The Dark Series

by Catherine Lee

  “‘You kept her from me. She was mine, you had no right. She’s mine.’ What do you think is the significance, Doc? If it’s not about Amanda, then who?”

  “I think it’s possible Fraser Grant came across the real Sylvia.”

  “But this thing is full of passages like that one,” said Quinn. “He refers to every victim as Sylvia.”

  “Precisely, Detective Quinn. We learned from his father that he used the name as a pseudonym for the woman he was secretly dating all those years ago. Now, we can see from this journal that every victim became Sylvia. That is what’s interesting about this last paragraph. He refers to Sylvia in all other entries except this one. The name has become ritualistic, so much so that in his mind the original Sylvia would be a myth, no longer associated with his reality. So if she did crop up in his life, it makes perfect sense that she would no longer carry that name for him.”

  “Perfect sense to you, maybe,” mumbled Cooper as he tried to get his head around what the doctor was saying. “What does the last part mean? This, ‘You kept her from me.’ Who does that refer to?”

  “We know Sylvia was married. I think perhaps Grant is talking to the husband here. Jack said that Fraser was convinced Sylvia would leave her husband for him, and when she didn’t, Fraser would have blamed the husband.”

  “So if you’re right, and he had found Sylvia, presumably the husband is still around.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Could the husband be in trouble, Doc? I mean if he was pissed off with the husband for keeping Sylvia from him, was he likely to have gone after him?”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt he would have had time.”

  “When was this last entry written?” asked Quinn.

  Cooper checked the page.

  “There’s no date. But the last entry that definitely refers to Amanda was made before this one and is dated Sunday, and we know he was killed around one on Monday afternoon. It’s not a big gap. If you’re right, Doc, then we have a new suspect in the murder of Fraser Grant.”

  “Or another missing woman,” said Quinn. “If he did run into the real Sylvia, could he have taken her as well?”

  Max considered the suggestion.

  “No, I don’t think so. Again, no time. There was no reason that I can see for him to take her immediately. If he was going to, it would have been planned like the others. He would have taken his time — the stalking was the best part for him.”

  “Fair enough. It sounds like Sylvia was looking for Grant. Could that be true?” asked Quinn. “I mean, she wouldn’t have known he was a killer, would she? Maybe she wanted to rekindle the romance?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Max. “Grant was narcissistic, remember. Even if he came across her by accident, which I think is the most likely scenario, he would assume she had been looking for him all this time. What this passage tells me is that in his mind this woman has been searching for him for thirty years. Because she managed to find him, he is going to condescend to allow her an audience with him one last time. Whether that meeting actually took place, I don’t know. If it had I would have expected an entry referring to her appearance, how she looked after all these years. But perhaps he hadn’t got around to writing that before his untimely demise.”

  “Perhaps she was responsible for that demise. Or her husband was.”

  “Well yes. At the very least, as you say, Detective, you have a second suspect for his murder.”

  “Third,” Cooper corrected.

  “Third?” Who else, besides the father?”

  Cooper told Max about the missing hours in Andrew Fox’s story. He explained his developing theory that Andrew and Grant had somehow colluded, that Andrew was involved in Amanda’s disappearance and Grant’s murder. Max listened intently.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Cooper when he was done.

  Max smoothed his hair and, watching him, Cooper noticed for the first time the beginnings of a comb-over. It reminded him of his father.

  “It’s a possibility. I couldn’t say much more than that without talking to Andrew myself.”

  Cooper looked back at the lines from the journal, still in his hands. He read the beginning aloud again. “‘After all these years you found me. I knew you’d look for me.’ Max, could he have been referring to Andrew Fox here? They have a ten-year history. Fox would have been looking for him, for sure. What if he found him? Could that explain this passage?”

  Max took back the journal and read the passage again to himself, nodding slowly.

  “What about the last bit, who is the ‘she?’” asked Quinn.

  “Amanda?” Cooper offered.

  “Yes, I suppose that is a possible explanation,” Max conceded. “But keep an open mind, Charlie. You don’t like this man. Be careful not to let that cloud your judgement.”

  Cooper got up and walked out of the office without a word. Jesus, why did everyone think he couldn’t be objective? He’d put in nine long years on this case. Sure, he thought Andrew Fox was slime, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do his job. He was a bloody good detective. Munro wouldn’t have stuck with him if he didn’t think so.

  He fished a two-dollar coin out of his trousers for the vending machine, and calmed down as he drank the Coke it produced. By the time he returned to the little office, Quinn was updating Max on the other details from this morning’s briefing.

  “C’mon Joe, we need to make a move,” said Cooper. He turned back to the psychologist. “Thanks Max. Do you know if they’ve done the autopsy yet?” Cooper had assigned Davis and Saulwick to watch Fraser Grant’s autopsy. He wouldn’t be surprised if they took their sweet time updating him.

  “I believe the forensic pathologists completed that earlier today. There was nothing relating to his murder that we didn’t already know — cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, and I believe your people have found the murder weapon. However, there was something of interest found. I’ll show you on the way out.”

