by Robert Brown
“Mr. Hemlock, I know who you are.”
The gentleman stopped drawing. His gaze remained on his desk.
“I know that what happened to you in 1989 at the London Palladium wasn’t your fault.”
“Are you recording this?” asked the gentleman.
“No.”
“Is anyone else listening?”
“No.”
The gentleman turned around. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“There’s a man out there killing people under the pretense of magic tricks going wrong. He’s a man obsessed with you. He calls himself Knave but his real name is Ash Hemlock. The wordplay isn’t lost on me. Ash and Hemlock are both types of wood.”
The gentleman smiled. “It worked 30 years ago. I managed to slip into the darkness – all by using a different name.”
“Bill Hemlock? I’m surprised it worked. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s an alias for William Wood.”
“Never underestimate the predictability of stupidity,” said William.
“Shall I call you William, or Bill or Drakestone?”
“Call me whatever you want, except that stupid stage name. Drakestone died in 1989, along with my wife.”
“Why did you commit yourself here?”
“Why do you think?” asked William. “To hide away. I was a monster. Everyone shunned me. No one wants to associate with the man who killed his wife in front of 2,000 people.”
“So, you’ve lived a lie for nearly 30 years?”
“Magic is all I know. I was 40 at the time. I couldn’t start again. It was too late. I committed myself here after depression set in. I attempted suicide a few times.”
“Can you tell me what truly happened on the night of your wife’s death?”
“No. I don’t remember.”
“Do you want me to tell you?”
“I don’t want to re-live it again.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
William ran a hand through his hair. He pushed it off his face.
“Your wife had loaded herself onto the table,” Cael began. You stood up and presented a sheet to the audience. At that moment, the real blade on the mechanism was supposed to be switched out.”
“No,” said William.
“No?”
“I always used a real saw blade in that trick. People assume I used the sheet to cover what I was doing but that wasn’t the case at all.”
“How did it work, then?”
“The sheet was misdirection.”
“For what?”
“So that my son could jump in the bottom half of the box.”
Cael stared wide-eyed at William. Finally. The last piece of information he needed.
“Of course. You had a second assistant.”
“My wife was supposed to free herself from her restraints, then hide her bottom half in a hidden compartment.”
“But she couldn’t free herself, could she?”
Tears began to well in William’s eyes. He held his head in his hands.
“Her fake restraints had been switched for real ones.”
William nodded.
“It was your son who killed your wife that night. Not you.”
Suddenly, the young girl burst into the room. “What have you done?” she asked. “Mr. Hemlock, are you okay?”
Cael stood up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
“I think you better leave,” she said. “Management will be here shortly. I don’t want to have to explain this to them.” She ushered Cael out of the room.
“What’s his name?” he shouted back.
“Mr. Adler, please stop. You’ve already upset him.”
“I just need to know. Then I can find him.”
“Mr. Hemlock, I’m sorry. Please ignore-”
“Jack,” he finally shouted. “His name is Jack.”
42
In the war room at the London Met headquarters, Cael and Tyler had gathered every police officer, forensics officer and intelligence staff member working on the case. It was time to deliver everything they knew about their killer.
“The man we’re looking for goes by several names. His real name is Jack Wood but so far we’ve known him as both Ash Hemlock and “Knave.” He may use other aliases but these are the only ones we’re aware of,” said Cael.
“Our killer is the son of the famous magician known as Drakestone, aka William Wood. In 1989, Drakestone reportedly murdered his wife in a magic trick gone wrong. The truth is a little more sinister. It was Drakestone’s son who tampered with the magic apparatus that night, forcing his father to murder his wife,” Tyler said.
“To understand why he would do this, we need to delve into the mind of a child raised in a world of magic. At the time of the murder, Jack Wood would have been a teenager. He likely had some kind of anti-social personality disorder, possibly schizophrenia or psychopathy. In the early 80s, an occult textbook detailing a bizarre ritual involving human sacrifices was released. Our killer somehow got his hands on this textbook. In his head, he confused this type of occult magic with sleight-of-hand magic. We’ve seen it happen before. In the mind of a sheltered, withdrawn teenager, it’s not a stretch to make this connection,” said Cael.
“It’s similar to the way Uri Gellar genuinely believes he can bend spoons with his mind. This is the kind of asshole we’re looking for,” said Tyler. A few officers laughed.
“We believe our killer has another hideout somewhere in London. The fact that he left us the lower body of his first victim suggests he had them stored elsewhere when we raided his Camden workshop. He could have also kept them in his house.” Cael said.
“What we need you fellas to do is investigate any house, property or workplace of anyone using the name Jack Wood. As you can probably guess, it’s pretty common, so it could take a while,” said Tyler.
“Our killer used the ruse of ‘magic tricks going wrong’ to claim the lives of at least nine victims over the past 29 years. This means he’s been killing since he was in his early 20s or younger. His three most recent murders have taken on a much more theatrical feel. We believe he’s developed a taste for murder and is simply escalating his crimes. Because of this severe escalation, as well as the props we discovered in his workshop, we believe he still performs as a magician today.”
