But he silently drove past it.

  "There's a turning here!" she said. "Go back!"

  Still he didn't reply.

  "I want to get out!" she cried.

  He slowed for a second, but only to change gears, then he sped off, heading for the countryside.

  They passed a pub and she screamed, "There! Turn in!"

  But he was driving down a dark country lane.

  Suddenly she grabbed the steering wheel and he had to hang on and mash the brakes!

  "We'll crash!" he yelled as the car skidded to a stop.

  "I thought you wanted it!" he said, while she sobbed hysterically. "I thought this is what you wanted!"

  "All I want is to go home!" she wailed.

  He started the car warily and turned around in a field entrance. His whole demeanor changed. He said quietly, "I've had a drink or two, you see.

  When they got near the A6 he pulled over and quickly opened her door. But he held on to the handle. "Give me a kiss then," he said.

  The girl threw herself against the door and leaped out, crying and running.

  He shouted into the night, "I bet you'll never accept a lift again!" When she talked to police about the incident she said, "He had unusual staring eyes. Like dead eyes."

  The murder squad was cut back to sixteen officers in all, and both inspectors--Derek Pearce in his hot-blooded confrontational style, and Mick Thomas, cooler, more detached and businesslike--battled to keep the top brass from shutting them down. Though it was decidedly unpolitical, Pearce let it be known that if the chief constable's office tried to close up the incident room and disband the squad, he was going to the press.

  Yet they had tested four thousand men, and undeniably, the budget was stretched. A newspaper headline said: NO LEADS TO KILLER OF LYNDA. It was followed by a huge story on the 31st of July:

  DAWN'S KILLER IS STILL AT LARGE

  The family of Lynda Mann was contacted in Lincolnshire and Kath Eastwood said, "It's a process of elimination at the moment. I don't think they can do any more. I'll never give up hope and I'm sure they will find him in the end."

  Supt. Tony Painter issued a statement saying, "Dawn was murdered on July 31st and we mean to use the anniversary to give the enquiry another boost. We know there's a risk that this evil man will strike again, and we know that there's information in the community that could lead us to him."

  It was the same old story. The police were asking for help and getting nothing of value.

  For nearly a year Dawn Ashworth's grave had not been marked by a headstone, and the Ashworths were getting reports that Dawn's friends kept placing flowers on various wrong graves. They decided to get a headstone, and secured a loan to do it. They chose one made of black marble, with a carved gilded path winding toward a sunrise. The inscription said:

  Treasured memories of our dear daughter

  DAWN AMANDA ASHWORTH

  Born 23rd June 1971

  Tragically taken 31st July 1986

  What we keep in memory is ours unchanged forever

  "It was all we could do for her sixteenth birthday," Barbara Ashworth said.

  The Ashworths were asked to pose as a group for another news portrait that summer. It was nothing like the one taken in front of the bay window when Dawn was alive, when all of them had linked arms and beamed at the camera. In this photo the three surviving family members looked soberly at the photographer. The extraordinary thing about that photo was that Sultan, their English setter, perhaps reflected his family's emotional vibrations. Their story was written in the dog's face.

  Sitting at Barbara's knee, Sultan posed patiently, like the others, but with slightly averted eyes. Eyes that looked utterly grief-stricken.

  Prior to the anniversary of Dawn Ashworth's death the police put posters in the shops and on all the notice boards in Narborough, Littlethorpe and Enderby. But Carole Pitchfork didn't hear much talk about the murder anymore. Nobody speculated about the picture of the punk with the spiky hair. Carole's friends and neighbors seldom bothered to cast back their minds to remember someone who was "badly marked" from a death struggle with Dawn Ashworth. Villagers stopped speculating whether or not a wife or mother or father had taken the killer's bloody T-shirt and buried it in a garden.

  The only thing that Colin Pitchfork had to say to his wife on the subject of the reinvigorated murder hunt was "You'd think they'd have left the posters up all year. You'd think they'd make more of an effort."

  When the anniversary of the murder was approaching, the murder squad wanted to do a covert operation, what they called a "discreet observation" of the gravesite in the churchyard of St. John Baptist.

  Derek Pearce visited the vicar of Enderby one afternoon, accompanied by DC Phil Beeken, a tall, handsome young fellow who was a friend to Pearce both on and off the job.