  They followed the little man through a series of doors and corridors before coming to a large laboratory. Max took something from a locked cabinet, and then walked over to a bank of microscopes set up along one wall. He placed the object, which Cooper could see now was a slide, under one of the microscopes and turned on a nearby monitor.

  “This is a cross-section of Fraser Grant’s brain,” he explained, pointing to a particular section. “You can see here the size of the frontal lobe is abnormally large.”

  “I can’t,” said Quinn. “How large is abnormally large?”

  “Sorry,” said Max. “Here, compare it to this.” He switched on another monitor. “This is a frontal lobe cross-section from a normal brain.”

  Now they could see the difference.

  “So he was brain damaged?” asked Cooper.

  “No, quite the opposite in fact. I believe this man would have been rather intelligent.”

  Oh crap. Cooper could see where this was going.

  “It will be another week at least before we get anything conclusive,” Max continued. “Ordinarily the brain is set for two weeks in formaldehyde before any examination, it makes it easier to handle when taking the small cross-sections, but I requested this sample be taken beforehand because I specifically wanted to look at this area. The idea that brain defects account for some of the actions of serial killers and other criminals is not new, it’s been widely debated in medical circles for years. I myself haven’t reached any conclusions for or against the theory, but I have never seen any empirical evidence, either. And now this — it seems to go against popular opinion. I just wanted to give you a heads up, Detective. I think this man’s brain will be discussed in great detail in the months and years to come.”

  “Great,” said Cooper. “Abnormal brain. The press will be all over this. Pretty soon it won’t be his fault at all.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Quinn. “How does brain damage excuse mass murder?”

  “Serial murder, Joey, not mass murde
r. There’s a difference.”

  Quinn winced, devastated to have made such a fundamental error in front of the psychologist, but he pressed on.

  “Serial murder, yes. How does brain damage excuse serial murder?”

  “It doesn’t excuse it at all,” answered Max. “It merely offers some explanation, some insight perhaps into the mind of such an individual.”

  “But in our guy’s case, his brain was bigger than normal. So what, he was smarter than the average cookie, but he still turned out to be a killer? Does that mean these theories about brain damage and murderers are false?” Quinn was intrigued.

  “On the surface it appears so, yes. But in my opinion we simply do not know enough about the brain to be able to come to any real conclusions. One thing we cannot physically measure are the synapses. These are the connections between nerve cells — the hardwiring of the brain, if you like. You see, the human brain is still developing right up until a person is in his early twenties. The environment during this growth period — the person’s surroundings and relationships with others, especially family — greatly influences the development of the synapses. Those that are used stick around, while unused synapses simply disappear or become ineffective.”

  “And that means what, exactly?”

  “It means that we must love our children, Detective. It is thought that those who grow up in abusive or neglectful environments lack the ability to care for others, because their brains have not been wired properly. They lack empathy. They have no compassion.”

  “But not all abused or neglected children become serial killers, Doc.”

  “Yes, a point that has been widely debated in psychological circles for decades, not to mention between myself and your partner here.”

  Cooper figured it was time to intervene.

  “Come on, Joey. You can have your own arguments about serial killers’ brains some other time.”

  The two of them were halfway out the door when Max called them back.

  “I almost forgot,” he said. “They did find something you might be interested in. There were remnants of paint under one of his fingernails.”

  Cooper’s eyes widened. Now this was something.

  “Paint? What kind of paint? And why didn’t you say so?”

  “I am saying so. And I’m a forensic psychologist, Detective Cooper, not a laboratory technician. The sample was sent for identification. You should get the results by tomorrow.”

  25

  They were in one of the smallest interview rooms City Central Police Station had to offer, and Quinn’s size was making it feel even more cramped. Good, thought Cooper, noticing how uncomfortable Andrew seemed. He had to tread very carefully here. They did not have enough evidence to arrest him yet, so Fox was here of his own accord.

  “Interview commenced at 11:32 a.m.,” began Cooper for the benefit of the cameras recording the proceedings, before he listed their names. Andrew was chewing his fingernails, a habit Cooper could never understand. “Mr Fox, you are not under arrest, and are free to leave at any time. We just want to ask you a few questions in order to eliminate you from our enquiries. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” he replied.

  “Can you tell us please your whereabouts for the period of Sunday September sixth to Tuesday September eighth of this year?”

  “Why? We’ve already been over that. I was in Wagga, covering the floods. What is all this about, Cooper? I thought you called me here because you had some news about Amanda.”

  “We talked to the manager of the motel you stayed at. He confirmed that you checked out Sunday night, intending to leave early Monday morning. No-one actually saw you leave,” said Cooper, reading from his notes even though he was well aware of the timeline, “and you didn’t arrive at your own home in Mosman until sometime around five p.m. on Tuesday. That’s a forty-eight hour window, Mr Fox. On your motorcycle it would be what? Six, seven hours from Wagga to Sydney. Let’s allow seven, I assume you are a safe rider. Stop, Revive, Survive and all that. So that leaves a forty-one hour gap you need to account for. Care to explain?” Cooper leant back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He was almost enjoying this.

