Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2)

by Will Patching

  ‘I don’t know him, but if you think he could give a more detailed assessment…’ This might be a result. A specialist surgeon could possibly help narrow the field of suspects, identify other medical professionals with the requisite skills. ‘Do you have contact details?’

  ‘Not with me, I’m afraid. He’s got a clinic in Harley Street though. I’ll dig out his number when I get back to my office in the basement. Sadly, Dickie and I lost touch some years ago. No longer bosom buddies, I’m afraid.’

  Rather uncharitably Jack wondered if Koch had any close companions, other than chilled cadavers. He had never probed, never met him socially, and found it hard to imagine the pathologist making small talk with anyone exhibiting a pulse. Perhaps this remoteness from the warm blooded was a natural consequence of working with the dead for so many years. However, he was always grateful for Koch’s help and today was no exception.

  ‘One other question. Diana Davies. Do you see anything that would link the two victims, ten years apart?’

  ‘Well, they were both similarly mutilated but with very different techniques, and this fellow was clearly kept alive for a long time whereas Davies wasn’t. I’ll know more when I get this chap opened up… You know I’m taking early retirement, Jack. Let’s hope I can get him on the slab before I finish on Friday.’

  The throwaway comment confused Jack. Did the ME think he was uniquely capable of assessing Mister M? Or was it just that he would be disappointed if he did not have the opportunity to dissect the poor bastard himself, before heading off into the sunset?

  Don’t ask. Time to wrap things up.

  ‘Any final thoughts, Bob?’

  ‘It’s deliberate… Emasculation. Immobilization. Emaciation… Left deaf, dumb and blind, suffering total isolation. The most severe punishment you could inflict on a living soul, I’d venture to say. I think you’ll find this gentleman upset someone he shouldn’t have. I wonder what he did to deserve it…’

  With that masterful understatement and unwarranted slur on the character of his first warm-blooded client in years, the owl flitted from the room, leaving Jack alone to ponder the enigma that was Mister M.

  ***

  The drive back to Tooting in south London gave Doc time to think and recover his composure. He knew he had jumped to an unrealistic conclusion regarding Judy Finch and the likelihood that she had been abducted, mutilated and dumped. Without any visible clues as to the two anonymous victims’ identities, it was simply his mind playing tricks on him.

  It took him most of the journey to convince himself.

  While driving he tried to achieve a semi-meditative state, the wakeful zone of mindfulness his yoga classes had taught him, and that simple exercise dragged him back from the brink of hysteria. Even so, as he turned into the hospital car park he felt an overwhelming sense of dread as he thought of her.

  The psychiatrist in him knew this was, in part, propelled by guilt, his own role playing no small part in the disintegration of her life. Judy had almost lost her mind when her son Josh had died, and, although she had told Doc she did not blame him for the tragedy, she had distanced herself from him while grieving for her boy.

  At the time, Doc was still recovering from major surgery for bones shattered by a three storey fall, one that disabled him for over a year. It was a difficult period for them both, then she disappeared, sending him a single email consisting of just these few sentences:

  I’m truly sorry, Colin. I can’t be with anyone right now. I need some space. Please don’t try to find me. I’ll contact you when I feel ready. With much love, Judy x

  It felt like losing an arm when she left, and he missed her badly, but, since then, had heard nothing. Jack had made some enquiries at Doc’s insistence, but, as he had pointed out, Judy was an adult who had chosen to go off grid, and, it seemed, deliberately made herself difficult to find. There was little Jack could do, officially.

  Oh well, best focus on an actual victim, not an imaginary one.

  ‘Hi, Jack. Sorry I’m late. Did I miss Bob Koch?’

  Carver was still at Mister M’s bedside, standing over the victim, staring down at the naked form, but glanced up as his friend entered the room. There was no welcoming smile, just a haunted look on Jack’s face, a rare sight Doc thought, and a sign that this case had deeply affected the detective.

