“Could it be possible that Abigail’s new tattooist lover did it?”
“Perhaps."
“What would be his motive?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But any insane tattooist would kill the father of a girl he loves if the father stands in the way of love. I’m a woman. I’ve been in love thrice. I know what love does to people. It's like mental illness."
“Why did you hit me? Why did you attack me?” Danielle winced.
“I wasn’t thinking. I guess I was distraught. I’m sorry."
My phone recording paused to answer a call. I was needed at the forensic suite.
I parked in the lot and alighted.
I was queasy. Bodies were being delivered. No wonder Westminster Public Mortuary deals with over six hundred deaths annually. People kicked the bucket every second and causes of deaths varied. Natural. Poison. Accident. Gunshots. Suicide. Fratricide. Matricide. Parricide. Patricide.
A new feeling of dread for the world I live in formed in my stomach. I began to wish the ‘theory’ of Rutherford’s followers wasn’t just too good to be true: Earth would be paradise. Jesus, all by himself but by the help of God, would rule the world. Barrack Obamas, Queen Elizabeths, David Camerons, Pope Francises and the rest would go into extinction because Jehovah’s minions would be in charge. In fact violence would end. There would be surplus food. No more sicknesses. No more deaths. This forensic suite would be needless. God would come to dwell with us. Fiction couldn’t have been more real.
A uniformed man told me ‘they’ were at the CCTV viewing area.
I joined them – DCI Hugh and Doctor Daniel.
We watched, via the CCTV, a team of Doctor Knapman and four others from the Metropolitan Police service forensic team working on Reverend Bean’s corpse. They had face shields on as well as scrubs and gloves.
Reverend Bean’s corpse had been extensively photographed. It was wet and seemed to emit sparks. His face was swollen and looked like a heliotrope.
“Cyanosis.” Doctor Knapman was explaining. “The cyanide created an oxygen–deficient blood."
The tattoo on his chest was glistening.
After a meticulous documentation of Reverend Bean’s exterior, a Y incision was made in his chest. His rib cage was opened with a Stryker saw. I began to loathe meat and envy vegetarians. His heart, liver, lungs and stomach were removed. They examined the organs, and what they were being examined for I was yet to know.
Time went by. Doctor Knapman’s Stryker saw opened the top of Reverend Bean’s skull and removed the brain. It was like scrambled eggs.
I was bilious. I had to visit the convenience. I couldn’t help but imagine that Katherine had gone through this. I blamed myself. If I hadn’t moved out of our home, the sinister monster wouldn’t have had the chance to rip her.
I virtually cried here.
We all know by reference from previous deaths that they died from cyanide poisoning. Why cut them open anymore? I was asking myself as if I had the answer.
Why can’t we just focus on finding prints and fibres?
I asked myself many questions.
Time never waits for anyone, anything. I joined them again but this time in Doctor Knapman’s office. DCI Hugh had gone.
“We have come to believe you are not the murderer. “Doctor Daniel gently grabbed my hands. Currents of sisterly love flowed from her. “You couldn’t have killed your wife.” Her hands pressed against mine. “Not even if you both were divorced."
“Hugh said you must have included your wife in your murder list because she was cheating on you. Was she?” Doctor Knapman inquired.
I covered up for Katherine. "No."
“There’s a lead, though no print or fibre has been found on him yet." He scooped out an A4 paper from inside one of the jumble of files which lain on the table. “Your wife Katherine was treating gonorrhea.”
“Gonorrhea?” I put up an act. A violent death is really a public event.
“Yes. She was still imbibing her dose of cefuroxime and doxycycline."
Doctor Daniel wriggled, “Sorry!”
“It was recurring," Doctor Knapman continued. "And Mr. Bean-"
“Reverend Bean." Doctor Daniel corrected him.
Doctor Knapman continued,” Mr. Bean…Sorry the Reverend Bean also had recurring gonorrhea. Ceftriaxone was in his blood. Also, he had skin lesions, a prostate problem and a pharyngeal infection."
I could literally feel a hot flash run through Doctor Daniel before she stopped holding my hands. “I‘ve been receiving communion from him. Oh God!”
“Did the previous victims have gonorrhea?”
“No! Except” -He scooped out another A4 from another file- “Donald Larcombe!”
“His nephew!”
“But his wasn‘t recurring. It wasn‘t complicated.”
“And how possible this facts?”
“Seven hundred and eighty three thousand pounds wasn‘t invested in Iain West for nothing.”
“And yet nothing has been found with which to nail the killer?”
“Enough has already been given. Detectives are avenging deities.” He placed the A4s back in the files.
“My family needs me.” Doctor Daniel said as she glanced up at the clock in Doctor Knapman's office.
It was shortly after 9:00 P.M.
We three exeunted together!
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was Maundy Thursday, March 28.
I was on my desk working my head to the hollow. I knew Reverend Bean was the remote cause of my clap, and I still wasn‘t sure.
From Reverend Bean to Katherine to me. I couldn't continue to fathom that Reverend Bean was messing with my wife. Death saves people’s faces. Their can of worms, the lid when taken off, doesn’t taunt them.
