The Christmas Killer

by Jim Gallows

  ‘Flashlight?’

  The guy unclipped a penlight from his belt and handed it to Jake. He shone it into the grave, but its weak light didn’t help much. Jake didn’t want to wait so he bent down, placed a hand on the edge of the grave and lowered himself into the hole.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said the cop.

  It was a long drop, and Jake felt it in his knees when he hit the dirt. He threw out his arm to steady himself.

  ‘Hey!’ said the cop.

  Jake ignored him.

  He bent and shone the flashlight on the skeleton, which seemed to be complete. The flesh was long gone, but some hair still clung to the skull, and the clothing was tattered but recognizable. Judging from what he could see of the clothes, the person had died in the late 1970s or early 80s. And he was male.

  This was no ancient burial site. Someone had been hidden under the coffin. Which meant it was a murder. This was something they were going to have to look into.

  He quickly searched the clothes. The scene was so old there was no fear of disturbing forensics. They weren’t going to be lifting any prints after years in the ground. He found nothing in the pockets.

  He was taking out his phone to call Asher when something caught his eye. The skull was uneven, depressed at one temple. Had the guy been deformed? Maybe someone with severe mental and learning difficulties?

  Then he looked closer, shining the penlight at the cranium.

  The jaw was fractured.

  No.

  Several of the teeth were missing.

  No way …

  There were cracks radiating from the top of the skull.

  It’s … It’s you … You did this.

  Just then the big machines went silent.

  He could hear the foreman shouting, ‘Detective! Detective Austin!’

  He tried to scramble out of the grave, but he couldn’t. It was too deep.

  The cop from earlier appeared over the side of the grave. He reached down to help Jake up. ‘Detective, you need to see this!’

  ‘They’ve found another one,’ said Mills, appearing from another area of the graveyard, panting and red-faced. Jake ran towards him, wiping the mud from his hands on to his coat as he went.

  They got to where the foreman was standing just next to the cab of an earthmover. He didn’t say anything but his face was pale and his eyes were wide.

  The second grave looked much like the first. Jake peered down. He could see remains. He looked up at Mills. He could see the same thought was rushing through Mills’s head. Two graves excavated. Two bodies found.

  Jake looked around the small cemetery and counted the gravestones. ‘Shit, Mills, we could be looking at up to two dozen unsolved homicides,’ he said.

  He shone the flashlight into the grave and focused on the skull. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed to have the same deformity he had noticed in the first one.

  ‘Both skulls have the jaws broken and teeth missing,’ he said to Mills.

  ‘What … ?’ said Mills.

  Jake left Mills’s unfinished question unanswered. Right now there was no answer to give. They were either on the trail of two mass murderers from two separate eras … or a stone-cold professional with literally decades of experience in killing and getting away with it.

  72

  Thursday, 6 p.m.

  It’s all out now, just like you wanted it to be. This is your will and your work.

  The news on the television – and on the radio in the kitchen – was wonderful, now that he had adapted to the new plan.

  Father Ken was relaxed, happy that it was working out the way the Lord wanted it. He was pottering around, tidying his house, and as he worked he remembered. It was good to reminisce. So many years had passed since it had begun, but he remembered them all in clear detail. He remembered them with such clarity he sometimes wondered whether they were real memories or if his head was simply full of elaborate fantasies. At times it was difficult to decide, especially as the years went on.

  They’ll have found Georgia now, I expect. She was the first soul I saved.

  He remembered it like it was yesterday. Georgia was a troubled woman who couldn’t stop herself from sinning. Always sins of the flesh. She was a fornicator, and often with married men or young men who knew no better. But she should have. She led them astray then came to Father Ken for forgiveness.

  The worst, most wretched kind of Christian. The kind that viewed religion as a safety net – a safety net that was somehow magically reinforced at Christmas, as if the season was a source of year-round credit, excusing sins committed the rest of the year. A safety net into which they could always let themselves fall, safe in the knowledge that they would bounce back, up and away from retribution and punishment. They were calling Father Ken the Christmas Killer – if only they knew he was trying to preserve its purity.

  He would never forget it. Georgia had come to confession and told him that she thought she was pregnant. What was she to do? He was horrified. He wanted to climb into her side of the confessional and choke some sense into her. But he followed the rites of the Church and absolved her of her sins. When he came out of the box a few minutes later, she was the only one left in the building. She was kneeling by the votive candles, labouring over her penance, a dozen pious rhymes cleansing a soul so black.

  That was the first time he had heard the Lord’s voice. Father Ken did as he was instructed. Why would he argue? He had walked up behind Georgia, a couplet from Hamlet – it was always Hamlet – running through his head: ‘Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven.’

  He had placed his hands around her throat and squeezed. She had struggled, but he was strong back then. A younger man, powerful. Soon he felt her resistance begin to wane. He kept crushing until her kicking became little more than spasms, then they died out and he felt her body go limp. But he kept squeezing, squeezing until his fingers grew tired and fell from her neck.

