DI WOLE ROBERT’S WIFE FOUND DEAD IN HER BEDROOM: CONFIRMED TO BE TATTOO – KILLER’S FOURTH VICTIM
DI Robert’s wife was found lifeless and nude with only a pink G-string on inside her bedroom. Scotland Yard confirms that she is the tattoo–killer’s fourth victim. She died from histotoxic hypoxia and according to reliable sources the killer drew a tattoo which comprised a blank map of Africa and an anagram which is consistent with the killer’s mode of operation.
Met’s forensic analyst, Dr. Trevor Bradford believes the killer to be a psychopath. According to him, the…
It continued. There was a photograph of the paramedics carrying her body into the ambulance, and an almost thumbnail size photograph of Hugh and me on the red leather couch. The caption read: “DCI Hugh Hugh sympathizing with victim's husband, DI Wole Robert”.
For the love of God he was adding salt to fresh wound and not sympathizing. Wordlessly, I returned the tabloid to where it stayed staring at me. I couldn’t wait for dinner to finish. I damned all consequences.
“You know of Katherine’s death. Don’t you?” I was nauseous.
She sighed and gave me an “I have no excuse" look.
I brought out the earring from my chest pocket and slid it to her.
“What was it doing in our matrimonial home on Katherine’s death day?”
“It’s mine." She said.
“Of course it’s yours. It was my birthday present to you.” I said.
“Yes I just turned fifty six then.” Moussaka leaked from her mouth.
“I haven’t done the Miranda warning. You can tell me anything. "
She stood and came close, “I went there to thank her for her decision to divorce you. The door was ajar. I entered and sat on the couch, waiting. I thought she was applying make up until I reached exasperation. I checked her room and found her dead."
“Did you touch her?”
She was silent.
“Did you touch her? They might find your prints on her. Tell me if you did.”
“I can’t remember.” She said still chewing moussaka.
“How did you know she was divorcing me?”
“Reverend Bean told me.” She said
“Reverend Bean?”
“Yes!” She said.
I sighed and pushed my moussaka away.
“Believe me son. I didn’t kill her.”
“Why didn’t you dial 999 when you discovered she was dead?"
“Son, understand. I didn’t want to be labeled a suspect. All of London believes the tattoo–killer is Black.”
“You believe the killer’s Black?”
"I can't really say. All the victims are White Britons. That's what the silent majority thinks."
“Good night mother."
I headed for my apartment.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
March 22.
I’m sure the killer was mapping out strategies for his or her next victim. To the best of my knowledge nothing significant transpired today except those powerful things done in secret
March 23.
I was still in my red pyjamas at 9.p.m..
March 24
Today was Palm Sunday. The Triumphant Entry. The Holy week began today. I spent the entire Sunday reading Jasmine Cresswell’s Forgotten Marriage.
March 25. Holy Monday
All of NSY said I’m sorry for your loss.
March 26. Holy Tuesday
I forgave Danielle for breaking into my apartment.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Today was Holy Wednesday, March 27.
A dreaded day.
Westminster coroner, Doctor Elizabeth Daniel worships at 'All Souls'. MPS Forensic psychologist, Doctor Trevor Bradford insisted that the coroner be given a state of the art security.
Baker’s wife, Mary, was a B-list actress. She also worshipped at 'All Souls'. She was sequestered in a room at NSY.
Many other public figures who worshipped at All Souls were hidden away. My only concern was for the common man. I whispered prayers for Jesus’ angels to numb the hands of the killer on their behalf.
Tuesday night had seen me working my head to the grey and white matters because of this 'Wednesday Ripper'. He or she had become a Prince or Princess of Greater London. I just wanted to catch him or her and thrust a red hot iron to and fro his or her asshole and watch him or her scream like a pig before pouring bullets in his or her brain. Infact, no amount of suffering would suffice, not even hell fire.
On my way out to NSY before I got the chance to finish locking my door, a company of three ladies and two gentlemen stood behind me. Cheerful faces chorused a “hi”.
When I turned I recognized them. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses. I call them Rutherford’s followers. They had come to share the good news of the forthcoming Kingdom of Jehovah with me. I declined. I knew they were going to tell me Jesus didn’t die on a Friday; Easter is a heathen celebration; Satan is behind the evils in the world today; every other Christian sect and religion is Babylon the Great et cetera.
I had suffered them gladly in previous times but now. I didn’t have the patience. They always made me feel like a damned pagan after their sessions with me.
I collected the Watchtower and Awake booklets which they freely distributed and threw them in my Toyota Echo.
Saying “Thank you,” I entered my car and backed it out of the drive and was off to Broadway.
****
I sat on my desk reviewing my ‘suspect list’.
Femi Atkins was a tattooist. He was first on my list and yet my instinct kept telling me he isn’t the villain. My instinct!
Abigail Bean was a lecturer at the University of Westminster. She had potassium cyanide at her disposal. Her person is still ‘veiled’. I think!