  “Again, why? Am I a suspect now? Is this about your wild idea that I’m somehow involved in killing Grant? This is absurd.” He pushed his chair back roughly and stood, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Sit down,” said Cooper. “There’s nothing absurd about lying to the police in the course of an investigation. Now, where were you on Sunday night and Monday?”

  “None of your goddamn business, not until you tell me what this is all about.” Andrew sat and folded his arms.

  “I’m not required to do that.”

  “Then I’m not required to answer any of your questions. If you have any evidence, arrest me. Otherwise, I’d like to leave.”

  And that was that, for the time being. Andrew wasn’t going to back down. Cooper made an announcement about terminating the interview and switched off the cameras. He opened the door and asked the uniformed officer outside to escort Mr Fox from the building.

  “Maybe you’re right, boss,” said Quinn on their way down the corridor. “Maybe he does have something to hide. He looked pretty agitated in there.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” Not a complete loss, thought Cooper.

  “So what now?”

  It was a good question. Forensic services were adamant there’d be nothing on the paint sample until at least tomorrow. Max was going over the journal, and Cooper knew if there was anything to find in there Max was the guy to do it. That left the photos. Zach had said there were thousands, and they would all need to be checked for possible leads. They were looking at another long night.

  “Computer lab,” he finally answered. “It’s your shout for dinner — and no more pizza. I hate fucking pizza.”

  26

  Eva was getting nervous. Brenda had been with her for a couple of hours now, and she was beginning to think her mother was settling in for the afternoon. Andrew had promised to bring Georgie in as soon as visiting hours started again at three o’clock. As the minutes ticked by, Eva’s nerves started to get the better of her. She was going to have to tell Brenda they were coming.

  “Mum, you know I talked to Dad this morning. I’m going to try and figure out these dreams. Dad agrees that maybe there is something to cellular memory.”

  Brenda shook her head. “Oh, Eva, I wish you’d forget all this nonsense. It’s just not possible, it can’t be.”

  “Doctors don’t know everything, Mum. There’s a lot they can’t explain. Why can’t this be one thing they haven’t figured out yet?”

  Brenda sighed. “I suppose it’s possible, when you put it like that. But really, I’m more concerned about you right now. You’re vulnerable after the transplant. I just don’t think it’s good for you to be worrying about dreams and cellular memory and all that.”

  “I have to do something. Dad’s right. We didn’t pay any attention to cellular memory before the transplant. We dismissed it pretty quickly. Maybe too quickly.”

  “What exactly do you plan to do, then?”

  Eva reached for the triangular shaped handle dangling near her head and pulled herself up a little in the bed.

  “Andrew’s on his way back in, and he’s bringing someone with him. Someone who’s been through this, and might be able to help me figure out what’s going on.”

  Brenda’s eyes narrowed, creating that look she always gave right before she was about to protest something. Eva cut her off.

  “Please, Mum, just give them a chance. I need to do this. I need to stop the nightmares.”

  Brenda nodded. She finally seemed to understand. She took Eva’s hand. “Okay, sweetheart. But I’m staying right here.”

  Eva squeezed her mother’s hand. She was glad of the support, however strained it may be. Taylor had had to go back to the store, and Eva was feeling increasingly on edge.

  “Mum, can I tell you something?”
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  “Anything, of course.”

  “I’m more nervous now than I was before the transplant.”

  Brenda gave her a smile. “You’ll be fine. Just relax. You said this person has been through something like this?”

  “She got a new heart a few years ago, and managed to get in touch with the donor’s family. She believes she has some of his memories, his character traits.”

  “Look, if you must do this, Eva, then try and make it work for you. Forget about the missing woman and all that business for now, and just talk to her like she’s another transplant patient. I’ll be here the whole time.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Eva settled down a little. Her mother was right; this was just another heart transplant patient.

  It was almost four o’clock before they walked in. Well, Andrew walked, Georgie seemed to almost float along. She was smaller than Eva expected, barely five-feet tall and rake thin. She wore a long flowing skirt in a deep pink colour, like the kind you find in the shops that sell crystals and scented candles. She smelled of a mixture of incense and cigarette smoke. For some reason, Eva liked her immediately.

  “Sorry we’re late. All my fault,” said Andrew. He stopped short when he saw Brenda in the room, but Eva gave him a reassuring nod. “I got held up with the police,” he added.

  “From when they called you this morning?” asked Eva. “Have you been down there this whole time? Have they found something?” Maybe she wouldn’t have to go through with this after all.

  “No, they’re just wasting time. I’m more convinced than ever of their incompetence. But forget about them. Eva, this is Georgie Silvester. Georgie, meet Eva, and Mrs Matthews, her mother.” The women exchanged greetings before Andrew and Georgie took seats beside the bed. Brenda stood by the window, keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings.