The Final Alibi

by Simon King

  “STOP! STOP OR I’LL SHOOT YOU,” I screamed again. This time the figure came to a halt and held his hands skyward. The sobbing was what I heard first, then the pleading voice.

  “Please, I did nothing, it was Loui,” he cried at me. There were two other officers now running toward us, both brandishing their own weapons, Lester Redding and Col Thomson. Lester was in the lead and screamed at the man to get on the ground. The man dropped to his knees, his hands pressed together in front him, as if in prayer. None of us even registered the fear that was on the man’s face.

  “Please. I was just walking past. I did nothing.” His words meant nothing to us as we closed in, pounced on him then handcuffed his hands tightly behind him. When he was finally cuffed, Lester gave him a swift boot to the middle of his face.

  “Take that you cunt,” he snarled in his thick Irish accent. I can still hear the crunch of his nose to this day. We all just stood there, silent, looking down at the now sobbing, pathetic figure lying at our feet. A small skinny man, not much older than me, scared and trembling. All of us knew we had the man responsible for the murder and torture of 14 women as well as one police officer, and that now, hopefully, the nightmare had finally come to an end.

  10.

  The man we had arrested was Harry Edward Lightman, of Mitcham Road, Daylesford, aged 30. He worked at the timber mill out on Jackson Street, had never been in trouble with the police and had no wife or children. The press noted his initials and immediately jumped on the fact that the Daylesford Devil had the initials of H.E.L. Close enough to Hell as far as they were concerned and the headlines that followed were straight from a Hollywood movie.

  “TAKEDOWN” one flashed across its front page, the line beneath it reading “The fall of the Devil”. “CAPTURED” read another, “THE END OF THE HORROR” another still.

  He denied it all, no one doubting that he wouldn’t admit to any of it. He claimed to have been walking past when he heard a commotion coming from the barn and had freaked out when he saw the dead cop swinging from a rope, stealing the Kennedy’s car in a panic. We conducted our investigation and although we couldn’t find a single piece of evidence on him, we knew the lack of alibies for any of the murders would not be enough to convict him on. Most of the other evidence was circumstantial, such as his perfect teeth, a witness spotting him leaving one of the murder locations around the time of one, carrying a coil of rope. He also had blood on his shirt sleeve when we arrested him that was Warren’s but he claimed to have touched the officer whilst checking on him, getting it on his sleeve in the process. What ultimately convicted him though, was Tami’s eyewitness evidence, the only person to have ever survived the devil.

  11.

  He fronted court for the final time in April 1935. The death penalty was requested and although almost granted, the judge determined that there wasn’t a 100% airtight case against Lightman. He said that the overwhelming amount of circumstantial evidence, combined with Tami’s testimony satisfied him of Lightman’s guilt, but only as far as a life sentence, not one of death. Lightman screamed his innocence when he was sentenced just like they all did, then was led from the courtroom in chains and taken straight up to Crab Apple Hill, which sat less than 10 minutes’ drive from the courtroom. He could have been taken to Pentridge Prison in Melbourne but Crab Apple Hill was already home to the state’s worst killers and Harry had overtaken them all. On Monday, April 22nd, 1935, Harry Lightman began the first day of his sentence at Crab Apple Hill Prison.

  Warren Smythe was buried next to his mother and father in Melbourne Cemetery with very little fanfare and almost no recognition from Victoria Police. A number of officers from Cider Hill and Daylesford were granted leave for the day, including me, and we had hired a bus to take us there. In the days before and also after the funeral, I approached Chief Rademeyer on several occasions to request Officer Smythe be nominated for the Victoria Police Star, which I had heard was the appropriate medal for an officer killed the way he was. And each time, I was ignored. A couple of other officers also put my name forward but I didn’t want anything. I had performed my duties the way I had been trained and for what I was being paid for. Warren, however, gave his life. He deserved it. To me, it felt as if the hierarchy weren’t interested in medals or awards, as if they wanted the whole matter finished with so they could go back to the way things were before. Before a man went on a killing spree, killing 14 innocent victims, and a police force that had failed to protect them.

  Whatever their reasons, I didn’t care. The officers of the two police stations involved, had done a remarkable job in ending the carnage. Had gone above and beyond to ensure the public could walk the streets again without fear. Just as they always had. To hell with the Rademeyers in this world.

  I was never 100% sure that he was Lucifer, also known as the Daylesford Devil. I was never absolutely positive because I didn’t actually see him do anything. All I ever remembered were those frightened eyes that passed me in the car on that fateful night. I had put my faith in the system and allowed it to decide for me. The nightmares that followed, the ones that would play out in my mind where Lucifer would continue his crime spree, the ones where I would wake in a cold sweat, sure I had made a mistake, continued for a long time. As the years passed, and the memories withdrew into the darkest recesses of my mind, the nightmares gradually disappeared. Once they had completely vanished from my mind, the nightmares never returned, never causing me to doubt the final result. Not until June 1st, 1954.