  ‘Yeah. He left a couple of minutes ago… Are you okay, Doc? I’ve got someone trying to track Judy but I honestly think you’ve put two and two together and made five.’

  ‘Thanks for doing that. Finding her, just knowing she was safe, would put my mind at rest.’ That was true, though he did not add that locating her was the only thing that would quash the ominous dread he had managed to divert for now. ‘So, what did Koch say?’

  Jack started to fill him in on the pathologist’s opinions regarding the victim while Doc took a closer look at the state of the man. Horrifying though it was, he found himself trying to imagine what it would be like to suffer this degree of isolation. He knew of coma victims who had been in a submerged state of consciousness, only aware of what went on inside their own minds, but apparently dead to the world outside. With no way of communicating, with nothing getting in or out of the prison defined by flesh and bone, it had to be the most dreadful form of solitary confinement anyone could endure.

  He listened as Jack took him through Koch’s comments, but when he recounted the ME’s view that a full surgical team would be required, Doc stopped him, his mind trying to fathom the motive for this travesty.

  ‘I don’t think he needed an anaesthetist, Jack. I think this was inflicted as an extended form of torture… I agree with Koch that it was carried out over many months though, in fact possibly as much as two or three years.’

  ‘Bloody hell! What sort of sicko are we dealing with? No anaesthetic? Wouldn’t he have died, from shock or something? How could anyone survive having bits lopped off ’em like that?’

  ‘The human body’s a remarkably resilient organism, and death from shock hardly inevitable… The surgery was done piecemeal, and, judging by the difference in the ageing of the scar tissue, in a specific sequence. It looks like each operation was allowed to heal before further trauma was inflicted. You don’t need the anaesthetic. There are drugs that can be used to immobilize a body without bringing on unconsciousness… And the shock? That too can be ameliorated with drugs and by regulating the operating environment.’

  Doc was already forming a mental image of how the surgery could have been performed, as Jack asked, ‘So how many in a team to do this? Doctors, nurses… Koch thought maybe as many as four or five.’

  ‘No… In a well equipped surgery, with state of the art facilities, maybe two.’ As Doc spoke he was imagining himself performing the amputations, thinking how he could inflict the maximum pain on the victim. ‘This is about punishment and revenge. I would guess the man’s eyes and hearing were the last of his faculties to go… The perpetrator would have wanted the victim fully aware of what was happening to him, right up to the end. Tormenting his victim, informing him of what he was about to suffer next, revelling in having total control over a powerless victim. Gloating as he tortured him.’ He paused, his mind filled with a vision of the man, immobile, eyes bugging from his head as his limbs were gradually severed. ‘Forcing him to watch as the scalpel blade carved into his flesh.’

  ‘Watch? How the hell — ?’

  ‘A mirror, perhaps. Or a video screen?’ Doc realised his eyes had drooped closed as the vivid images swamped his brain. He tried to force them to withdraw as he turned his attention to Carver, ramming home the nature of the man they were dealing with. ‘He’d want to hear the screams, so the tongue and mouth would have been reserved for the final stages too.’

  ‘Bloody Norah! This just gets worse and worse… And I was thinking being hungry all the time, on top of being unable to talk, or hear, or see, was bad enough. It’s pure fucking evil, Doc! It’s like the Devil’s own work.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Doc, li
ke Koch just moments before, was admiring the handiwork, the degree of commitment on the part of Jack’s devil. ‘Not devilish… He thinks of himself as godlike. The giver of life and death, the distance between the two states nothing more to him than a stroke of his scalpel. Not uncommon with very skilled medical professionals, Jack. A narcissism that develops into a god complex.’

  ‘So, what are we looking for? A lunatic surgeon who thinks he’s some sort of avenging god?’

  Jack’s words sparked a whole series of connections in Doc’s brain, but he just muttered one word as he tried to get back into the mind of the man who did this.

  ‘Maximón.’

  ‘Eh? Maximum what?’