I was still on my desk when Danielle brought me a tabloid which the page she had intended for me to read was already open; the account was bone- cutting; Whites, especially those who worshipped at All Souls, had started to dread their Black spouses or partners. Some filed for divorce as a disparaging of the Westminster Wednesday killings believed to be perpetrated by a Black.
In high schools, White Britons had carried placards to the school authorities demanding that Black Brits be expelled.
In the Universities, particularly in the University of Westminster, White students had refused to attend the lectures and seminars of Black lecturers and professors.
Even White children whose either parent was Black had run away from home; and it was attributed to the killing purported to be by the hand of a Black.
The Border Agency had swung into action and begun to witch–hunt for illegal Black workers.
Black business owners had lost virtually all their White customers and clients. I guess Bayo Robert Fresh would soon wound up.
Crime reporting had become aggressive in Westminster.
I tore the tabloid and wished everyone in Westminster, and Greater London at large, would listen to Dolly Parton’s Coat of Many Colours and Lucky Dube’s Different Colours.
I began to cogitate if the commissioner of the MPS, Sir Logan Leonard, would lay off all Blacks in the MPS.
I labeled today a ‘Thursday of Misery’ for the Black Britishers.
When I finished shredding it, and throwing the shreds in my trash basket, Danielle came and sat.
She leaned forward. “A new brand of racism. Ain’t that your conclusion?”
“This is the twenty first century."
“We’re only but humans! You can’t blame them”. She was saying in her defence.
“The perpetrator is a person. He’s got blood flowing in his or her veins. Does it matter if he or she is Black or White? What does it count if the perpetrator is Christian, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist or what have you? Does the person’s sexuality matter? Does it matter if the villain is Conservative or Lib Dem?”
“You’re paranoid. Don’t let it get to you."
“I won’t say I don’t dream when fact is I forget my dreams. In thi
s case I haven’t forgotten them. I’m Black. But does it matter?”
“No!”
“Good! If only the people using this as an excuse to foment an old century environment would have a rethink."
“Look!” pointing at one of the LCD screens, she drew my attention.
I glanced up at the screen. A live broadcast of a demonstration at Trafalgar square was on SKY NEWS FLASH.
The police were already littering the arena to ensure a peaceful protest.
It was a gathering of Black Brits. A march of bitter protesters. They cried loudly at the top of their voices one couldn’t pick the words which seemed like letters lost in a bowl of alphabet potpourri. Lifted were placards held high above their heads:
WE ARE HUMANS LIKE YOU
WE HAVE CONSCIENCES LIKE YOU
WHAT IF THE KILLER IS WHITE?
WHAT IF THE KILLER HAS NO COLOUR?
THIS IS THE 21ST CENTURY
WESTMINSTER SHOULD KNOW BETTER
WE SPEAK OF RIVERS
ANCIENT AS THE WORLD
AND OLDER THAN HUMAN BLOOD
OUR BLOOD IS RED LIKE YOURS
OUR HEARTS BEAT LIKE YOURS
WE BREATHE SAME AIR
WE NEED SAME VITAMINS
SOYINKA WON THE NOBEL PRIZE
ACHEBE, LITERARY COMMANDER
P.D. JAMES, WE LOVE HER
AGATHA CHRISTIE, QUEEN OF CRIME
YOU CAN’T DO WITHOUT US
WE CAN’T DO WITHOUT YOU
WE DON’T SUPPORT THE KILLER
DON’T GIVE LIFE TO A DEAD OLD LOVE–KILLER
DIFFERENT SHADES
ONE COMMUNITY. . .
The placards were like sand on a sea shore. They had come out enmasse and they all had spoken truth with and in one voice.
Various TV channels, particularly BBC One were giving live reports. Infact they did a simulcast; and everyone in this building hung up what they did and fixed their eyes on the screen.
****
March 29 was Good Friday.
Maundy Thursday’s night was an insomnia. My body system was like a PC that wouldn’t shut down because of some software problem. Thinking of means to catching the killer was my body system’s software problem. If my bed had mouth and hands it would have demonstrated against my unending tossing from left to right. Katherine kept floating in my head. All I thought of was giving her and the others justice.
I was moody. My face scared Danielle away. I guess she, too, didn’t wake up on the right side of the bed this morning.
I listened to the recorded conversation in my phone’s memory. Halfway I stopped it. Perhaps because I was there. I listened to Baker’s recorded conversation twice this morning before I came to NSY.
My work PC here in NSY, like my home PC, was a Hewlett – Packard, or HP. I revisited the anagrams again and was still getting same answers. Wordsmith and Andy’s Anagram solver were compounding an already seeming difficult situation.
If I wanted a different result I had to approach it differently. I grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled on it!
Map Killer Victims
Africa African Britons
People Black White
Continent
If this killer is Black, what message is he or she sending across? Is he or she telling us somebody in Africa has asked him or her to do it? Coercion? Could he belong to a secret society? No. No. NO.
