by Jim Gallows
‘We need to check out his place,’ said Mills. ‘See if there’s anything there that ties him to the others.’
‘He’s not the serial,’ said Jake. ‘There’s just no way. His statements contradicted—’
‘No shit,’ said Mills. ‘But he has committed a murder – from the looks of it, a messy one. The press is gonna be all over it, finding links. We have to follow it up, even if it’s just to rule it out.’
Jake nodded.
‘Two cars have already gone out,’ Mills continued. ‘They’re holding one for us. Are you OK?’
Was he? It was too early to say.
Ten minutes later they were on skid row. Johnny Cooper lived in a three-storey apartment block in one of the roughest areas of town. It was the kind of place that should have eaten a man like Johnny alive but it probably did more to feed the beast of his dementia.
They pulled up behind the two black and whites. Three of the cops had gone inside, but one had stayed out with the cars. Mills locked the doors, something Jake hadn’t seen him do before. It was that kind of neighbourhood.
They walked into the apartment block. There was no intercom system. The door pushed open, the lock broken. The cops were on the first floor. Jake and Mills walked up the unlit stairwell, which stank of urine and worse.
The landing looked like a refuse tip. There were cans and bottles everywhere, with plastic bags, old cereal boxes and dirty nappies too. More worryingly the ground was littered with needles, some broken and rusty, some newer. Jake also spotted a few used condoms.
‘Classy place,’ said Mills.
The door was closed.
‘You’re up,’ said Jake.
‘No need. I took these when we searched him.’ Mills waved a bunch of keys in the air. ‘You wouldn’t remember; you were pretty out of it back at the station.’
Was I?
Jake felt slightly numb as he watched Mills put the key in and turn it.
As soon as the door cracked open, new smells wafted out to mingle with those of the fetid corridor – stale onions, burned toast, vomit and a filthy carpet – but the unmistakable smell of a dead body lorded over them all.
‘He really did it this time,’ muttered Mills.
Jake tried to meet his partner’s gaze and found that he couldn’t.
He walked into the tiny apartment. Two doors led off the dual living and bedroom. They were both ajar. One opened into a tiny kitchen, the other into a toilet. Jake deliberately slowed his breathing and tried to get into the moment.
Tried to get into the fucked-up head of Johnny Cooper.
He started with the crummy sofa. Shreds of tobacco on one of the cushions.
You were sitting here. Rolling a smoke. The one thing you had, your confessions, had been taken away from you. You felt vulnerable and alone. You didn’t like it. You sat there, thinking and thinking, getting angrier and angrier.
Jake let his eyes roam over the room. What happened next? A chronically messy bum living in squalor – it was hard to spot what was out of place in such a man’s living room. But Jake saw it – an unlit hand-rolled cigarette on top of the ancient television.
There was a knock at the door. So you got up to answer it. You don’t get many visitors and, this time, you were feeling like you needed someone. Someone to talk to. So you got up – quickly. You put the smoke on the TV.
But who’s at the door? Who would knock on your door? What does Johnny the Snitch have that anyone else would want? Not money. Or maybe it was money. A useless smoke-hound, a mooch, always with his hand out even to other people who everyone knows have nothing.
Was that who made the mistake of knocking on your door? Someone worse off than yourself. Someone who, if anything, would be missed even less. Someone asking to borrow a few dollars, just for a couple of days – he swore he’d pay you back just as soon as he had it.
You were angry. Mad as hell. You didn’t have the cash, but you told him you did.
You invited him inside.
Jake looked back at the cluttered living room. Not there – it was a small space, but to a man about to commit his first murder it would look too open. His victim, whoever he was, would have space to move, furniture to hide behind – any number of inanimate objects to use as a makeshift weapon.
The living room just wasn’t practical – and, besides, Jake knew that, had the murder taken place in the living room, the place would be awash with red, as Johnny had been when he turned up at the station.
He also knew that the toilet was far too small for Johnny’s purposes.
