The Final Alibi

by Simon King

  “You OK there, Harry?” I asked him, now also sitting forward. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood away.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you, James.” I frowned as he used my name again but didn’t speak up. I didn’t see the point. I suddenly had the urge to leave, just wanting to stand up and walk straight out the door. I didn’t want to be in this room with this monster. I took a deep breath and fought the urge away.

  5.

  I had spent months, even years after Lightman’s arrest, perusing the records, everybody’s accounts; the entire library of court documents that were born from his trial. Even though he had been there on that farm, I always found that in the deepest recesses of my mind, there sat a tiny 1% of doubt whether he really was the Daylesford Devil. He was, after all, not exactly caught red handed. Everything was circumstantial. Even when it came to the evidence given by Tami Kennedy, it all came down to “he said, she said”. There was nothing concrete that made the case a slam dunk. Harry himself, pleaded his innocence for the entire trial, and to the best of my knowledge, for all the years that had passed since. He had claimed to be walking home from the pub, a little too drunk. He had taken a shortcut across the paddock and had walked into the Kennedy property, attracted to the shouts he heard. He had seen Warren swinging from the rope, then panicked and ran outside, jumping into the car out of fear.

  But it was Joe Kennedy that testified to the fact that he never saw Lightman run out of the barn. He claimed to have driven up to the shed, jumped out of his car and ran straight inside, running into me as he did, and neither of us had seen Lightman up to that point. Lightman’s lawyer had pointed out that Joe Kennedy had been acting out of panic himself and probably wouldn’t have noticed Lightman even if he was really there. He had been far too panicked and totally focused on reaching his little girl, so his testimony proved to be unreliable due to his presence of mind.

  I had spent a total of five years on the police force. The first 18 months or so had been in Melbourne for my initial training and then on to one of the suburban stations. I think it was late in 1933 that the request came through for me to be transferred to Cider Hill police station due to an increase in duties at that watch house. During my time there, I had witnessed things no person should ever have to see in a lifetime. The Devil’s victims had remained with me in nightmares for years to come, their faces permanently etched into my memories. What made the whole thing even more terrifying was the 1% of doubt that still lingered to this day, the horrifying thought that we had indeed, locked the wrong man up and the real Devil was still roaming the land, ready to begin a new nightmare.

  Once the sensationalism had finished in the media and life had returned to some form of normality, I had made the decision to quit the police force. I had no real sense of direction, or any plans that I wanted to pursue so spent the first six months travelling around the country, taking in all it had to show me. But part of me remained forever in Cider Hill, the horror firmly etched in my subconscious. No matter how far I travelled each day, Cider Hill returned to my dreams each night, and each night I would wake to a scream trapped in my throat, the sheets soaking with my sweat.

  Eventually I had reached Townsville in Queensland, 1936 coming to a close. I had planned to return briefly to Melbourne and spend Christmas with my Mum, but once I returned to the relative comfort of my childhood home, didn’t want to leave. It was as if I had returned to the one place that I truly felt safe. The weeks turned into months and eventually, I decided to attend university to study psychiatry. My choice of campus had been the University of Melbourne as my mother had graduated from there herself. The next eight years were spent diving head first into books and learning everything I could get my hands on. I devoured each phase of my doctorate and eventually graduated with honours in 1945. I did try to enlist when called upon in early 1940, but due to a heart murmur was declined. This left me to study and when I finally graduated, was accepted to the Sisters of Charity Health Service, a hospital that was situated in Fitzroy. Although interesting, I didn’t find my calling, and so within the year, opened my own practice two streets away. While I saw patients during the day, it was the writing I did during the late evenings that would eventually lead me to the financial freedom I was seeking. With my first book, Catching Lucifer, hitting the best seller list within three months, I gained worldwide attention, and an audience keen for a second helping, Nightmares Unhinged, which was released just nine months later. With the money now coming in at a steady pace, I reduced my working days to just three per week, giving me plenty of time to write, and try to reclaim a life I felt I had lost.

  But throughout everything, that tiny 1% continued to linger, to float deep down in my subconscious, only to be ripped out from its hiding spot some twenty years after leaving Cider Hill. Now, sitting here before him, I wondered whether the nightmare ever truly left me, or like a predator stalking its victim, had been watching and waiting for the time to strike, when the horror would once again, stalk this land.

  6.

  “Jim?” Steph brought me back to the moment, her hand squeezing my arm. They were both sitting and staring at me, Lightman’s lungs still rasping.

  “Sorry, yes. I’m good,” I said, trying to sound balanced, something I certainly wasn’t feeling.

  “Did you have… any more questions… for me, James?” He sounded almost cocky to me, his eyes never leaving mine. It was as if he was trying to find any sign of guilt on my face. Something that said “Hey Harry, I’m sorry. Maybe I did fuck up.” The problem was, I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt.