  Pearce needed to find a good observation point from which to watch those who might pay a visit to the grave on that occasion, but there wasn't any. Putting someone as large as Phil Beeken out there in the middle of the churchyard wouldn't do. Beeky would be about as inconspicuous as a solitary tooth.

  Then Pearce noticed that the graveyard was in a terrible state, all overgrown with grass and weeds. So he made the vicar of Enderby an offer he couldn't refuse.

  He asked the vicar, "How would it be if one of our lads tidied up the graveyard and cut the grass for a week or so? No charge!"

  "I'll do it for you, boss," Beeky said to Pearce. "If it's okay with the vicar."

  The vicar was enthusiastic, but before allowing Beeky to go to work, he insisted on demonstrating the use of a grass-cutting "strimmer." While he was demonstrating it to the cop, the vicar strimmed Beeky's trousers and the leg inside. He apologized profusely to the young detective who told him not to worry, it wasn't bleeding all that much.

  Phil Beeken immediately became part of CID trivia: Who was the only detective ever to be wounded on duty by the vicar of Enderby?

  Beeky had volunteered for graveyard duty on a bright sunny day. But when he went to work as a cemetery gardener it rained all week. He had a hand-held radio, but not one that worked, so he usually had to brave the rain to monitor the movements of mourners. Frequently they offered him money for tidying up the graves of loved ones. He didn't accept the money, but made many friends while getting soaked to the bone.

  They'd put a video camera on Dawn Ashworth's grave, just as they'd done on Lynda Mann's grave during the various anniversaries since she'd been murdered. It was a time-lapse video, and though they studied the tape they never saw anyone who might be him.

  Yet one of the visitors to Dawn Ashworth's grave did stir a bit of notice. He was a salesman up from the Thames Valley who had half an hour to kill, and had decided to take a stroll through the old churchyard. By pure chance he stood at Dawn's grave, and was swooped on by police observers.

  The salesman was interviewed and released, but the police in his hometown were contacted and asked to verify his reputation. As bad luck would have it, his local constabulary was also investigating the murder of a schoolgirl, so the salesman got grillings on that murder and the Dawn Ashworth killing before the police were satisfied he was innocent.

  He vowed that he'd never enter another graveyard, alive.

  The local cops told him he was lucky those Leicestershire ghouls hadn't taken his blood.

  Nine days after Dawn Ashworth's murder they'd questioned a patient at Carlton Hayes Hospital, a man twenty-five years older than any other suspect on their list. He had previous convictions for indecencies and was one of those few who'd been blood-tested back in 1983 and found to be in the PGM 1+ category. His old blood sample hadn't been preserved.

  It turned out that he was also un
alibied for the afternoon that Dawn Ashworth had been murdered, but he died of natural causes just hours after being questioned by members of the murder squad. He'd been placed in the top category of suspects and they'd spent months trying to get court approval to exhume his body.

  Dracula jokes were rampant. Nobody was safe from these vampires: neither the living nor the dead.

  The Ashworths had decided to take a trip that summer of 1987 to visit Robin's sister who'd emigrated to Australia seven years earlier with her son. Robin and Barbara planned their departure carefully. They left on Thursday, July 30th, and arrived in Sydney on Saturday morning, August 1st. By crossing the international dateline they'd managed to make July 31st disappear. That dreaded anniversary of their daughter's death just didn't happen.

  Chapter 25.

  Unguarded Moment

  His emotional reactions are simple and animal-like, occurring only with immediate frustrations and discomfort. However, he is able to simulate emotional reactions and affectional attachments when it will help him to obtain what he wants from others. . . . His social and sexual relations with others are superficial but demanding and manipulative.

  The simple psychopath's main characteristic is an inability to delay the gratification and biological needs, no matter what the future consequences to himself or to others.

  -ROBERT D. HARE, Psychopathy: Theory and Research

  As the summer of 1987 began to burn itself out, the murder squad had some of their most difficult times. They drove blood buses to housing estates and factories in order to call people out. In larger work places they even took a doctor with them: a daunting display of mobile blooding. But they were exhausting their bloodlust.

  They tried other tacks. They raided a traveling fair in Blaby with two dozen officers, searching the caravans of carnival workers. And they caught a flasher on a village footpath, a professional tennis player who was a psychiatric patient at Carlton Hayes. But he was good only for a few lame jokes about flashing and tennis balls. Always they returned to blooding for the answer.