  Then he stood back, expecting to feel horror. Shame and horror, regret and remorse. But that was not God’s plan. Instead Father Ken twitched with elation. The excitement of the epiphany that told him, this – this – was the only way to save his flock from sinning. He must help God to do his work. He would become a fisher of souls.

  But first he would have to dispose of the body.

  You put the thought into my head.

  His mind cleared quickly. There was to be a funeral the following morning, and the grave had already been dug. So he simply took Georgia outside and laid her in the empty hole, covering her with just a few inches of soil. It was a bit of work, but the next morning the funeral took place; the coffin was lowered in, and the gravedigger arrived and filled in the grave.

  No one was any the wiser. It was not the Lord’s plan for anyone to know of Father Ken’s work.

  It took him a while to refine his technique. He had to be alone with those he was rescuing, but his collar made that part easy. Then he had to incapacitate them. If he hit them too hard they couldn’t wake up to confess. If he didn’t hit hard enough, they didn’t go down. A soft cosh proved the ideal solution.

  He needed them to come round after that initial blow so they could hear the charges against them and admit their sins. They needed to beg the Lord for forgiveness. They needed to be on their knees before God, like all true penitents. To make it easy for them, he bound their hands in prayer. He knelt and prayed with them.

  Then he gave the final turn of the screw and they danced screaming to their maker.

  Everything he did was backed by sound theology, which was how he knew the voice in his head was not leading him astray. He had read about the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, and the great work it had done in Spain and France, weeding out heretics. The Inquisition had been sent into decline by the rise of Protestantism, but that did not make its efforts any less righteous. The inquisitors had done great work with the head crusher five hundred years ago. Father Ken would con
tinue their grand, noble tradition.

  In all my years not one has resisted confessing. Then they die, blessed and with their sins expunged.

  Your beautiful and merciful will must see them swiftly through purgatory to the gates of paradise. Why else would you charge me with this mission?

  He had been carrying out his crusade for decades now, his righteous strikes occurring every few years whenever he came across a soul that was set for damnation. And where better to hide the bodies than in a graveyard? The saved sinners deserved the consecrated earth. But fourteen months ago it had begun to unravel. The bishop had told him that the Church of Christ the Redeemer was to be knocked down, to make way for a new interstate. Father Ken had smiled and nodded, and made the right sounds about the Church being ‘for progress’, but he knew what this progress meant. His work – his half a lifetime of crusading – was about to be unveiled. And people would not understand. How could they, being such godless souls? They would only understand once they were saved, once they could see – from a celestial plane – the canvas on which the Lord was painting, with Father Ken as one of his brushes. They would drag him before their court, and force him to explain his actions to a judge who claimed to be speaking on behalf of the Almighty, but Father Ken knew better.

  Then, after weeks of panic at the prospect of the earthen curtain being raised to reveal his work, Father Ken had another moment of pure, blissful clarity.

  You wanted to let the world know. You wanted me to have my day of recognition.

  The Lord’s plan was simple: kill more frequently and dump the bodies in public. And Father Ken, his good servant, had done as he was bidden.

  Marcia Lamb I liked, but she was an unmarried mother, and that was setting a bad example for her daughter – the poor girl had already been conceived and born out of sin. I could not let her continue to live among it.

  Belinda Harper was a simple choice once she told me in the confessional about her adulterous affair. She said it was to punish her husband over his own indiscretions, but only God can decide who is to be punished.

  The Jezebel Candy was an easy choice too.

  I do wish I had not enjoyed killing Chuck Ford quite as much as I did. But he was a bearer of false witness for greedy profit. It was fitting that I laid down his life for you.

  And, Lord, they all repented before they died. Their souls were cleansed, and I watched them ascend to heaven. It was glorious.

  Praised be thy holy name.

  How it would all end was a question that had crossed Father Ken’s mind more than once, but he had trusted in the Lord. And the Lord had delivered.

  You gave me the means of deliverance by sending me Jake Austin. That was an unexpected twist, but it told me I was on the right path. A path that, I can see now, is turning back on itself. A path that will end where it began.

  You don’t want me to end my crusade. You want me to save some more souls.

  He looked up and stretched out his hands in praise.

  ‘Thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.’

  But there was no harm in taking out an insurance policy …

  73

  Friday, 23 December, 11.30 a.m.

  Caffeine and adrenaline were keeping them going. Jake and Mills had already spent three hours poring over old files and reports. Missing people from three decades ago were being cross-checked with the seventeen skeletons that had been recovered from the graveyard the day before. And there were constant intrusions from the press, local and regional – and some of the regional guys were having their stories picked up by Associated Press. Pretty soon more eyes than ever were going to be squinting at Littleton, Indiana.

  Most of the remains were relatively old, but one skeleton still had much of the flesh attached and was in a summer dress similar to one Jake had seen Leigh wear only two years previously. It gave him hope that there would be a missing persons file in the database that could give him a break in this thing. But the database was stubbornly throwing up nothing at all, and Jake was getting frustrated. That’s why he had volunteered for the coffee run.