That left the kitchen. Jake hadn’t seen it yet, but he knew instinctively the body would be there, coated in whatever blood had not spattered Johnny.
He was a man – can’t imagine too many women would come here. And any who would, would almost certainly come with a friend. He was a man, a man who was jumpy, just like you. Maybe strung out. He’d have to be, to not be able to look you in the eye and see that there was something different there tonight, something wrong.
You didn’t do it straight away. You decided straight away, but it took you a few minutes to wind yourself up for it. So you asked him to stay in the living room for a moment while you got the money. He probably thought you were afraid he was here to scope out your place, find where your stash was hidden. So he played along, stayed in the living room. And you went into …
Jake followed his instincts – and his nose – and walked towards the small room on the left. The kitchen. The smell grew stronger. He stopped at the doorway, letting his mind continue churning.
Of course it was the kitchen. That’s where the knives are. And you wanted to show me that you had ‘the guts’. So it had to be a knife – it had to be messy, bloody. You ducked into the kitchen for a moment, and he sat down on the filthy couch, thinking nothing of it.
You breathed in and breathed out, gathering yourself. Then you made your decision. ‘Here it is,’ you called out. You knew he’d come to you, unsuspecting – all he’s thinking about is the cash. He doesn’t think it’s weird that you suddenly suggest he comes into the kitchen.
As he bunched his hand into his jacket sleeve and reached for the kitchen door, Jake’s breath caught in his throat. But was he simply apprehensive at seeing yet one more dead body in Littleton, or was he imagining this scenario just a little too clearly?
The kitchen door opened outwards. In Jake’s experience this was often the case in poorly designed shitty houses like these. It gave him the sensation that he was pulling up a curtain on the scene within.
Mills groaned and turned away. Jake felt like doing the same, but he didn’t let himself – this was his doing. A weak bulb cast its lazy light over a tiled kitchen floor that may once have been white but was now a grisly medley of piss-yellow and blood-crimson. The yellow was a sign of Johnny Cooper’s neglect, his years of living in squalor.
The crimson was his single moment of utter frenzy.
Jake crouched in the doorway, staring at the body of Johnny’s victim. He lay face down on the tiles, his face – black, weathered and with flecks of grey in his unkempt beard – for ever set in a mask of pain and shock. From the ragged dogshit-stained boots all the way up to the torn tracksuit bottoms and faded black denim jacket, Jake knew that his initial assessment had been correct. A smoke-hound – someone so deep in the gutter that they would come to Johnny Cooper for a handout.
‘That sick sonofabitch,’ said Mills, peering over Jake to get a closer look at the corpse. ‘Did he jack off?’
Jake followed Mills’s finger. A splashing of grey-white stain was on the collar of the denim jacket. Standing up, he leaned as far as he dared into the kitchen. It was definitely semen on the victim’s jacket. Jake turned and looked at Mills, who – for the first time since he had known the man – wore a look of absolute outrage.
‘Did he jack off on the vic?’ Mills asked again.
Jake shook his head. ‘Gail Greene indicated that Johnny may have presented with symptoms of necrophilia
c tendencies—’
‘Don’t fucking dress it up, Austin,’ said Mills, his voice hiding none of his exasperation.
‘No,’ said Jake. ‘He was wearing a robe, remember? Probably it came open, loose, during the attack. The euphoria of the moment, as he stood over the body, probably got the better of him.’
Jake didn’t need to say any more than that. Mills puffed out his cheeks and turned away. Jake stood beside him in the filthy living room. The place where Johnny Cooper had spent his last moments of freedom, stewing over insults Jake had thrown at him in the station.
Jake imagined Johnny sitting with his bloody hands – the ones he would later point at Jake – held in his lap, rocking back and forth on the couch, thinking to himself that he’d done it. He’d really done it.
Now the serial confessor had something to which he really could confess.
Jake suddenly felt sick.
66
Wednesday, 11 a.m.
