Exit Wounds

by Aaron Fisher

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Even though, your entire operation was now wandering into S.O.C.A. territory and your brother, Paul, had only recently been discharged from the armed forces for reasons relating to post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  Richard didn’t have an answer.

  Unsworth uncrossed her legs and leant closer against the table. “Be honest, Richard. You recruited your brother through the backdoor and kept the entire operation as far off the books as you could manage. You knew what you were doing was wrong.”

  Richard shook his head, “Not at all. There was a serial killer at large. I was trying to save lives.”

  Unsworth straightened up. “Save lives? Is that what your intentions were when you wrote the root kit that allowed Giacometti access to the Pope’s flight plan?”

  . . . .

  Paul had been given a pair of black jogging trousers and a grey hoody with the M.I.T. emblem on the back. Brick Shit-house had waited outside whilst he changed but Paul had checked the camera and laptop as well anyway. He sat for a few moments in silence, running things over in his head, before finally knocking on the inside of the door to tell them he was dressed. He was now being shown the same series of photographs as Richard.

  Paul pointed to one of the bodies recovered from the river. “Yeah, that’s the guy Gary and his men broke out of prison. I think he had some sort of bad history with Giacometti.”

  Brick Shit-house frowned, “Why do you say that? Surely they must have been on good terms if he went to all the effort to break him out?”

  “Yeah well, he overheard Gary saying something on the phone and he flipped out. He was the one who caused the car crash. Grabbed the wheel and plunged us down.” Paul rolled his tongue around his mouth and shrugged, “Gary said something about Giacometti wanting to kill the guy himself.”

  “Was this before or after you pulled him from the sinking car?”

  “After. He tried going back to get him. I had to restrain him to stop him drowning himself.”

  Brick Shit-house stroked his chin. “So, just to clarify, before the crash you were sat in the back, behind the driver. Correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Gary was sat in the front passenger seat?”

  Paul nodded, “That’s right.”

  “So would I be correct in saying that he was the person furthest away from you in the car?”

  Paul frowned, “What’s your point?”

  “I’m just trying to understand why you choose to save Gary Ashcroft and not the others. Presumably you determined that their lives were not as important as his for some reason.”

  Paul shook his head and laughed, derisively, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah! It had nothing to do with me picking, or choosing whose lives were more important. Cowan was the one I knew-”

  “Cowan? Who’s Cowan?” the Brick Shit-house asked, genuinely puzzled.

  Paul stopped in his tracks. Had he really said Cowan? Why would he even say that. Paul tried to regain his composure. “I mean Gary.”

  The Brick Shit-house’s eyes narrowed, “Continue.”

  “Gary was the only one in the group I had any kind of connection with. Mullet Man, or whatever is name was, wanted to blow my brains out as soon as look at me, and the other guy was like his best friend forever or some shit. I knew I could get through to Gary.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  “Because I saw the doubt in his eyes. He didn’t like what he was doing. He didn’t like what he had become, but no matter where he looked he couldn’t see a way out. I had to show him one.”

  “And that’s why you let him go instead of bringing him into custody, even though it was clearly breaking the law?”

  Paul laughed again, “Come on, mate. Grow up! I let a low-level thug walk to save the life of my brother.”

  “Low-level thug?”

  “Yeah. He was just hired muscle. Giacometti probably liked the idea of having someone with armed forces training around.”

  Brick Shit-house leaned forward and folded his arms, “Paul, how do you think Giacometti got his hands on all the young girls he raped and murdered?”

  Paul shifted in his seat, but forced himself to meet the Brick Shit-house’s scrutinising gaze. “Well I doubt he bought them online.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  “Not at all. I’m just waiting for you to make your point.”

  “We have evidence that proves that Gary Ashcroft was the one who abducted the twenty young girls that Giacometti has killed in this country.”

  The bottom of Paul’s stomach seemed to drop, leaving a terrible, hollow feeling inside his torso. He involuntarily swallowed back before speaking. “What?”

  “Gary Ashcroft. The ‘low-level thug’ you released, carefully handpicked and delivered twenty young, innocent girls into the clutches of Giacometti. Then they were raped, murdered and mutilated in the most horrific ways imaginable.” The Brick Shit-house conferred with a sheet of paper on his lap before looking up again. “Twenty young girls, including the daughter of your brother’s superior, Andrew Colgan.”

  . . . .

  “Becky’s dead?” Richard eyes darted around the room, a million thoughts running through his head.

  How? How did Giacometti get to her? Did he know she was Colgan’s daughter? When did he kill her? Was she in the same warehouse all that time? Did I leave her behind not even knowing? Could I have saved her?

  Unsworth nodded slowly, “The A.T.S.T. discovered her body when they made their sweep of the location you gave us.”

  Richard dropped his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe it.”

  Unsworth tapped the biro lightly against the desk as she waited for Richard to come to terms with what she had just told him.

  Finally, he looked back up, tears swelling. “Where’s Andrew now?”

  “He’s been relieved of command. Zeddemore has sent him home to be with his wife.”