  “No, thank you. Not right now. Thank you for your time.” I stood, offered him my hand which he took with both of his, his touch cold and leathery. I winced at the thought of what those hands had done and wanted to pull back instantly. The door opened as the guard entered.

  “No touching. Please refrain yourself, Sir.” He sounded pissed, and I pulled my hand back as he went around to Lightman’s side, a bunch of keys in his hand. Another guard stood at the door; a rifle held at the ready. The cuffs were released from the table and the guard led Lightman outside. When they reached the door, Harry paused, turned and looked at me.

  “I want… to help, James. I… want to… make things… right. To help catch… the real killer.” He turned and walked out, the guard closing the door behind them as they left, leaving Steph and I alone once more.

  “You OK, Jim?” Steph asked. Her tone sounded a little panicky. “You look pale.”

  “I feel fine,” I replied, my legs feeling shaky. “Do you believe him?”

  “About what? His innocence?”

  “No, his visitor.” I sat back down and was about to tell her to forget about whether she thought him guilty or innocent, when the door opened and the governor came back into the room. Another guard followed him in, carrying a large box. He dropped it onto the table with a loud thump then turned and walked back out. Thomas sat on the edge of the desk again, pulled the box closer to him and opened a flap. He reached in and pulled out a red folder, almost an inch thick and jammed full of documents.

  “Here is everything we have accumulated on Harry Lightman over the past two decades. There’s another one waiting at the front gate for you. They contain every disagreement, every infraction, every disciplinary issue, every sickness, cold and hiccup. Every person he has ever seen, had visited him and written him. Also, staff rosters and rotations so you know where everybody is, has been and gone to. In short, every possible piece of information we have on him.” He put the folder back in the box, closed the flap and slid the box in my direction. “We have had a total of 47 guards who have been in direct contact with Lightman during his time here. 21 are still currently working here, 12 have moved to other prisons and still contactable, 11 have resigned and moved to other career paths, 1 has moved overseas to England and 2 are deceased. We are available for any questions you have. All of us. Catch this son of a bitch. As quick as you can.” He didn’t bother with formalities or handshakes
. Thomas gave us a final glance, then stood and left the room without so much as a good luck or farewell. Steph and I exchanged a glance, read each other’s thoughts perfectly and took our leave.

  7.

  The drive back to Cider Hill was a quiet one, neither of us speaking. As I stared out at the countryside passing us by, I couldn’t help but wonder whether my doubts had been warranted, whether he was in fact, just an innocent bystander. I was just about to try to remember the moment I first spotted him on that long-ago night, when Steph broke the silence.

  “We can’t let him side-track our investigation with his ‘I’m innocent’ routine, Jim. We have to keep focusing.”

  “I know. But what if he is?” She butted her cigarette out in the ashtray and turned on me, more aggressive than intended.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. He’s already inside your head, making you doubt something that happened twenty years ago. Fuck!” I nodded, in total agreement. She was right. Within minutes of first seeing him, he had already planted a big, red flag inside my brain that said ‘You Fucked Up’ in giant black letters. I had to push it out of my mind or it would hinder any help that I could offer this investigation.

  “I hear you, Constable. Loud and clear.” I tried to smile and found that the grin I managed made her laugh. It sounded nice, a pleasant change to the previous ten minutes of silence.

  “How about we catch up for dinner? My place. Say 7.30?” she asked.

  “Why, Officer Connor? Are you asking me on a date?” I replied and noticed colour flushing her cheeks. Now it was my turn to laugh a little. “It’s OK, I’m just kidding. I’d love to.” As she pulled over to the kerb in front of my hotel, Steph grabbed a pen and quickly wrote her address on a scrap of paper. She handed it to me, then told me not to be late in a very serious voice. I thanked her, promising to be on time. Fortunately, punctuality had always been one of my strong points.

  8.

  The taxi arrived shortly after 7. Having no idea what the meal would consist of, I had purchased both a red and a white wine during a quick trip down main street, although I was far from a wine connoisseur, preferring a cold beer with any meal. Turns out, I needn’t have bothered, as to my surprise, Steph was also an ale kind of girl. The taxi drove in to her driveway a few minutes ahead of schedule, I paid the driver and watched him creep slowly up Robertson’s Boulevard and back to the main end of town. When I was sure it was close enough to the time, I climbed the half a dozen steps and knocked on the door.

  “It’s open!” Steph yelled from somewhere inside and I let myself in. “I’m just in the bathroom. Help yourself to a beer from the fridge. I won’t be long.”

  “OK, thank you.” The house bore the unmistakable aroma of a lamb roast. I had the unimaginable good luck to grow up in a house where a lamb roast was a requirement at least once a week and something I often craved when homesick. If not my curiosity, at least my stomach would be satisfied tonight.