The station was unnaturally quiet when Jake and Mills returned. Everyone knew Johnny; they all regarded him as a harmless nut, and many of them had given him a bill from their wallets. Now he had killed, and it was like the family dog had turned on them and needed to be put down.
Jake spotted Gail Greene’s car as she pulled up. But this time his heart didn’t skip a beat. He didn’t want to face her because to face her was to face the fact that it had been his taunting that had pushed Cooper to this. Jake had the same blood on his hands as Johnny did.
He walked the short distance to the detective bureau. A few of the guys were around. Mills had gone ahead and was at his desk, going over witness statements. Jake walked up to his partner. ‘Mills, I want to talk to Johnny.’
‘No way,’ said a cold voice behind him. Normally the husky tone would have caused a slight tremble in his knees, but not now. He turned and looked at Gail Greene.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
‘Not good enough. Johnny was a sick man. You changed that. You turned him into a killer.’
Jake took her by the elbow and pulled her into the canteen. He winced when he saw the damaged vending machine.
‘I need to talk to him,’ he whispered through gritted teeth, ‘to find out—’
She pulled her elbow from his grasp. ‘If he blames you? I think you’ll find everybody blames you.’
‘Gail—’
‘Don’t you dare try to play dumb, Jake. You know what you did, and you’re smart enough to know that you did it because you just have to be the smartest guy in the room. You’re the alpha male, the dominant one. And now there’s a killer out there who’s fooling you at every turn. You can’t get a handle on him so you take it out on other people. You don’t need a professional to tell you this, because you already know it. The unfortunate part with guys like you: it’s always in retrospect. After the damage has been done.’
Jake let his eyes drop to the ground. He wanted to respond, but what could he say?
She wasn’t finished. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve lost control. Didn’t you learn anything from what happened with your friend in Chicago?’
‘Ex-friend,’ said Jake.
‘It’s always someone else’s fault,’ she snapped. ‘Now a man is dead, and Johnny’s life is ruined. Whose fault is it now?’
Jake knew the answer to that.
‘I hope you’re happy with yourself.’ She strode past him to the door but did not leave right away. Instead, she turned back and said, ‘I’ve recommended to Colonel Asher that you are not to communicate with Johnny. It’s the least you can do for him now.’
Jake felt a pang of irritation as he watched her leave. He really didn’t have time for this. Johnny Cooper was no longer a priority. And Johnny had made that decision himself.
His phone buzzed. Glancing down, he saw it was Leigh. More problems.
‘What’s up?’ he asked wearily.
Leigh’s voice was strained and clipped. Not angry or worried. Just tired, resigned. ‘Your mother has gone for another one of her walks.’
There it was – the burning deep down in his stomach. He half-expected to look down and see smoke wafting from a hole in his flesh.
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. She was sitting quietly watching the news. I went upstairs to give Jakey a bath, and when I came back down she was gone.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Within the last twenty minutes.’
Jake rubbed his eyes. He’d have to take an early lunch.
He walked out of the canteen back into the detective bureau. Gail was standing at the desk, talking to Mills. He barely glanced at them.
‘Jake …’ she said.
He kept walking.
67
Wednesday, 11.30 a.m.
Jake drove around the house in ever-expanding circles. It shouldn’t be difficult; his mom was on foot and hadn’t been missing long. Roughly twenty minutes by the time he had left the station, plus the six more minutes Jake had been driving. That meant she had had less than thirty minutes of walking time. She was elderly; that meant about a mile radius, maximum. But how many city blocks did that cover?
Traffic was light, but the highway construction was creating problems everywhere. There were diversions throughout the city, and Jake found himself driving down smaller roads that he was less familiar with. He needed GPS.
Suburbia, with plenty of leafy lanes and avenues, and lots of nice houses, most of which should have been decked out in garish Christmas decorations. But most of them had been taken down – hardly anyone seemed in the mood right now. And if the PD didn’t break this one swiftly, Jake could imagine the next few Christmases being tainted by association.