  Doc ignored him as he felt himself drawn back into the vision, his brain recreating the screams of agony, the sensation of delivering devastating pain with precise incisions of the blade. He could feel the scalpel between his own fingers, carving into flesh and sinew. Then a revelation.

  ‘He may not even be a surgeon.’

  ‘What? To do this? Koch reckoned whoever mutilated our guy was very skilful. Surely, only someone with decades of experience could’ve kept him alive while slicing and dicing him like this.’ Jack’s voice betrayed his disappointment. ‘I thought we would have a really narrow range of suspects. What are you saying? Surely not just anyone could do this. Even with all the best modern gear and a top notch medical centre to do it in.’

  ‘Not just anyone, no… Have you taken a close look at the photos I received this morning?’ Once again, Doc dragged himself from the hideous depths of depravity he had been experiencing, mentally shaking himself, like a dog that had fallen into a cesspool, now determined to remove the filthy residue from its fur. He still felt tainted…

  But also, not a little exhilarated by the experience.

  ‘Yeah. What about ’em?’

  Doc tugged them from his jacket pocket and laid them on the bed beside Mister M, refusing to let visions of Judy interrupt his thought processes as he did so.

  ‘I don’t know if they were in any particular order in the envelope when they arrived at Broadmoor this morning. The staff didn’t realise how important that could’ve been when they opened the letter, but look. It’s a sequence, Jack.’

  ‘You’re convinced he murdered these others too?’

  At first, Doc had not realised the significance himself, but now, after examining the live victim, he could see it clearly. ‘These three images show an obvious progression, from butchery to a primitive form of surgery. Davies was just hacked, but look, these others have some rudimentary stitching to repair the joints where the limbs were removed.’

  ‘You think he was practising… Developing his skills on these others? He started keeping them alive, after the Davies girl…’

  ‘Looks that way, Jack. But the thing is, even this one,’ he selected the third image in his sequence and held it up beside Mister M for Jack to compare, ‘is a long way from demonstrating the skills needed to do this to our victim…’

  ‘You think there are more? Other people he’s done this to? Perfecting his technique…’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my friend. I can almost guarantee it.’

  ***

  ‘Here you go, Fifi. Oh, and check your inbox. Sam said he’d sent you some more info he found on Butler after he spoke to Carver. Said the boss was right pissed off when he phoned him. And you look like Detective Doom and Gloom. You alright? Where’s that sunny Caribbean smile gone?’

  ‘Thanks, Tim.’ DS Fielding took the slim file from her colleague and shrugged. ‘I’m okay. Just been a long day. I’ll catch you later.’

  She plonked herself down at her desk, ignored the hubbub of the open plan office, booted up her desktop and tried to get some perspective back. She had been so fired up by Jack’s outburst that she had started walking from the hospital, thinking she would calm down and then grab a passing cab. Twenty minutes later, her pantsuit clinging to her thanks to the humidity of a burgeoning storm, she had finally managed to dissipate the one threatening to burst inside her head.

  In the cab, she examined why she had felt so perturbed by her gruesome discovery in Gerald Butler’s house, and realised she had some atavistic hatreds awakened by the man’s past. She rarely thought about colonialism, slavery, the critical events that led to her own ancestors having their freedom ripped from them and exchanged for a life of hard labour half a world from their birthplace. Fiona would not shed a tear right here, right now, but later, and only in the sanctuary of her home would she allow herself that luxury.

  Then Jack had phoned her, back to his usual chirpy self, and rapidly summarized Koch’s assessment of the victim. Then he dumped another pile of work in her lap when he said, ‘Surgeons, Fi. We need a list of people who are capable of performing amputations and major tissue grafting. Should help us narrow it down. I’ll see you in an hour or two.’

  Her own enthusiasm had yet to recover, and his call had not helped. But, she reminded herself, she was bloody good at her job, and would not allow her feelings to let her down.

  Come on, get back to work.

  She mentally prioritised her tasks, and started with the file Sam had given her. She riffled through the handful of sheets, printouts from UK suppliers selling the unique pieces of equipment they had found embedded in Mister M’s back that morning. Specialist pulleys, wire and stainless steel hooks, for the sole purpose of suspending the human form. Although unlikely to lead anywhere, she had to start somewhere.

  This was all new to her too, so she spent the next half an hour educating herself online, and became engrossed in the videos of this fascinating, though somewhat peculiar, activity. Although a niche interest, with devotees from what she thought of as fringe members of society, it seemed a harmless enough pursuit.

  What possible significance does this have?

  She parked that thought and made some calls, and soon discovered that the market for these specific items was limited to fewer than a handful of commercial customers throughout the UK, plus a couple of dozen individuals and clubs. It was still a very large number and, as she had no help right now, she decided to narrow the range down by selecting the ones in south London within reasonable distance of Clapham Common.

  There were just two. A tattoo parlour in Streatham, and a Body Modification club located in a previously derelict church in Putney. She would visit both but made a note of one of the addresses in her iPhone, thinking she’d take a short detour on her way home and stop by the Hope, Not Fear tattoo place, since it was less than a mile or so from her one bedroomed apartment in an art deco block located in Balham.

  Damn.

  Bank Holiday Monday.

  She had forgotten.

  Well, she would drop by anyway, and see if anyone was working this evening, or maybe the staff lived above the premises. She was keen to learn more, and, with such a small community, largely made up of outsiders, she hoped it would not be too difficult to narrow down some suspects.

  Specifically, a surgeon who indulged in, or at least was involved in, this weird but intriguing pastime.

  ***

  'Maximum? What did you mean by that, Doc?’

  Jack had observed Doc getting into the minds of numerous weirdoes and psychopaths over the years, yet was still amazed at the ease with which he seemed to slip into the psyche of even the most vicious and heartless criminals. It was unsettling, seeing his old friend and comrade almost change before his eyes, with his body sliding into character, assuming different mannerisms, as if Doc had multiple personalities lurking behind his professional facade.

  Seeing this amazing party trick had often left Jack wondering what sort of toll these mind-trips took on Doc’s own psyche, and how much they had been responsible for his friend’s breakdowns, the most recent after his wife’s death a few years ago. Sometimes the strain of it visibly drained the psychiatrist, but Jack thought the technique had rarely appeared as discomfiting as it had today.

  He had known what was happening the m
oment he saw that weirdly ethereal look, the one he recognised as soon as it surfaced on Doc’s face, despite not having seen it for some years. And, as usual, some enigmatic observations always popped out of Doc’s mouth while channelling the murderer’s heinous deeds.

  ‘Not maximum, Jack. Maximón. A Mayan patron saint some consider to be a god. Still worshipped in parts of Guatemala. Often by devout Catholics, even though he is spurned by the Church. Devil worship they call it.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with our Mister M?’

  Doc’s thought processes often left Carver confused, and today was no exception. What possible connection could there be between their victim, carefully posed on Clapham Common, and some South American icon?

  ‘Vengeance, Jack. Legend has it, the men from Maximón’s village returned from working in the fields to find he had slept with all their wives. They hacked off his arms and legs as punishment —’

  ‘Really? So you reckon there’s a sexual element to this, then?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The removal of genitalia, both sexes involved, our man here, neutered… It’s about power and revenge. We are looking for a highly educated, sophisticated, organized killer. Definitely male. Mid-thirties, absolute minimum. In all likelihood, significantly older. Some form of medical experience, almost certainly.’ Doc seemed to look inside himself for a fraction of a second, then added, his voice soft, ‘Is he a surgeon? Probably not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  If Doc was right, this would make the investigation more difficult, but Jack knew better than to ignore his views, regardless of what Bob Koch had said. He let out a plaintive sigh as his original hopes, that the deadly needle they were searching for was to be found in a conveniently compact bale of hay, were dashed.