  As he walked up the steps to the station carrying two coffees and a box of Danish, he felt a little lighter, a little less tense. His eyes had stopped aching, and he was thinking he might have a shot at looking at things again. He might see something he had missed before. Or, failing that, his time out of the station might have coincided with a miracle. Maybe Mills had found among the bones a hastily written note from a victim, identifying his or her murderer.

  Had any cop ever been that lucky?

  But when Jake used his toe to open the station door, he almost turned and left. Gail Greene was waiting for him in the lobby.

  Not today. It’s bad enough without you.

  He took a deep breath and walked up to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, but she was saying the same thing.

  They looked at each other and shared a smile.

  ‘I was a bit harsh on you the other day,’ she said.

  ‘I deserved it. I stepped way over a line, and Johnny paid for it.’

  ‘You can’t be held responsible for another man’s actions,’ she said.

  Jake didn’t know what to say next. His tongue had gone dry.

  ‘Coffee?’ he said.

  ‘That’s sweet of you. Want to go for a walk?’

  Five minutes later they were sitting on a public bench overlooking City Hall, the box of Danish between them. The weather was sharp but dry. Jake was just in his jacket and could feel the cold. Gail was dressed for the weather in a big coat and gloves.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t take you somewhere nicer, but a cop’s salary doesn’t go far,’ he joked.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Gail turned to Jake and asked, ‘Do you have any contacts among the team investigating the Chase Asylum thing?’

  He looked surprised. Was this her excuse to come to the station? She could have asked him this over the phone.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been following up a couple of leads on Johnny’s medical history. Turns out, among other places, that he was actually a resident of the Chase Asylum for several months. He was sent there because he had been disruptive in his foster home.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Jake took a sip of his coffee, which had quickly got cold. It was weird the way cases and circumstances sometimes converged. But he knew that he would drive himself insane looking for hidden meanings, so he did his best to keep his mind clear.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s relevant or not,’ she said, ‘but I think the people working that case might want to talk to Johnny. He was an in-patient around the time Fred Lumley went missing.’

  ‘I do know one guy working Springfield,’ said Jake. ‘Colin Reader. I can put you in touch.’

  ‘Thanks. And it might help Johnny to unburden. He might have seen things, or suffered things, while he was there. In talking with him I get the strong feeling that the key to his behaviour is in his past. Something is eating away at him, and it might be what happened at the Chase Asylum.’

  Jake thought it more than likely. Enough people had already come forward to say that Lumley had abused them. Why not one more?

  ‘I’m going to see him right now,’ said Gail. ‘Do you want to come along?’

  Jake’s instinct was to say no. He didn’t want to upset Johnny by reminding him of what he had done. Or maybe it was his own guilt stopping him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gail, clearly registering the look on his face. ‘If there was any chance of setting Johnny back, I wouldn’t have suggested it.’

  Jake shrugged. He had nothing on except a quadruple homicide and seventeen bodies from previous decades. And yet at that moment the guilt he felt about Johnny was exerting just as strong a pull. A strange fascination to see the damage he’d caused.

  ‘OK.’

  Also, he wanted to spend more time with Gail.

  74

  Friday, 12.30 p.m.

  Johnny
Cooper was being held in the secure wing of the psychiatric unit adjacent to Littleton General Hospital. The corridor was bright and airy; Johnny’s room was more spacious and comfortable than the dingy apartment he had occupied up until two days ago. When Jake and Gail looked through his door Johnny was sitting in an armchair, staring up at a television playing reruns of an old sitcom. He had a smile on his face, a smile Jake knew was nothing to do with what was on the screen.

  ‘They’ve medicated him up to cloud nine,’ he whispered to Gail.

  ‘What did you expect? He’s been through a lot.’

  Jake and Gail went in. Gail sat on the bed. Jake sat on a hard chair on the other side of the room. Johnny kept his eyes on the screen.

  ‘Hey, Johnny,’ Gail said. ‘How’re you doing?’

  He continued to stare.

  ‘Anything you need?’

  Nothing. Jake stood and switched off the television. That might help.

  Finally Johnny looked at Gail. ‘Hi, Doc,’ he said. Then he looked at Jake.

  ‘This is Detective Austin,’ Gail said. ‘Do you remember him?’

  Jake shrank back into his seat. Suddenly it felt wrong to be in this room. But Johnny turned back to Gail and didn’t say anything, it was as if he didn’t recognize Jake.

  Gail leaned forward and touched his arm. ‘Johnny, I wanted to ask you a few things. Is that OK?’

  Johnny said nothing. He just looked down at her hand and nodded.

  ‘Did you grow up in Indiana?’ Gail asked.

  Johnny looked up for a moment, then nodded again,

  ‘You were fostered?’

  ‘Fostered in a lot of places. “Like the last dog in the shelter, couldn’t find a permanent home.” What does that mean? Someone once said that to me, but I could never figure out what she meant.’ He smiled.

  Gail didn’t smile back. ‘You got in trouble quite a bit.’

  ‘I did?’ He frowned. ‘I don’t remember. That might be why they put me in the old asylum.’

  Jake exchanged a quick glance with Gail.