Hugh Hugh had the means to 'create evidence'. He had almost, nearly succeeded in getting Regina Cypher to plant the vial in my apartment. Only the Unseen who sees all things knows what would have become of me if she didn’t have a ‘powerful conscience’. He had also found a way to convince the coroner and the other doctors, Knapman and Bradford, that I’m the killer. They just want him to prove how I got the cyanide and I’d be history.
Danielle Rowland was in Hugh’s league. Though each action of hers means her to be on my side, I’m not taking chances.
Henry Bean has something to hide, I think.
Adebisi Adebayo Robert. My mother. The newest on my list.
I never imagined her until the death of Katherine. Her explanation is too loose for a coincidence and her hatred for tattoos needs an off-scripture dissertation.
I continued my ‘suspects review’ until Reverend Bean’s sermon on a February Sunday replayed’ in my head:
“… Because giving is sacrificing. What are you giving to follow the Master? What are you giving to follow Jesus? What are you letting go to welcome the Father and the Son to take their abode with you? You must give something. I remember vividly over thirty years ago while in my prime, I gave up something very dear to me. I had passion for printing on people’s skin. I was a god at my game. It was fetching me handsome sums but I gave it up for the Lord. I gave it up and since then…”
It was like a revelation. Like God was speaking to me. I focused my mind:
“… for printing on people‘s skin”
“… for printing on people’s skin”
“… for printing on people’s skin”
“… for printing on people’s skin”
It couldn’t stop. It was ringing in my head.
I called on Danielle.
We headed for Reverend Bean’s office. He was the killer but I wasn’t sure. He used to be a tattooist.
If we could get him on time, we could stop him from murdering his next victim. Perhaps!
****
When my Toyota Echo halted in the parking portion Danielle and I alighted and hurried, like protagonists on a quest to save Hiroshima and Nagasaki from ‘little boy’, to his office.
It was locked.
<
br /> He hadn’t been here.
“So what do we do?” Danielle queried. She had taken this case ‘personal’.
I thought fast. “There are two places we should check out. His church office and residence."
“You think he’d be in church?”
“This time he might choose to murder his next victim in the church." We walked and talked.
“What if he’s not the murderer? What even makes you so sure?”
“I’m not sure. Just a feeling, working based on my innate impulse."
“Instinct?”
“I’d check his church office."
“No I’d check the church."
“Does he live in the firmaments?”
“Sixty eight C, Saint George’s Square."
“You told me to drive with you, remember?”
“All right I’d board a taxi, have the keys."
The taxi driver was driving almost with the pace of a snail. I was cogitating why things always tend to be slow at times like this.
“Please, will you drive like you’ve got fire and not ice in your veins?”
“With due respect I don’t want you charging me with over speeding. Allow me do the right thing."
"I'm a detective, not a traffic police." I warned.
"I know. I read the papers." He said.
There’s always pain behind the fame. Fame which I never asked for. Being in the spotlight has its fair share of disadvantages. I leaned back and fixed my eyes on the stereo and this time his hands were shivering. I wondered what would happen if Tinie Tempah boarded his taxi. He would die!
I ordered him to pull over. He did.
We exchanged positions. I became the taxi driver while he became the detective.
I drove virtually recklessly but without offending the Traffic Unit of the MPS.
I had almost neared Langham Place when the scintillating Grande Valse sang in my pocket. I scooped out the phone and gave it to the taxi owner. “Answer it."
His hand shivered as he received the phone from me
I heard what seemed like babblings filtered into my phone.
He returned my phone.
“What did she say?”
“Bean is dead? What killed him? I last saw him on Palm Sunday."
Wordlessly, I changed route and headed for St. George’s Square.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The crime scenes of the Wednesday deaths in Westminster had come to be old wine in new wine skins. Nothing changed except the victims.
Danielle was recuperating on Reverend Bean’s couch, at the hands of a paramedic.
“What happened?”
“She hit my forehead with the stool. I didn’t see her coming. I think I passed out."
“You think you passed out."
“Yes."
“Who is the her?”
“She’s Black. A mesomorph but I can’t describe the facials."
“Excuse me”. I walked to the dinning where he had been slain.
Reverend Bean’s eyes were opened and still. Saliva slobbered from his mouth. His face was almost purple. He was nude, completely. His man-pike was limp and drooled what I believe to be seminal fluid or green pus. On his bare chest was a tattoo:
Methane Reshape Pen. This is insane!
Doctor Knapman did his crime scene mortem examination. Hugh watched. Perhaps he had been occupied with the thought of plotting strategies with which to implicate me that he forgot he needed a shave.
Danielle and I talked outside.
She was giddy. I helped her apply the ice to her head.
The paramedics tucked Reverend Bean’s corpse into the ambulance.
Hugh walked to me, “I announce to you that you’re now a serial murderer. Wole the Ripper!" He gave me an eye wink. “I promise you I’ll fucking nail you” and went to join Doctor Knapman.
Danielle pretended to not take into cognizance what she just saw and heard.
