The Christmas Killer

Johnny’s little smile came back. ‘They’d changed the name to Springfield Hospital,’ he said, his voice a low drone now. ‘But it never stuck. We all knew what it really was.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Seven? Twelve?’

  Jake felt frustrated. This could take for ever. Years of psychiatric problems and strong doses of whatever chemical cocktail he’d been given had left Johnny’s brain screwed.

  But Gail persisted. ‘Was anyone ever mean to you in the asylum?’

  ‘The chef.’

  Jake saw Gail grip Johnny’s arm a little tighter as she asked, ‘Did he hurt you? The other kids?’

  Johnny nodded vigorously. ‘Yeah, he hurt us. Hurt us with his food. It was the worst, Doc. We got fish on Fridays. No one liked fish, but he just kept on giving it to us.’

  Jake felt a prickle of futile fury in his throat. Fury that a guy like Johnny, not evil by nature, had to live – or rather exist – stranded between madness and lucidity. Jake wanted to fix him, but there was no fixing this.

  Johnny wasn’t finished. ‘But there was one nice nurse. I liked her. A big woman. She had the same name as you.’ He pointed at Jake. ‘Nurse Austin. Nice black woman. She was always smiling, singing to herself. She gave me hugs.’

  Jake nodded as the poor crazy bastard rambled on. Then Johnny fell silent for a moment, during which Gail aimed a curious look at Jake. He offered a shrug in response.

  ‘How’s Benny?’ Johnny asked suddenly. ‘I hope he’ll be all right.’

  Gail looked confused.

  ‘The man he …’ said Jake. ‘Johnny’s neighbour,’ he told Gail, hoping she’d get what he was implying.

  Gail was as gentle. ‘Johnny, Benny is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ said Johnny. ‘He won’t be too happy about that. But maybe it’ll stop him touching me for a buck. The man’s always touching me for money. Do I look rich?’ He stared back at the blank television screen. ‘Dead, you say? Really? Wow …’

  Johnny looked quite pleased for a moment.

  Because now he has something to be genuinely sorry about.

  Gail stood. ‘Bye, Johnny. It was good to see you.’

  Jake turned the TV back on then followed Gail from the room.

  ‘Goodbye, Doc,’ said Johnny, his eyes never leaving the television. ‘Keep safe, Bruce.’

  75

  Friday, 2 p.m.

  Gail was driving Jake back to the station when it started to snow. Littleton may have been drained of all Christmas spirit, but the sky didn’t give a shit.

  Gail was explaining Aquinas syndrome.

  ‘Like Johnny, the sufferers usually have some sort of paranoid schizophrenia or a delusional disorder,’ she said. ‘They also have deviant sexual desires. Paedophilia and necrophilia are common. That’s why Johnny ejaculated after killing Benny.’

  Jake didn’t tell her that he had pretty much figured that out already. He and Gail had only just got back on good terms, and he was going to need her help to anticipate the killer’s next move.

  ‘There’s one thing you should understand,’ Gail continued. ‘What you did triggered Johnny to act his delusions out. But at that point, given the multitude of problems he has, anything could have triggered it. The pressures were building. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else. So don’t beat yourself up over it. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Thanks,’ was all Jake could say to that. He appreciated her attempt to make him feel better, but the truth was, it had been his fault. And he would carry that with him, like his ulcer, for a long time to come.

  Gail pulled into the police station parking lot and they sat in silence for a few minutes. ‘You don’t want to go back inside,’ she said.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Gail smiled.

  ‘This one is beating me,’ he told her.

  ‘Ha! The Jake Austins of this world don’t get beaten.’

  ‘I used to believe that,’ he said. ‘But if the bodies in the graveyard are linked to the murderer of Marcia, Belinda, Candy and Chuck, then this guy’s a professional who’s been doing this a very long time. If these skeletons are connected to our … fresher vics, then we’re hunting the worst kind of serial killer – someone cold, someone smart enough to change his MO when he knew the churchyard was going to be dug up. A man not motivated by any kind of frenzy, but maybe a twisted intellectual conviction that what he is doing is somehow right and just.’