If his mom had stuck to the roads, he might find her. But if she went into driveways or a park, he could cruise for the whole day with no luck.
To top it all, he wasn’t quite sure where he was. The streets of Littleton all looked the same to him: the same green hedges, turned brown now by winter; the same well-tended yards; the same mom-and-pop stores on the corners. The only real landmark was the steeple of the Church of Christ the Redeemer. He was in the heart of the construction zone now, with signs everywhere saying LOCAL ACCESS ONLY and DANGER – CONSTRUCTION. Dust hung in the air and settled on all the surfaces, and most of the vehicles were diggers. The church, slated for demolition, stood out by its height. At least it gave him a point of orientation. That was something.
Jake looked at the church. Two lanes led to it, and there was an area of open space in front. It was secluded, the perfect spot for an old woman to lose herself in.
And there was one! Jake felt an instant shot of relief diluted with confusion – could that briskly walking woman really be his mother? If it was, she was moving faster than Jake had seen her shift in years. She was walking as if she had a destination in mind.
Jake turned the car and headed down the street. As he drew near, he recognized her coat, and then he pulled level and could see her face. He stopped the car and got out.
‘Hi, Mom.’
‘Oh, hi, Jake,’ she said with an automatic smile.
She recognizes me today – that’s something.
‘Mom,’ he said, rushing round the car to hold her by the shoulders. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘I’m just looking for someone to talk to,’ she went on, trying to sidestep him.
‘You can talk to me,’ he said, blocking her path again.
She looked at him for a moment, then looked away. ‘I’m just looking for someone to talk to,’ she repeated.
It was sad. She was making sense and seemed perfectly lucid. But she didn’t know who she needed to speak to and couldn’t tell him why. It was like her brain was still engaged but was travelling down a track that never quite intersected with anyone else’s. But seeing her focused like this, fixated on an idea, however bizarre, was better than seeing her thoughts scattering to the winds.
‘So talk to me,’ he offered again.
‘N
o, dear. I need to talk to someone.’ She set off again and Jake walked beside her.
‘I know a psychiatrist,’ he suggested.
‘No!’ she shouted, grabbing his arm. ‘No doctors! I want you to promise me, Jake. Don’t bring in the doctors.’
Jake didn’t know how to respond. Not only was she moving with more urgency and ease than he had seen in a long time, she had rather a strong grip on his arm too. Her long nails were sharp – even through Jake’s sleeve. It was a grip he remembered from childhood: strong, dominant but flexible. He was suddenly struck with a memory from his childhood: trying to escape her is useless; she has me too tight.
He shook the thought away, and his eyes fell on a familiar figure walking up the street towards them. It was Father Ken, the priest from the condemned church.
‘Detective Austin, hello.’ The old man was smiling and had his hand extended. It was encased in a thick winter glove, making the handshake awkward. ‘Is everything OK?’
Jake felt embarrassed. ‘My mother had just gone for a bit of a ramble, but I’ll be taking her home now.’
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said the priest, turning to Jake’s mom. ‘Your son is doing a fine job policing our community. I hope you’re proud of him.’
Jake’s mother looked at the priest, her face re-forming into the old familiar blankness.
Father Ken looked from Jake’s mother to Jake. ‘I’m just returning from my morning walk. Why don’t you both stop in for a cup of coffee? I’m just around the corner.’
Although he wanted to get back to the investigation, Jake thought he could spare a few minutes. If his mother was so set against doctors and psychiatrists, perhaps she might talk to a priest?
Just then Jake’s pager buzzed. Irritably he took a quick look. It was the office. He killed the sound, then turned to Father Ken. The priest was smiling.
‘Anything urgent?’
‘It can wait.’
‘Don’t you be worrying,’ said the priest. ‘Go do what you have to do. I’ll look after your mother and drive her home in half an hour or so. Let her relax and enjoy a cup of coffee, and you can be on your way.’