The killer could be White. Perhaps avenging what the Blacks have done to him. No. it didn’t make sense. The killer should be Black, and avenging what the Whites have dealt him. What could Whites have done to the killer? No it isn’t personal. Perhaps the Black killer is doing it to avenge Africa. To make England or Britain pay for what she did to Africa. What did she do to Africa?
My mind ceased to function well. A brainstorm.
It was clear again. What did England or Britain do to Africa? Or what did she do to the Black? Is the killer avenging slavery? But England, Britain was in the vanguard of the anti-slavery movement. Is the killer avenging racism? Or colonialism?
Another brainstorm. I paused!
I went on. The anagrams must mean something. They weren’t just put there for the hell of it. Was he or she a black tattooer whom the Whites didn’t patronize his or her studio so he or she decided to kill them to make the world know how talented and skillful he or she is? No
I bounced back to an earlier thought. He was doing it to avenge Africa? Five victims so far. All male except one. My wife, Katherine. He or she couldn’t be avenging the plight of the historical African women.
Is Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the second, by the Grace of God, still monarch of any African realm? No. this couldn’t be a protest against Her Majesty to abdicate any African realm. No! Or is he or she avenging the substitution of African beliefs with Western culture by the British Missionaries who destroyed their culture and heritage?
Or. . . . I paused and continued. Is the killer avenging their rulers who were deposed and replaced by British choices?
A long pause. Lengthy minutes went by. I had no choice than to befriend Google.
Google paid off.
I had no option than to hurry down to Baltimore Boulevard.
****
ATKINS STUDIO.
Femi Atkins had just finished using the gun on a client. His apprentices were helping him peel off the gloves to wash his hands when I said “Good Friday!”
“Same!” He gestured that we use his office.
I obliged.
“If you don’t mind I came for an interrogation. You’re not under arrest, at least not yet; and you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court, if you’re later on trial. Anything you say now may be given in evidence." I started my phone recording.
“I have nothing to hide?” He smiled
“Are you aware that your fiancée came to warn me?”
“When?”
"March 14"
“She told me."
“And you liked what she did?”
“Indifference."
“When did you meet her?”
“Who?”
“Abigail?”
“Tuesday January 29."
“You know the date without sweating."
“She’s special to me. The apple of my eyes. I’d do anything for her."
“Would you kill for her?”
“I’d! If it means me saving the one thing, the only one person that’s dear to me after I lost my whole family. Abigail is my family. My life." Passion beamed from his eyes.
“How did you meet her?”
“She came to get a tattoo."
“Tattoo? She's of a conservative upbringing. Why?”
“She was traumatized. She didn’t want to forget her day of trauma. She wanted it to be in her memory forever." Anger had mixed with the passion.
“What could have caused the trauma?”
“She caught her faggot fiancé in bed with her faggot father."
“You’re homophobic?”
“No”.
“But you sound it."
“I just don’t like hypocrites who hide in the closet. I just don’t like them making a thickshake of vanilla and chocolates. If it’s chocolates that appeals to you, then apply for a civil partnership. For the love of God, London doesn’t care if you lick cunts or suck cocks."
“You’ve met her erstwhile fiancé?”
“No. I might have killed him. I’d have had no problem if he was screwing with another man and not a man who turned out to be his prospective father-in-law. No! I wouldn’t leave a beautiful and endowed woman as Abigail for a male ass, not even if he was Will Smith."
“But you threatened to kill Reverend Bean? You said ‘ma pa e’."
He laughed at my accent and quickly remembered he wasn’t to be caught laughing. “I did promise him. I never saw him again after I warned him."
I glanced at his catalogue. “You removed the A
frican map tattoo from here?”
“Yes."
“Why."
“I’m not stupid! We know Westminster is almost in turmoil. I don't want any cop reading me my rights for a serial murder I know nothing of.”
"You know nothing." I said with a querying tone.
“I told same to the oval–faced blond detective.”
I knew he was referring to Hugh. Hugh had come here.
"You should be watching my back. We are brothers. Don't be deluded by the two-faced Caucasians. We'll never be one."
I stopped my phone recording, "They're our White brothers. We've all got shortcomings. Stop counting white faces."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Holy Saturday came and went.
Femi Atkins remained number one in my suspect list. From decoding the first four anagrams, Femi is the one. They all point at him. He is intelligent!
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Easter Sunday, March 31.
Church didn’t appeal to me as Wednesday was drawing near.
The cyanide in the University of Westminster’s Industrial Chemistry’s lab had been moved to an unknown venue on instruction from the ‘Met’. All other factories whose elements of work included cyanide were under close surveillance. What if the killer had never gotten his ‘killing –element’ from the laboratory or the factories?
I grabbed my phone and dialed Doctor Knapman.
Doctor Knapman: “You are coming over for feasting?”
Me: “No. Thanks! If you wanted to kill me with cyanide without obtaining it from the factories or labs, what would you do?”
Doctor Knapman: “You’re baiting me?”
Me: “No. Ok I should rephrase!”
Wednesday: Story of a Serial Killer Page 8