“According to this guy’s notes, he has a particular ritual he needs to follow for each murder. So far, he’s followed them to a tee. The ritual itself is the method of killing. His next one is scheduled to be a buried-alive trick.”
“The buried-alive trick is considered the most dangerous in magic history. Very few magicians have performed it successfully, and it’s the trick that has claimed the lives of most of its practitioners,” said Cael. “He’s suffering from a delusion wherein he believes taking the lives of his victims will reward him with eternal life.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” said one of the officers.
“I don’t disagree,” said Cael, “but to a deluded mind like his, it’s a very real prospect.”
“Our guy is around five-foot-five. He’s scrawny. He’s got short black hair and a longish beard. He would be in his mid-to-late 40s and he possibly drives a white van,” Tyler said.
“I personally believe this man to be an expert magician, and that doesn’t just mean he can do card tricks. He can blend in. He can be anywhere, any time. He can look as different as he wants. He knows how to hide and he knows how to fool people. He managed to erect a 10-foot water tank on a river bank without anyone noticing. He’s good at what he does.”
“But even so, this guy can’t hide forever. He’s out there. I would advise checking out magic gigs, magic shops, magic events – all that shit. If, like me, you think magic is stupid, I apologize in advance.”
“Let’s go,” said Cael.
43
Magic was his lifeblood. He had been a natural performer from a young age, muc
h to the joy of his father. When he discovered he could afford to live through magic performances alone, he knew he would have to keep up this façade despite his true intentions. He had taken on other jobs in his time – janitor, street cleaner, anything he could perform with limited human interaction. While he detested these jobs, they allowed him to remain a functioning member of the community.
However, by night, he was a different person entirely.
Like a lot of magicians, he preferred small, intimate venues. They afforded him opportunities otherwise lost when the audience became a spotlight-ridden blur. They allowed him to mingle within the audience, scoping out potential participants. They allowed him an element of safety. If he performed a trick with an assistant who was no longer with him, it reduced the possibility of anyone suspecting his involvement with her disappearance.
And then, as he surveyed the audience from the safety of behind-the-curtain, he saw a face he recognized.
44
Tyler often joked that the best thing about his children was the fact that they got him out of events he didn’t want to attend. Tonight, he was more thankful than ever.
A magic show was being held at a small club in Forest Hill, a few streets away from the location where Stephanie Brady’s body had been discovered. Despite Tyler’s reluctance, Cael had requested his presence there. After some back-and-forth exchanges, they had come to an arrangement.
Tyler’s wife would stake out the magic show for him while he stayed home and looked after their three children. The chance of the killer appearing there was minimal but it was a chance they couldn’t miss.
That evening, at the Keymaster Club in Forest Hill, Samantha Easton sat in the fifth row of a 300-capacity theater. She had never heard of any of the acts performing but welcomed the break from looking after three similarly-aged children.
The first act had been a standard torn-and-restored routine. The young magician, barely old enough to dress himself, had torn a newspaper into shreds and then miraculously restored it to its original form. A difficult trick, although one her daughter Rose could do just as well.
Second on the bill was a mind-reading, mystical-type figure. He kept a sort of Anton LaVey vibe about him as he predicted exactly what several audience members had written on pieces of paper. Simple but effective, although Samantha felt a slight annoyance that he hadn’t chosen her as one of his participants.
The third act, however, was something in which Samantha had always kept a passive interest: hypnotism. The gentleman was short and scrawny. He had an overgrown novelty moustache and long, scraggly brown hair. He arrived on stage to classical music and thick fog from a smoke machine. Suddenly, he appeared on a chair center-stage to rousing applause.
He began his trick with a philosophical speech about the unfathomability of the human unconscious. Samantha knew it was all spiel but he put on a convincing show. Then he slowly walked into the audience, closely inspecting each member of the first five rows. He made his decision.
“You. Would you be able to assist me?”
Suddenly all attention was on Samantha.”
“Give her a round of applause.”
And just like that, she was part of the show. She felt compelled to participate despite the overwhelming sense of nervousness he had instilled in her. Reluctantly, she pulled herself up from her seat. It felt like a dream. It didn’t seem real. Suddenly she was on the stage with 300 pairs of eyes looking her up and down.
“Please take a seat,” he said.
In truth, he knew very little of hypnotism. It was pseudo-science; a trick exploiting the fallibility of the human brain.
“Have you ever experienced hypnotism before?” he asked her.
“Yes. Once. When I quit smoking,” Samantha said.
“Ah, fantastic.” A slight panic overcame him. “Well, clinical hypnosis is quite different from stage hypnosis, as I’m sure you’ll find out.”
Samantha sat in the hypnotist’s chair center-stage. He kneeled next to her.