  Richard nodded slowly, rubbing his hands over his face.

  “Can we continue?” Unsworth asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute.”

  “Richard, this debrief is very important-”

  “I said give me a minute!” Richard snapped.

  Unsworth fixed Richard with a stare. “Russell, I don’t think you realise how serious a situation you’re in. You have recruited a civilian for combat situations who has a history of post-traumatic stress disorder. You have released without charge a man who was directly involved in the rape and murder of at least twenty innocent girls. And as if that wasn’t enough, you wrote a program that allowed terrorists access to the Joint intelligence Committee server, directly resulting in the death of the head of the Catholic Church on British soil.”

  Heol Cefn Onn, Lisvane

  Andrew Colgan pulled up slowly outside his house, not bothering to drive it up onto the driveway and into the garage. He pulled up the handbrake, put the stick into neutral and turned off the ignition, paying considerable concentration to each action he would normally do without thinking.

  He took off his seatbelt but didn’t move. He had asked Zeddemore to let him break the news to his wife himself and he had agreed. Zeddemore had questioned Colgan’s condition to drive and at one point Colgan thought he was going to insist that he’d be driven home, but eventually he waivered and let Andrew leave of his own accord.

  Movement in his peripheral vision made him look up from the steering wheel, to see his wife in the kitchen, pacing back and forth, the cordless phone against her ear. She looked worried and just as Colgan started to wonder who she was calling he felt his mobile begin to vibrate against his chest.

  He pulled it out from his inside pocket and looked down as it continued to ring, his thumb hovering over the pickup button. He suddenly tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started up the engine, driving away as fa
st as he could.

  M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

  “How did you feel, being in a combat situation again?” Brick shit-house asked Paul, his brow deepening.

  Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t feel anything.”

  “You didn’t feel anything?”

  “No. What did you think I was gonna feel?”

  “You didn’t feel upset then?”

  Paul laughed wryly, “Um no.”

  Brick Shit-house frowned harder, “Put you do suffer with P.T.S.D., don’t you?”

  “According to the shrink.”

  “Lack of sleep? Flashbacks? Nightmares?”

  Paul nodded quickly in agreement, “Yeah actually. There is this one nightmare. Scares the hell out of me. No matter what I do I just can’t seem to shake it.”

  Brick Shit-house leaned in closer. “Go on.”

  “It’s me, trapped in this room with you for the rest of my fucking life, listening to your stupid questions over and over and over and over and over-”

  “Paul, this is a very serious matter.”

  “And over and over and over and over and over-”

  The Brick Shit-house’s cheeks began to twitch as he struggled to keep his composure. He bit down on his bottom lip before trying again. “I think that’s quite enough of that.”

  “And over and over and over and over and over and over-”

  “Paul, stop it.”

  “And over and over and over and over and over and over-”

  “I said stop!”

  “And over and over and over and over and over and over-”

  The Brick Shit-house suddenly lunged over the table, knocking one of the laptops on the floor and grabbed Paul by the scruff of his collar. “Stop it! You think this is funny?! I said stop!”

  Paul did stop. He looked down slowly at the Brick Shit-house’s hands and then back up to his face. “Take you hands off me.” He added, “Now.”

  Suddenly Zeddemore burst into the room, flanked by the guard that had been waiting outside. “Davies! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

  The Brick Shit-house didn’t let go immediately. He kept his eyes focused on Paul and for a brief moment he thought he saw him smile. He slowly released his hold and retreated back across the table and stood upright, brushing himself down with one hand. “I’m sorry, sir, I...” he stammered. “I don’t know what came over me... I...”

  “Wait outside my office.”

  Brick Shit-house bowed his head slightly and quickly left the room, doing his best to ignore Paul as he blew him a kiss.

  Paul turned his head around in a circle, stretching his neck. “You going to apologise for that?”

  “Apologise?” Zeddemore shrieked. “You deliberately provoked him!”

  Paul felt the corner of his mouth raise slightly, “Yeah, but only a little.”

  “It’s in your best interests to cooperate with us, Russell. There will be questions raised about today’s events and like it or not you WILL have to answer them.”

  “I want to speak to my brother.”

  “Impossible. He’s making his statement and you have yet to make yours. No contact can be made between you until we have both of your separate accounts.”

  “Well, then I want to see Andrew Colgan.”

  Zeddemore laughed, shaking his head, “Did your brother tell you to ask for him?”

  Paul ignored the question. “I want to see him.”

  “He’s been sent home to be with his wife after the murder of his daughter. I am in acting command of this department. I will appoint another officer soon and then you will continue with the debrief.”

  “I don’t answer to you, buddy.”

  “Actually you do, since technically speaking you’re on the payroll now and I’m your superior.” Zeddemore forced a thin smile. “Welcome to the team.” He turned his attention to the guard. “Any further failure to cooperate will be seen as a hostile action and you have my permission to arrest him.”