  Gail said nothing but just listened.

  ‘Of course, the potential length of time these killings are spread over suggests a man of a certain age,’ Jake went on. ‘And men of a certain age become less physically capable. That’s nature. The body breaks down. Could an older guy really have overpowered two streetwise women like Candy and Marcia? Marcia had a daughter that she wanted to get home to, a daughter she loved. She would have fought tooth and nail to stay alive. And Chuck Ford would not have been easy either.’

  ‘A blow to the back of the head with a heavy object can cut anyone down to size,’ Gail offered.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘But what if … what if our guy is a copycat. That would mean he knew about the original murders, murders the police apparently never suspected. But how? Is he the son of the original killer, maybe? An “apprentice” of some kind?’

  His brain searing with questions that made it hurt, Jake leaned back against the headrest. Each new question left him more confused.

  ‘He can’t get away with it for ever,’ said Gail, clearly trying to be encouraging.

  ‘He can,’ Jake replied. ‘If it is just one man, he has been getting away with it for ever. Seventeen missing people, and nobody’s alarm bells went ding. Not one … The case is so cold now I haven’t a hope.’

  ‘But if it’s just one man, you could—’

  ‘It’s a road map of dead ends. I can’t link the victims. I can’t see a motive. I’m pretty much screwed unless I get very, very lucky.’

  Gail fell silent. Something about her expression. She was making a decision.

  ‘What?’ Jake asked, turning to look at her.

  Gail nodded once, coming to a decision. ‘I have to tell you something. Maybe I should have said it before, but it’s hard to break professional trust. Belinda Harper was one of my private patients.’

  That got Jake’s attention.

  ‘She was coming to me because she was depressed. She said she was having an affair with a man in retaliation for the affairs Mitch was having. I tried to tell her that it was a negative, destructive way to deal with the situation, but she wouldn’t stop seeing him.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Jake.

  But where does Chuck Ford fit in?

  ‘Do you know who she was having the affair with?’ he asked.

  ‘She would never tell me,’ said Gail.

  ‘I have to find this guy. He might be unconnected, but I have to track him down. Something he knows, something he’s not even aware he knows, might …’

  He tailed off when he noticed that Gail was looking at him with concern.

  ‘You’re burning the candle at both ends,’ she said in answer to his look. ‘You need to step back and let others help you out.’

  That would never happen. ‘It’s all on me and Mills. Me, really. Mills seems to be able to brush it off at the end of the day.’

  ‘The stress is damaging you. I can see it,’ said Gail.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, the words appearing to wake up his ulcer, which trickled a bit more acid, as if to say, Fuck you, Jake. That’s not your call.

  ‘Really?’ Gail turned to stare straight at him. ‘Who’s looking out for you?’ Her hand had moved, taking hold of his. She was looking into his eyes. Her scent was coiling around his head and neck like a noose.

  Who is looking out for me?

  Jake turned his hand until he was holding hers. He started to lean forward to kiss her. She leaned in too. But Jake felt a pang of guilt stronger than any acid burn. With his free hand he fumb
led for the passenger-side door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  He got the door open and dragged himself out of the car. He marched across the parking lot, then up the steps and into the station.

  He didn’t look back.

  76

  Saturday, 24 December, 5.49 a.m.

  The man behind him was getting closer. He could feel the menacing presence but he couldn’t make out the face. He never could. But as the man touched him, he turned and screamed, and then he was slashing the man with a knife, his skinny twelve-year-old arms barely strong enough to break the flesh. But after a couple more tries, he finally had the knife inside the man’s belly. And there was blood, blood everywhere …

  Then Jake woke up.

  It was always the same dream. Not every night, but at frequent regular intervals. And he could never see the face.

  Jake hadn’t slept well. Guilt and desire wrestled in his head, and neither had won. But they both kept sleep away. He felt like an asshole for coming so close to kissing Gail. He felt like even more of an asshole when he acknowledged that there was a part of him that regretted not kissing her.

  The clock on the bedside table showed five forty-nine, but he couldn’t take any more of this. He needed to get away. He knew he couldn’t face Leigh for a family breakfast. He worried that his face might give something away.

  Trying not to make any noise, he began to dress. Leigh stirred, and he froze.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked groggily.

  ‘I have to go to the station. The paperwork is piling up.’

  ‘My hero.’ She turned in the bed, drew the covers over herself again, and was soon breathing deeply.

  As Jake left the house he felt a deep sense of disappointment in himself. He hated how Leigh trusted him so much. He wasn’t sure he could live up to her trust.

  The station was almost empty; the night shift ran on a skeleton crew. There was one guy on the desk, and two cars patrolling. There were four cops sitting around drinking coffee. Jake poured himself a cup, but he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t feel like company right now.

  Carrying his drink, he went to his desk and powered up the computer. Sitting down, he took a sip of the coffee. Strong. Far stronger than the stuff the day shift brewed. But he guessed the night guys needed a bit of a booster sometimes.

  He had one fresh email with an attachment. He clicked on the message. It was from Colin Reader, the FBI guy. The message opened, and Jake read it quickly.

  Detective Austin,

  Thanks for the heads-up on the bone. Dr Zatkin was very helpful. But how did it get over to you guys? I need to know. If you find out, keep me in the loop.

  We had one of our artists do up a facial reconstruction on the skeleton. It’s quite good, about 70% accurate, he says. Would you mind having a look over it, maybe post it around the station? We’re hoping it might jog a memory.

  Thanks,

  Colin

  Jake clicked on the attachment and it began to download, line by line, from the top.

  It was a drawing. Now he could see the eyes. They were cold eyes, a nondescript grey colour. But there was nothing you could do about that; the eyes on a reconstruction always looked dead.

  With every new line that appeared Jake felt more and more nauseous. About ten seconds later, the image was complete and Jake’s mouth filled with saliva.

  Apart from the eye colour, he could have been looking at a mirror.

  What the hell?

  It was a joke. It had to be.

  Mills must have sent it to wind him up. But Mills wasn’t smart enough to send a message from a convincing fake FBI email address. He wasn’t that technologically knowledgeable. Jake checked the address in the sender’s box. It was an official FBI address, no doubt about it. Maybe Mills had managed to put Reader up to playing a prank? But that couldn’t have been right – he’d only spoken with Reader a couple of times but the Fed hadn’t struck Jake as the type to waste his time with jokes.

  The image was genuine.

  Jake felt a moment of panic. There has to be an explanation. But he couldn’t think of one. Unless he was losing his mind.

  He passed the morning unable to resist taking repeated looks at the picture. Each time he brought up the window he hoped that the face would be different, that it would have somehow changed itself. But it had not.

  Around ten thirty Mills stopped by Jake’s desk. ‘Howdy, partner,’ he said.

  With a start Jake minimized the image on the screen.

  ‘You all right, buddy?’ asked Mills.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I just have things on my mind. The case is getting to me, I think.’

  ‘I know. Night guys said you’ve been in for hours. Take a break. Go home and relax. Wrap some gifts or something. Don’t leave it all to the missus – that’s a sure way to get yourself some couch time. Know what I’m saying?’

  Jake smiled at Mills.

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  But an hour later, when Mills left the station, Jake was still staring at the screen. His mind was a riot of thoughts tumbling over each other, but he kept coming back to one question: Why does a long-dead man in Littleton, Indiana have my face?

  77

  Saturday, 6 p.m.

  Jake passed the day in a daze, barely aware of the people passing in and out of the station, vaguely aware of a twitch that he had developed.

  The detective bureau remained blissfully quiet. On most Saturdays the bureau operated with a skeleton crew just like the night guys, the detectives taking turns on a four-weekly rotation. But today it was even quieter than usual as folks clocked off to go home and be with their families. Jake shook his head clear of images of subdued Christmas dinners under the cloud of threat and violence that had settled over Littleton.

  You really have killed Christmas, Jake thought. Then he cursed himself for being flippant.

  It was dark outside when the night shift clocked on. Around the station the uniformed cops readied themselves to go out on patrol. There was always a little more activity in the darker hours on Saturdays – bar fights and such, drawing out the squad cars. When the first siren wailed, Jake came to his senses. Like snapping out of a dream. He really needed to get a grip. But how? Talk it out, that was what they said. He picked up the phone and dialled Gail’s number.

  When the phone on the other end of the line started ringing, he asked himself, Why Gail? Why not Leigh? He told himself it was because she was a counsellor. But she didn’t pick up, so it was a moot point. Thinking of Gail brought back yesterday’s conversation in the car. Something she had said about Johnny’s Aquinas syndrome was playing on his mind, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He replayed the conversation in his head.

  Then he went on the Internet and googled the condition. Very little came up and nothing to resolve whatever it was that was bothering him. So he googled ‘head crusher’ again. This time he didn’t just look at the images; he read the articles. Religious zealots would put heretics in the device, and squeeze their heads until they confessed their sins. Often they continued with the pressure until the victim died. Just as often the penitent – or what was left of them – was released from the device and put on trial. The inevitable result was death at the stake. All done in the name of God.

  That triggered something.

  Jake turned from the screen and picked up a copy of the medical report from Ronnie. It was long and detailed, and he had skimmed over parts of it. But some parts stuck out. He ran his eyes down the pages.

  Yes, he was right. All the victims had had their hands bound together from the elbow to the wrist. There was ante-mortem bruising consistent with restraints on all the victims. He held up his own arms and pushed them together, elbow to elbow and wrist to wrist. The only practical way of doing it was with the palms facing each other.

  Their hands were bound in prayer.

  Now he was on track. The killings had a ritualistic aspect, suggesting a relig
ious motivation. He went through the victims in his head again. Marcia Lamb was a single mother raising a bastard child. Belinda Harper was an adulterous wife. Candy Jones was a prostitute. Chuck Ford was a ruthless journalist, opportunistic and without morals, a man who profited from the exploitation of misery.

  They weren’t evil people. But perhaps in the eyes of a religious nut … ?

  Jake thought about the people he knew in Littleton, the ones who claimed deep faith. Certainly a number of people who had turned up at the demonstrations didn’t want the old church torn down …

  But what about … ?

  No. It was crazy, what he was thinking now. No way could it be true.

  And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling – a tingle of conviction that was almost always right.

  Jake went through the evidence bit by bit.

  He would have had access to the graves at Christ the Redeemer; and those skulls had suffered the same damage as the Christmas Killer had inflicted on his victims. If all the murders were committed by the same man, that meant the perpetrator would have to be well into middle age or perhaps a bit older. And old-fashioned in his views too.

  Jake grabbed his coat and left the station.

  78

  Saturday, 8.40 p.m.

  Jake was running now. Why hadn’t he seen it? As he climbed into his car he had his mobile out and was scrolling through his contacts, looking for Mills’s number.

  Father Ken Laurie. Unbelievable.

  Jake let his mind flood with images of Father Ken’s face, trying to see in retrospect what he may not have seen when he was with him. Any hint as to the evil beneath the smiling kind-old-boy features that he made good use of. But as he focused on Father Ken’s face a strange flickering vision invaded his mind. His finger hesitated over the Call button.

  The image in his mind was not a memory of one of their meetings. The Father Ken Jake was imagining was younger. His hair was thicker and darker, his skin didn’t have any wrinkles. And Jake’s mind’s eye was looking up at him.

  Like the view of a child.