the Blooding (1989)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  The embattled detective got himself a good barrister, a man known as a tough advocate in criminal cases. Pearce said it was impossible to imagine himself on the other side at a criminal trial.

  It was unusual to find a red-robed judge adjudicating minor infractions like those Pearce faced, but Pearce was a police inspector, a controversial police inspector. His prosecution was being vigorously pursued.

  Pearce had repeatedly told friends that he was innocent and couldn't even conceive of a conviction and imprisonment. But when he learned what sort of judge would be assigned to adjudicate his case, he knew that he and Colin Pitchfork had something in common. They'd both be facing a redrober.

  Chapter 29.

  Outrage

  When confronted with his misconduct the psychopath has enough false sincerity and apparent remorse that he renews hope and trust among his accusers. However, after several repetitions, his convincing show is finally recognized for what it is--.-a show.

  Nearly every type of treatment method has been tried with the psychopath. In general, the treatment . . . has not been rewarding nor enlightening.

  --SlANN

  The first snow of winter fell on January 22, 1988, as Colin Pitchfork was driven to Crown Court in Leicester inside a van with blacked-out windows. The prisoner, who'd grown a full beard, was rushed from the van into the courthouse, blinking his eyes in the watery winter light.

  That courthouse isn't old and steeped in history like Castle Court. It's red-brick modern with tinted windows, so serviceable and boring that graffiti might improve it. But the courtrooms are large enough to accommodate about a hundred people. The spectators, mostly press, all queued to pack themselves inside.

  Except for a coat of arms behind the bench, the courtroom was stark, but there was a red-robed judge, black-robed advocates, and bleached horsehair wigs to add a note of dignity to the Crown Court's Holiday Inn decor of white oak and earth tones.

  The national press wanted the family reaction.

  Barbara Ashworth said, "I had to come. I had to see him. To lay the ghost to rest."

  Eddie Eastwood spoke for himself and Kath, saying, "We had to go. I just wanted to see his face. I wanted to know what sort of man could do it."

  It was decidedly anticlimactic, that sentencing of the Narborough murderer. The judge had several serious cases to deal with and didn't appear to place special emphasis on this one.

  Ian Kelly, referred to by the police as an "extremely gullible person," was told by the judge, "I just about believe you did it because you accepted the story put forward by Pitchfork."

  Ian was given an eighteen-month prison sentence, suspended for two years, which meant he would not have to serve time. When Ian stepped from the courtroom, trembling like a whippet, he wiped his eye. And with his sturdy young wife on his arm for support, he said to the television cameras, "I was wrong for doing what I did. I'm sorry for whoever I've caused grievance to. And I'm, well, shocked!"

  The prosecuting barrister, Brian Escott-Cox, Q. C., read a summary of Colin Pitchfork's crimes from the court file. He added that the defendant "showed amazing self-control with a total lack of remorse" in that not even his wife had had any idea he was a killer.

  Colin Pitchfork was dressed in summer clothes: jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He pleaded guilty to the murders of Lynda Mann and Dawn Ashworth, and to those two indecent assaults he'd revealed from out of his past, and to conspiracy to pervert the course of justice by his use of Ian Kelly. He pleaded not guilty to kidnap in the case of the hitchhiking girl whom he'd "spared."

  By way of mitigation, David Fairer, Q. C., the defendant's barrister, said, "He recognizes he can do nothing to alleviate the overwhelming suffering and grief inflicted on the families of his victims by his frightful evil--and those are his words, not mine."

  The barrister then added, "He will remain forever haunted by the images and knowledge of what he has done."

  The court's psychiatrist no doubt could've explained that Colin Pitchfork's concept of being "haunted by images" was very different from that of his barrister. When the defendant had talked to Mick Mason and Mick Thomas of being "haunted" by Lynda Mann, it was with bemused detachment. The "hauntings" of a psychosexual sociopath provide not horror but inspiration. Probably his barrister could not envision the ecstasy such hauntings would bring.

  Colin Pitchfork received a double life sentence for the murders, a ten-year sentence for each of the rapes, and three years each for the sexual assaults in 1979 and 1985, along with another three years for the conspiracy involving Ian Kelly. These were concurrent sentences, and much to the astonishment of the murder squad, the judge didn't give a recommendation for a minimum term. Without such a recommendation, the "life" sentence in Britain was similar to that in the United States, which meant that Colin Pitchfork could conceivably be released in ten or twelve years. The police were outraged.

  While passing sentence, the high court judge, Mr. Justice Otton, said, "The rapes and murders were of a particularly sadistic kind. And if it wasn't for DNA you might still be at large today and other women would be in danger."

  The judge added that a psychiatrist's report compiled by a Broad-moor doctor diagnosed Colin Pitchfork as a "psychopath of a psychosexual type." And the judge said that the defendant would receive therapy in prison for his condition and would not be released until that therapy was complete, which would be . In "many years."

  That led a few observers to note that if prison doctors had found effective therapy for a sociopathic serial killer, they should patent it and eclipse Alec Jeffreys's discovery of DNA fingerprinting. A "cure" implies change, a discovery of contrition. But to a sociopath the absence of a crippling emotion like remorse is a blessing, not a curse.

  Eddie Eastwood later said, "Pitchfork looked at me, eye to eye. He just stared me out as if to say, 'Well what's the matter with you?' I couldn't make him out. He looked almost human."

  Kath said, "It was the shock of seeing him. The shock! I didn't look up when the lawyer passed those photos of Lynda to the bench. Those photos of how she looked when they found her. The cover dropped open and the audience gasped when they saw the photos. My brother saw them and cried. Luckily, I didn't look up."

  The mother of Dawn Ashworth wanted a trial, a real trial, with trappings and finality. Colin Pitchfork didn't have a real trial, she later said, just a hearing. With a trial he'd be exposed for what he was, she thought. A guilty plea seemed just a clever ploy to avoid real exposure. She listened in amazement as the prosecutor read the summary of his crimes, how he'd killed Lynda while his baby lay in a carrycot in the back of his car.

  And the most horrifying moment was his description of Dawn sitting up, having a conversation, almost joking with him, after all the things he'd done to her. Only to die piteously when she thought she was going to be spared. The Ashworths were utterly devastated by that testimony, and grateful to learn that detectives usually hear such self-serving stories from rapists. They were thankful when the judge read from the pathology report that Dawn had been close to death when the killer viciously violated her.

  Carole Pitchfork, sitting next to a policewoman, leaned forward in court to get a look at Barbara Ashworth who was accompanied by Robin and Supt. Tony Painter.

  Barbara had a feeling that the plump young woman must be Colin Pitchfork's wife. She asked Tony Painter and he verified it.

  Barbara's emotions were rampant. She couldn't believe that Colin Pitchfork hadn't been marked during Dawn's murder. Dawn had been so proud of her nails. Carole must have known, must have at least suspected, must have shut her eyes. Or maybe not. Barbara just didn't know. Not knowing could be the cruelest, sometimes. Except for the outrage. To survive one's murdered child. The infinite outrage.

  To Barbara Ashworth, Dawn's wristwatch was sacred. She'd never gotten Dawn's clothes back because they were used in forensic tests, but she did get the watch. Barbara had worn it to Australia, always keeping it set to English time, and had worn another wi
th Australian time.

  Barbara said of the watch, "It had never stopped and it kept perfect time, and maybe it sounds macabre, perhaps it's sick, but that watch lay there with her for those two days. . . ."

  So when the mother of Dawn Ashworth sat in that courtroom and looked at him, she touched the watch frequently.

  It was staring at him and having him look straight back at her, without contrition, that made her suddenly cry. Like all the others, she was searching for something in him but did not find it. He looked nothing like the spiky-haired punker she saw in her nightmares. His receding hair and beard were the color of farmhouse eggs. His face was chubby and expressionless.

  Standing there in the dock he could occasionally look sardonic, yes. But he was really so ordinary. So banal

  Colin Pitchfork's sentencing had been slotted in on a busy day. He went in at 11:50 A. M. and they adjourned for lunch at 1:00 P. M. They reconvened at 2:15 and continued until 3:00. And then it was over. Yes, it was decidedly anticlimactic.

  And it was a pity that the psychiatrist didn't choose to describe him as a "sociopath" instead of a "psychopath" in his report, because of the misunderstanding that accompanies the latter. Everyone connected with the case seemed to confuse the word with "psychotic." Even the journalists made the mistake, writing copy like "Only when brave Liz grabbed hold of the car's steering wheel in an attempt to force it off the road did Pitchfork snap out of his psychopathic trance and agree to take her home."

  Both the television and print media showed pictures of Colin Pitchfork at his wedding, sporting a silk topper, his brows arched with a saw-toothed grin, all hinting of a latter-day Mr. Hyde. There were many references to his "sickly grin" or "dead eyes," and endless allusions to "evil." Almost everyone, it seemed, preferred original sin to clinical definition.

  And everybody was distressed by his indifference, though it was to tally consistent with the tendency of sociopaths not to respond to threatening events as normal people do. The physical indicators of stress and apprehension just weren't there, which explains why sociopaths are unfit subjects for polygraphs.

  So while the defense lawyer spoke of a haunting, and the judge talked of treatment, the fact remained that Colin Pitchfork may have understood instinctively that he could no more alter his makeup than he could alter his genetic fingerprint. In his interview with Derek Pearce and Gwynne Chambers he told them he hoped to study accounting while in prison. He wasn't dismayed by a prison term. He said, "I'll simply be changing a larger world for a smaller one."

  The judge and the defendant's barrister implied that a third act could be written. But for the sociopath there is no third act.

  Chapter 30.

  Hindsight

  Lykken (1957) demonstrated that psychopaths do not develop the fear necessary to avoid a noxious stimulus. . . . They simply do not learn well from punishment, an observation that indicates imprisonment will not change their behaviors and personal traits.

  --Rimm and SOMERVILL

  . . . Little is really known about possible organic factors that might be involved in the psychopath's impulsive behavior. Until the etiological picture is clarified, systematic therapeutic procedures will be difficult to develop.

  --SuiNN

  When it was over, the British media offered lots of the tabloid quotes for which there are no equivalents in the rest of the world. Such as: "Behind his sickly smile was the evil mind of a killer," or "His deviant mind was to plummet to new depths."

  Carole Pitchfork was bitter about the press coverage. One story claimed that the life of the hitchhiking girl was spared because Colin Pitchfork had suddenly realized supper was ready and he had to rush home to a wife who was a strict disciplinarian. This, even though the crime had occurred at one o'clock in the morning when Carole was on a camp-out with the kids.

  Eddie Eastwood was interviewed by the television news and claimed that after seeing Pitchfork and Kelly, he realized he'd played darts on Christmas eve in a Whetstone pub with the two of them. But police found this very unlikely. Both Colin Pitchfork and Ian Kelly said they'd never been together outside of work, except during the blooding scheme.

  As to his feelings about Colin Pitchfork, Eddie said, "I'd like him to be in front of me, so I could bleed him dry very slowly. Hanging is the only way to deal with this monster."

  Kath said, "He must never be allowed to walk the streets again. He should hang. With this new DNA genetic fingerprint there is no chance of a person being later proved innocent after he's been hanged. There is no excuse anymore."

  The television reporters wanted an interview with the Ashworths but the Ashworths declined. However, an old interview, given long before Colin Pitchfork had been captured, was intercut with footage dealing with his sentencing.

  The old segment showed the Ashworths when they were still working with the police, attempting to pique the conscience of the killer's family. In that old interview the reporter asked, "Is it conceivable that you might forgive the man, in your own heart?"

  There was a very long pause on that videotape before Barbara Ashworth could swallow and say, "I have to. Because otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life being very bitter and twisted. And I don't think you can go on like that."

  During that old interview Robin said, "I don't feel any hate or wish for any revenge for the murder of Dawn, because it's not going to do any good, whatever I feel. It's not going to do any good."

  In February, 1988, when the new show was aired, the announcer told his viewing audience, "The parents of Dawn Ashworth have no bitterness toward the man who robbed them of part of their lives, only forgiveness."

  So the Ashworths saw themselves on TV offering absolution to Colin Pitchfork. They'd suffered every other indignity, now humiliation.

  As to how they truly felt, Robin said, "If the genetic test can prove guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt, I don't see why they don't reintroduce the death penalty."

  One month after Colin Pitchfork was sentenced, the Leicester Mercury polled its readers on a proposed return to capital punishment, and one reader in ten responded. The respondents felt a need for the Lord of Death with icy breath. Ninety-six percent wanted to bring back the hangman.

  There was a fair amount of hindsight and second-guessing to be found in news reports, and Chief Supt. David Baker faced a grilling about alleged "blunders." Journalists wanted to know why, given Colin Pitchfork's flashing background, he'd never been brought in for serious interrogation, and how an altered passport could slip past the police. Baker explained that Colin Pitchfork hadn't even lived in the village when he'd killed Lynda Mann, and there'd been thousands of people giving blood and presenting all sorts of identification to harried detectives. He ended by saying he could offer no guarantees when dealing with deceptive criminals.

  There had been a critical editorial asking why Colin Pitchfork had never been photographed and fingerprinted during his earlier brushes with the law when he'd been charged with flashing offenses. Baker said that in years past the police had not routinely photographed and fingerprinted minor offenders. The law had always treated flashing as a nuisance crime.

  At the end of the day, it had to be said that nothing would have changed even if there had been photos and fingerprints taken in Colin Pitchfork's early flashing career. Latent prints had not been found at the scene of the Lynda Mann and Dawn Ashworth murders. And it was unlikely that a prior photograph would've been pulled from his file to await his arrival at the blooding.

  Moreover, the girls he'd assaulted in 1979 and 1985 and 1987 probably would never have picked out his mug shot among those of hundreds of Leicestershire sex offenders, since in one episode he had grown a full beard and the other two happened in the dead of night. In any case, an arrest for an earlier assault would not necessarily have diverted Colin Pitchfork from violence. He had always been more opportunistic than compulsive, this sexual sociopath.

  Chief Supt. David Baker said that he was satisfied with the way his men had conducted both m
urder inquiries with untiring self-sacrifice. Despite the clamor for a return to hanging, David Baker still wasn't sure about capital punishment. He worried as to whether some killers truly had the capacity for criminal intent as defined by law.

  As for the other senior officers, Chief Supt. Ian Coutts, the Scotsman who'd commanded the Lynda Mann inquiry, said one evening at police officers' mess, "I'm not exceptionally religious, but I believe God had a hand in this DNA business." Supt. Tony Painter, commander of the Dawn Ashworth inquiry, completed thirty years of service in February, 1988, and retired.

  The bakery outlet manager came to the police station amid fanfare. The police brass had decided she would be awarded half of the PS20,000 reward for having reported Ian Kelly's pub chat to the police. The other half was not awarded.

  There had never been an investigation like it, and the future of genetic manhunts was now being studied by lawmen from all over the world. The revolutionary murder hunt for the footpath killer had resulted in the blooding of 4,583 young men, the last being Corm Pitchfork of Littlethorpe, whose DNA pattern did indeed provide a perfect match to the genetic signature left by the slayer of Lynda Mann and Dawn Ashworth.

  -koom....

  The older son of Colin Pitchfork missed his father. Carole explained his absence by saying, "Daddy had to go away. He can't come back but he loves you a lot."

  When the child asked why his daddy had to go away, she said, "For doing something bad."

  "Like breaking a window, or something?" his son asked.

  "No," she explained, "something really bad. Like hurting somebody, or something."