“Can you do a facial sketch of the Black woman?”
“Hugh already asked me and I told him no. But for you I think a sketch would be needless."
“Needless?”
“I know her. In fact I’ve seen her before."
“You’ve seen her?” I leaned closer.
“She’s the woman in the middle of your wife and you in one of your wedding portraits exhibiting in your living room. It was the first thing that caught my attention the first time I entered your apartment."
“My mother!” I gave her the ice. “My car keys."
She gave them to me. "I don’t mind coming with you."
We drove to her Bayo Robert Fresh which stayed at Oxford Street. She took over proprietorship of the greengrocery market after my father had eloped. She didn’t bother changing the appellation. Adebayo Robert is my father. Only the Lord knows if I’d ever see him alive ever again.
There are many questions I want to ask him. Many. Uncountable. And the Lord, only, would save him from my fist if he doesn’t give me a good reason why he didn’t take me along with his French model concubine to Las Vegas.
She wasn’t at Bayo Robert Fresh.
We changed route and drove to Bayswater.
We alighted.
The door was locked.
After pushing the bell for umpteenth times Danielle used her tool in opening the door. I was convinced that her tool was always in her pocket. Was she a cop or a burglar?
We entered.
Lo, my mother was crying as she leveled the nozzle of her handgun to her head. She was finding it difficult to pull the trigger.
“Mother no!” My jaw dropped. “Please you can’t do this. Katherine’s blood isn’t dry yet. Her corpse's still fresh.”
“Please ma’am”. Danielle was almost petrified. “We aren’t here to arrest you."
Danielle had heard enough deaths for the month. She didn’t want to witness a suicide.
“No! Let me die!” She cockled the gun.
I was calculating the distance between she and me. Adrenaline was pumping. Before I activated flight mode Danielle was already in the air and landed on my mother. They struggled and a bullet from the handgun shattered her LCD TV screen.
I fetched her water and she drank. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
“Are you ready to talk now?”
“I think I'm jinxed. I've been so unlucky with men."
“Men?" I queried.
“They have been Wednesdays of coincidences.” She sobbed. "None would ever believe. But coincidences are real and true. They always happen."
“Be calm. We aren’t taking you in handcuffs." Danielle said to assure her.
“Henry and I were courting. We had fixed our wedding for July after his daughter Abigail would have been married. According to plan, all things being equal, Abigail was to wed George by June. She broke up with him and in few weeks found love in a Black tattooist. Henry was vexed by that. I, too, was furious. I don’t like tattoos. And I’ll never smile with a tattooist." She sobbed.
Danielle consoled her. I guess only a woman knows another woman’s pain. Only a woman could understand a fellow woman’s shame.
She continued, “I wanted to know why Abigail made that decision. Her resolve was precluding Henry from even looking my way, let alone thinking about ringing our wedding bell. I’ve not had the opportunity to do that until Monday’s afternoon. When I met Abigail in school she accused her father of being responsible for the Wednesday deaths. She said her father was a tattooist."
“You believe he’s the killer?” I interrupted.
“I don’t know. I thought I knew Henry." Her crying intensified and Danielle did her thing.
“So what did Abigail tell you?” I checked my phone to ensure it was still recording this conversation.
“An earth–shaking revelation."
“Revelation?” I asked.
“She had contracted gonorrhea because of her father."
“Were they doing incest?”
She sobbed. “No. Her husband to be transm
itted it. Henry transmitted it to him. She has proof. She caught them and I believe her."
“You mean Reverend Bean is …"I couldn’t finish the question.
“I did a test on Monday and yesterday it came out positive. How can a woman my age have gonorrhea and didn’t know?”
Danielle volunteered, “Gonorrheal symptoms are almost absent in women unlike in men. In men its symptoms become evident three to four days after sex with an infected partner."
“Mother you were still having sex? At your age?”
The real mother in my mother reared her head gear. “What do you take me for? A log of dry wood?” she stood and retrieved herself from Danielle’s console “I’m only fifty six and blood still runs in my arteries."
I thought when women attain fifty five, sexual urges completely disappear. She is just fifty six!
“So you went to kill him because he was a man who loved other men and probably-"
“No. No.” She cried and sat again. “I didn’t kill him."
She cried for another two minutes that I had to pause my phone’s recorder so as to have an almost impeccable recording.
My mother is a psychopath. I thought.
“So I went there this morning to tell him it was over”. She resumed; and I resumed my paused phone’s recorder.
“When you got there you killed him and drew the tattoo?”
“The Lord forbids that I have talent for an evil art."
“Then who did it?”
“When I got there he was already dead. He had already drawn the tattoo and was about to leave."
“Who?"
“He was wearing a mask. His hands were in gloves. He promised he wasn’t going to hurt me if I behaved. He said I was not on his list. He coerced me to lie down. I respected the gun in his hand and did as he said. He looked familiar and I still can’t figure out where we have crossed path."
Wednesday: Story of a Serial Killer Page 7