  Chapter 2: The Return of the Devil

  1.

  “Dr. Lawson?” the young Constable asked as I opened the door. She was wearing her police uniform, her hat held in one hand. The dark hair was tied back in a bun revealing a face far too young for the horror she would see in the coming weeks. She held a hand out for me to shake.

  “Yes?” I asked, hesitating a little.

  “I’m Stephanie Connor. We spoke on the phone yesterday?” I shook her hand, remembering the brief conversation we had held the previous day and invited her in.

  “I’m sorry, Constable. I haven’t been a police officer in many years. There was a reason why I left the force.” I could see the frown on her face as I repeated what I had told her the previous day.

  “I think you may change your mind after you see what I’ve brought with me,” she said, following me down the hallway.

  “I won’t change my mind; I have no interest in catching criminals anymore. Those days are long behind me.” I ushered her through into the sitting room, bare except for two sofa chairs, a table and a single floor lamp. The chairs faced the window, and I used them, or rather one of them, for when I was in the mood to read. The paddock that flanked my house was one of the main reasons I had purchased the home in the first place, serving as a wonderfully peaceful foreground.

  “I understand Sir, but-” I held my hand up, cutting her off.

  “First, I have to ask you not to call me Sir. I much prefer Jim. And Mr. Lawson was my father, a title I was never too fond of either.” I was hoping I didn’t sound insincere and her smile confirmed it.

  “I’m sorry. Jim. And please, while we’re on the subject, I am a constable but definitely prefer Steph. Constable is just way too formal for me.” She reached forward with her hand once more and we shook a second time, resetting ourselves back to the beginning. I liked Steph immensely from the moment we met.

  “Mr, sorry, Jim, I really need your help.” She sounded genuine, and I felt almost ashamed of my own brutal honesty.

  “I understand, Steph. It’s just that I haven’t been involved-”

  “He’s back.” Now it was her turn to cut me off, and her words were enough for me to shut my mouth with a snap, the curiosity and shock on my face confirming to her that she finally had my attention.

  “Who?” I asked dumbly, knowing perfectly well who she meant.

  “Lucifer.” The word hung in the air like a bad smell, neither of us wanting to touch it. The silence was almost overwhelmi
ng as her eyes questioned mine.

  “That’s impossible. Lightman is up in-”

  “Yes, he is,” she said, not needing me to finish my sentence, although sounding a little annoyed, her annoyance not aimed at me, “I can definitely confirm that. I called the Governor yesterday morning and after having one of his guards double check for me, confirmed that Harry Lightman was reading a book in his cell.”

  “Well, there you have it then,” I said, still unsure of why she had bothered to drive all the way to my house when she could have just told me as much on the phone. She opened her handbag, reached in and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to me, and when I didn’t reach for it, leant forward and dropped it in my lap. I took it, my curiosity peaking, my stomach feeling a dread I hadn’t felt in almost twenty years.

  2.

  The envelope contained half a dozen photos, black and white and not ones you would see published in any newspaper. They were all of the same person, a young woman, maybe mid-20s and definitely deceased. She appeared to be lying on a table, probably in some morgue and was covered in a white sheet, blood spotting it in several places. In one photo, her right arm was exposed, and it appeared that something had chewed most of the muscle tissue from her wrist to shoulder. Bits of flesh hung askew from the end of her elbow and it looked like whatever had gnawed on her, had not taken its time. The next photo showed her left leg; or rather what remained of it, half the muscle tissue missing. I had flicked passed the third, then stopped and looked at Steph.

  “This proves nothing, Steph. A copycat maybe. There hadn’t been one in-”

  “Look at the last one, Jim.” Her voice now sounded almost scared, wavering a little. Her gaze told me I should just shut up and do as she asked. I looked down and as soon as I saw the picture, the pit of my stomach felt as if it had been hacked into with a bone saw, the unwanted truth finally slapping me in the face.

  The picture was of her face, looking pale and young, almost innocent. Her mouth was closed and if the rest of her face had not been visible, could have sworn she was grinning. But it was her eyes that dropped the anvil into the pit of my stomach, the sinewy stumps of fingers protruding out from her sockets with shiny ooze still decorating her cheeks. On the outside, I began to sweat; on the inside, I screamed.

  3.

  The horror that came flooding back in that instant, the dread, the doubt I had been trying to run from for twenty years, came flooding back into my mind in a hurricane of images and flashbacks. The silence in the room felt numb, my arms tingling with gooseflesh as I lost track of just how long neither of us spoke. Steph gave me the time I needed to comprehend the gravity of the situation and I was grateful for it.

  I stood, walked to the window and just stared out at the countryside. There was a crow sitting on a barbed wire fence some way off in the distance and I could see it eyeing off a dead rabbit, probably chased down by a fox the previous night. It sat and stared, looked across the field to a couple of other crows nosing around in some grass, then re-fixed its focus on what would make a fine breakfast. Finally, it dropped to the ground, bobbed toward the rabbit and began to peck.