“Listen to my voice. Concentrate solely on my voice, nothing else. As you begin to hear the soft baritone sounds, you’ll fall into a deep sleep. Just relax. Empty your head of all thoughts. Your worries, your work life, let it all run dry. Think of the word sleep. Dream. Emptiness. Don’t let anything distract you. Can you feel yourself falling into a trance?”
Samantha didn’t but she played along. Luckily, this was exactly how hypnotism worked. Then, from his jacket pocket, the hypnotist pulled out a tiny syringe. His sleight of hand skills were of expert quality, meaning he easily concealed it from the audience’s view.
Samantha’s head slowly lulled downward.
“You might feel a few sharp pains as you fall deeper into your trance but don’t worry, you’re in safe hands. If anything should happen to you, we have paramedics on standby.”
With his right hand, he moved the syringe to the back of Samantha’s neck. In one swift motion, he injected the fluid into her bloodstream.
She felt it. Was this part of the act? Surely she couldn’t be in any real danger. No, this was a magic show. It was perfectly safe. It had to be.
Then she fell into darkness. Something was happening.
“My friends, I have fooled you into believing this was a feat of hypnotism but I’m afraid I’ve deceived you. This is a feat of illusion.”
He placed a white sheet over Samantha’s body. As he did, he tipped her backwards into his perfectly-concealed mirror box behind the chair. He pulled off the sheet. Samantha had disappeared. Loud applause came from the audience.
“But that’s not all. Please look to the entrance.”
From the door at the back of a theater, a similar smokescreen erupted off the floor. The eyes of every audience member turned toward it, expecting some kind of small-time miracle to emerge.
When the smoke vanished, nothing was left in its place. Audience members looked at each other, confused, likely expecting some sort of double-bluff. Maybe she would appear there or something even more impossible. In the middle of the audience, perhaps?
Again, nothing. And when the audience members returned their eyes to the stage, both the hypnotist and Samantha were nowhere to be seen.
45
When a mistake occurred during a magic trick, the magician usually did it on purpose. This was no different.
However, there would be no reprise, no double-bluff and no “kicker,” as the magic world referred to it. The trick was over.
Eventually, both the audience and staff members of the Keymaster Club realized something was wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
46
Within 30 minutes, Cael and Tyler had arrived at the Keymaster Club. Since the incident, the doors had been locked. No one was allowed in or out.
“We saw him exit the stage with the box,” said the young magician who had performed first.
“It’s pretty normal for magicians to run around from one side of the stage to the other,” said the illusionist who had been scheduled to perform last. “I just thought he was going to do a big reveal.”
“Where did he go?” asked Cael.
“He went out that door,” said the young kid, pointing to the backstage exit.
“And no one stopped him?” asked Tyler.
“No. People use that door to rush round to the entrance to make their reveals after they disappear.”
“Fuck’s sake,” said Tyler. “I’m going to kill this asshole when we find him.” Seething, Tyler ripped the timetable for the night’s performances off the backstage wall. He looked at the crumpled paper in his hands.
The Nameless One. 9:00 p.m. – 9:30 p.m.
“He will be nameless when I’ve finished with him. And headless when I’ve ripped it off his fucking shoulders.”
“Do you know exactly what he did?” Cael asked the other magicians.
“He was doing a hypnotism trick. I was watching him from the curtain. He had a hidden box behind his chair that was covered with mirrors so it looked
invisible. He tipped the chair back into it. Then the girl fell into the box.”
“Then he dragged the box out?”
“It was more like a cart than a box. He wheeled it out. Straight down the ramp to the exit.”
“I’m going to search the streets. Fuck this shit,” said Tyler.
“Thanks for all your help, folks,” said Cael. He joined Tyler. “Come on. Let’s get this son of a bitch.”
47
They drove around the London streets with little regard for safety. It had been nearly 40 minutes since Samantha Easton’s disappearance. He couldn’t have gotten far.
A call came through to Cael’s mobile.
“Trey, give me some good news.”
“I got a trace on Samantha’s phone. It looks like she hit an open Wi-Fi zone in Westminster about a minute ago.”
“Westminster?”
“Yeah. It connected for a few seconds then dropped out. That’s the last trace I’ve got.”
“What the fuck is in Westminster?” asked Tyler.
“I don’t kn-”
“What? I don’t have time for your games. What is it?”
“Of course. Westminster. Where he killed his first victim.”
“The London Palladium.”
48
Tyler abandoned his police vehicle in the middle of Argyll Street outside the prestigious theater.
“Where the fuck should we go?”
“He won’t be inside. He can’t be.”
“Where then?”
“Hang on. I have an idea.” Cael pulled out his phone. He dialed the number that had called him a few days earlier. After five rings, someone answered.
“Barker.”
“Yes? Is everything okay, Cael?”
“No. Is there anything unique about the London Palladium?”
“Excuse me?”
“Trap doors. Underground tunnels. Anything used in magic acts. I don’t know. Something.”