  Zeddemore marched out of the room quickly. He had been watching both of the live feeds from his office and only rushed to the cells to intervene when things got out of hand. Both sides of the Russell’s story matched, and he had no doubt that when they eventually brought in Colgan for his statement he would substantiate their version of events. That was the problem. The blame was spread too thinly, between two many people. The only way to save embarrassment for the department and in fact the government in this incident was to blame one individual. Zeddemore needed a scapegoat.

  Unsworth was mid sentence when Zeddemore entered without any introduction. She looked up from her glasses, questioningly.

  “Leave us,” Zeddemore said.

  “But sir, I haven’t finished the debrief-”

  “I’m aware, thank you.”

  Unsworth stood up slowly and quietly left the room. Zeddemore shut the door behind her and walked over to the table. He unplugged the laptop cable and turned off the camera, before sitting down on the edge of the table.

  “Are you bringing criminal charges against me?” Richard asked.

  “That depends.” Zeddemore said, not yet looking Richard in the eye.

  “On what?”

  “Richard, I’m prepared to let you and your brother walk clean from this messed up situation.” Zeddemore paused. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, “But Richard, both you and I know, somebody is going to have to be held accountable for all this.”

  “Giacometti is the one you should be blaming.”

  Zeddemore nodded, “I agree. But that’s not going to be enough. The Pope is dead. The government is going to want to distance itself from that as much as possible. That means putting the focus on a single individual.”

  Richard suddenly understood. “You want me to pin this on Andrew!”

  “Colgan won’t serve any jail time. He’s just lost his daughter. The public will sympathise. They’ll see him as a man who made mistakes yes, but just as a man. Another victim of the Blind Lover murders.” Zeddemore shifted his weight, moving his hand to point at Richard. “On the other hand, they see you, and they’re just going to see an obsessed copper looking for some payback. And your brother?” He tilted his head to the left in a slight shrug, “Well people are hardly friendly to veterans of a war they don’t agree with are they?”

  “You watch your mouth when talking about my brother. Paul is a hero!” Richard snapped.

  “I’ve no doubt. All I’m saying is that he will suffer, and let’s face it, he’s only involved in all this through his sense of loyalty to you.”

  Zeddemore was talking sense, and that’s what made it worse. Paul had only got involved because Richard asked him to. Paul had seen him grow further and further distant from his family over the passing months as he obsessed over the Plug case. He had made Richard promise that if agreed to go undercover with him, that this would be the end of it and he would go back to his family, the way things used to be.

  “Your wife, Jade, she’s pregnant isn’t she?”

  Richard didn’t answer.

  “Richard, let me put this another way. Put things in perspective for you. If you don’t do this. If you take the heat. You will go to jail. Do you really want to wait at least five years before you can hold your new baby in your arms as a free man?”

  . . . .

  Tony Horton walked back into the M.I.T. bullpen with a slight flinch in each step. The 9mm had passed clean in and out, missing any internal organs or major arteries. He was lucky, the doctor had told him as he patched up the wound. Tony didn’t feel lucky.

  “Tony!” Craig’s hand shot up from his desk, excitedly waving him over.

  Tony smiled back in spite of himself. Regardless of how badly he had treated him today, Craig was still as loyal as ever. It occurred to Tony that Craig was probably the closest thing he had to a best friend.

  “How you feeling?” Craig asked once Tony had crossed the room.

  “Not bad, all thi
ngs considered.”

  Craig shook his head, “I still can’t believe you got shot! I’m sorry, Tony.”

  Tony reached a hand out to Craig’s shoulder, “Don’t be. If it weren’t for you I’d still be trying to crawl down those stairs, bleeding my guts out.”

  Craig forced a smile, “I just keep thinking, if I had made it up there sooner... maybe, you know...”

  “We really shouldn’t be talking about this. Not until we’ve both made our statements.”

  “Statements can wait.”

  Tony spun round suddenly at the sound of Richard’s voice. He had changed into a spare black and grey pinstripe suit he kept in his locker, with a white shirt and a blue tie. He strode across the room with vivid buoyancy and a sense of purpose.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were in holding!”

  Richard smiled thinly, “Not anymore. I’m the new departmental director.”

  Tony’s jaw practically hit the floor, “What? After all that’s gone on today how can they promote you?!”

  “Wind your neck back in, Tony. We have work to do.” Richard placed his hands on his hips. “You two have been more involved than anyone else on the team today. It’s up to us to find Giacometti.”

  “If he’s got any sense he’ll be long gone by now,” Craig said.

  “You’re assuming that killing the Pope was his final endgame?”

  “It’s hard to think how he could go any bigger after that,” Tony muttered.

  “Whether it is or isn’t, we can’t let him just walk away from this. At the end of the day we are still police officers and catching criminals is what we do.”

  Craig and Tony didn’t say or do much but Richard sensed they were on board with him.

  “Giacometti. How do we find him? Ideas? We’ve got to pick up a thread from somewhere.”

  Craig rubbed the side of his face as he thought.

  “Dean Reynolds?” Tony thought aloud.

  Richard nodded, “Why wasn’t he on the roof?”