  “Are you OK, Jim?” Steph finally asked. I turned back toward her, opened my lips to speak but found no words to say. I was gob smacked in every sense of the word. I closed my mouth again, walked back to my chair and plopped down into it.

  “Do you think it’s him?” I finally asked her. Now it was her turn to look puzzled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, forget the photos, the evidence. Do you believe Harry Lightman committed this murder? I mean a good cop looks at all the facts.” She sat forward a little, considered the question for a long time, then turned to me.

  “No, I don’t think it was Harry, but if it was, he’d have one rock-solid alibi,” she finally said. “Chief Rademeyer told me to tell you that Harry was back and to see if it would convince you to help us.” Her voice sounded almost apologetic.

  “Frank Rademeyer? You know he was my chief when I was a cop? That prick has been in charge of that cop shop for almost 30 years.” I made sure there was no apologetic tone in my voice. Frank Rademeyer and I had a history and he was not someone I had sent Christmas cards to on a regular basis.

  “Will you help, Jim? Will you help me?” she asked quietly.

  “Why you, Steph? I’m sorry for answering your questions with more questions but I have so many as I’m sure you’d understand. Why did Rademeyer send you here? I mean, he must have officers that are far more qualified for this? No offence intended. How long have you been on the force?”

  “None taken. And I have been out of the academy exactly 2 years, my first 18 months served in Carlton, before transferring here to Cider Hill. And as for why Rademeyer selected me to come out here and ask you to help? I believe his exact words were ‘you have what they call breasts. I suggest you use them.’ He -” But I drowned the rest of her words out with my roaring laughter, which now filled the room, rolling off the walls in great waves. Steph looked at me with some bewilderment at first, then her own smile broke through, followed by tiny controlled giggles, sounding as if she was trying to hold back but really wanting to free them. I had actual tears rolling down my cheeks and when she saw them, Steph went from controlled giggling to a full-on belly laugh in a second. Hearing her laughter set me off a second time.

  It took a good minute for us to regain our composure, and by the time we had ourselves back under relative control, my sides were physically hurting.

  “That arsehole always had a way with words, no doubt about it.” I stood, tucked my shirt back into my pants then held out my hand to her for a third time. “I am more than happy to help you, Steph.” I could see actual relief wash over her as she shook my hand, although inside, I still wasn’t sure I wanted to help. I’m not certain why I agreed to help, other than to get in the face of Rademeyer again. I had a feeling that we would work on this for a few days, find the copycat, then watch as that prick took all the glory, just as he always had.

  “Could you give me a moment to pack some necessities?” I figured this wouldn’t be a simple overnight trip. My schedule was already fairly slim, thanks to me wanting some time to myself, so I had kept my diary free for the past few weeks. A few more would not hurt me too much, especially not in the financial department.

  “So, where do we go first?” Steph asked as I came back into the sitting room, one suitcase in hand. I considered for a moment, trying to think of the right answer. Visiting Harry was the obvious choice, but I didn’t have the details of anything yet. I would ask one question and then that would be it. What I needed, was information.

  “Can we go to where the young lady was found? Is that OK?”

  “Sure,” she said and headed for the door. I followed, grabbed my keys and hat, then followed her out the door.

  She must have driven the three hours to my home in almost complete darkness, to reach it by 8 that morning. I respected her eagerness and felt compelled to help her. The drive back to Cider Hill, one I hadn’t undertaken personally in well over ten years, was pleasant, even if the day was a dreary one.

  4.

  The scene of the crime turned out to be the Cider Hill Primary School oval. Whoever had performed this ritualistic rebirth of the Daylesford Devil had suspended the victim, a relatively new Grade 1 teacher, naked from the football goals at the far end of the ground. She had been stripped, strung up by her wrists, fed upon, then left for the poor unfortunate soul that discovered her the next morning, the school janitor, Clancy Higgins. He had arrived at the school a little before 7 and had begun his morning routine of emptying the rubbish bins for the day to come. It was a cold morning, and the fog hung as thick as a woollen jumper over the back half of the school grounds. The police had door-knocked the entire area that morning and not a single person remembered hearing anything unusual the night before. It puzzled me immediately considering the amount of noise a person would make, having someone biting a chunk of their flesh fro
m their body. Yet no-one had heard a thing.

  The police had taken Clancy back to the station and had questioned him for almost four hours. He had a rock-solid alibi and was released a little before 1, the mob of reporters anxiously waiting at the foot of the station steps, pouncing on the man known as Cloudy Clancy to the kids, as soon as he emerged from the doorway. There were a couple with cameras, the flashes popping brightly in the gloomy daylight, almost blinding the simple-minded man, yet most were the traditional pencil and notepad kind of journalists, their questions tripping over each other like a Wall Street trading floor.

  “Did you kill Rita Carlisle?” asked one.

  “What happened to her?” shouted another.

  “What did the police ask you?” a third shouted from somewhere in the back. But Clancy ignored them all, just like Constable Rawlinson had advised him.