  Once I put the bottles of wine on the dining table, I headed to the kitchen to retrieve the beer. The aroma from the roast grew stronger and more intense with each step, making my mouth salivate with anticipation. The kitchen, although small, had everything necessary, including a second, smaller dining table, already adorned with place settings. To my surprise, the table had been set for three. I wondered who would be joining us as I took a long swig of beer. It felt cold, fresh and tasty, quenching the day’s stresses away in an instant. The left wall of the kitchen opened up into a comfortable looking living room, complete with an open fire place that was busy snapping and crackling. The mantle above it held a number of photos which I was about to investigate when Steph stepped into the room.

  “Sorry Jim. Almost there.”

  “Please, take your time,” I said as she rushed past me with a basket load of washing. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you,” she replied from somewhere at the back of the house. There was a knock on the front door at that moment and she came back into the room, looked at me for a moment, then went to the door after gesturing to herself to calm down with her palms waving slowly up and down. I heard some muffled voices, then the door closing again. Steph came back into the room with a young girl of maybe 6 or 7 in her arms. My expression must have been one of surprise, Steph flashing me a shy smile as she put the girl down. I noticed a striking resemblance between them.

  “Jim, this is my sister Judith. Jude, this is Jim.” I took a step forward and held out my hand to her.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Judith,” I said. The girl seemed a little shy, but shook my hand none the less. She let go after a brief pause, then went back to Steph, half hiding behind her sister’s leg. Steph saw the bottles on the table and went to them, picking the red up.

  “Why, thank you, kind sir. I don’t really do wine, but if I had to choose, then red it would be.”

  “I wasn’t sure what we were having, so thought I’d bring both,” I said, but then quickly added “but beer works for me. Truly, thanks.” She smiled at that, picked up her own bottle and clinked with me, wishing us good health.

  9.

  The meal was amazing, and a little surprising. I wasn’t expecting such a fantastic home cooked dinner from someone so young, but then felt a little embarrassed again at presuming to know her situation, or her age, or her cooking skills, for that matter. The gravy she had made from scratch, so rich and deep with a flavour that actually rivalled my own mother’s in comparison. Once we had finished dessert, a warm slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, Steph helped Judith prepare for bed, then tucked her in and read a story from a big red book Judith brought to her. I could hear her reading the story of Goldilocks, and the voices she was using for the bears were actually pretty good. I sat in the living room, sipping another beer, staring into the flames of the fire. It had always been one of my favourite moments of any evening, when you could just relax, and let the dancing flames and crackling pops of the wood carry your mind away.

  Unfortunately for me, and probably due to the events of the past couple of days, my mind had wandered back to the first dead body I had ever seen, one of Lucifer’s victims that we found only two weeks after I started at Cider Hill. Her name had been Annabelle Cruz, a 22-year-old waitress who had worked at the Railway Hotel. She disappeared after finishing work, never making it back to her parent’s house where she still lived. We learnt from friends that she had a habit of cutting through the cemetery on her way home, a shortcut that saved her having to walk the three blocks down and around the lake. We don’t know how the killer persuaded her to go with him, but when we found her in an old abandoned shed out on the Munro’s farm, five miles out of town, she had been bound fed upon, the only injuries being those from where he had chewed on her and the marks from where she was bound by her wrists and ankles. Most of her right arm had been stripped clean of flesh, and he had begun to feed on her left arm when he stopped.

  It was the Munro’s dog that found her, James Munro hearing his Kelpie barking furiously at something and refusing to come when called. When he had followed the sounds of barking, he had discovered the gruesome scene, a family on the neighbouring farm some 3 miles away hearing the farmer’s blood-curdling scream floating across the fields between them.

  “She is asleep,” Steph said as she walked into the room, breaking my thoughts.

  “That dinner was amazing, Steph. Really.” Colour flushed her cheeks as she sat down on the seat next to mine.

  “Thanks. I’d been taught from an early age,” she said as she took a sip of her wine glass. “And this wine is actually pretty good.”

  “Did your Mum teach you?”

  “No. My Mum didn’t do much cooking. She was born blind. But we had a lady that came in for most of my childhood. Old Mrs. Marsh. Four times a week she would come cook and clean for us. Then as I grew older, her visits became less frequent. But not before bestowing me with her lamb roast recipe.” She giggled a little, staring into the fire, a distant memory
in her eyes.

  “Wow, blind. That must have been hard.”

  “I never knew any different, so I guess it was just the norm?”

  “Of course, sorry. And your father? And please, feel free to tell me to shut up if I’m prying.” I didn’t want to sound like I was conducting an investigation.

  “No, it’s OK. I never knew my father. My mum and dad had, what you would call, a whirlwind romance. At least that’s how she used to describe it. His name was Eddie, and they met by the river where my mum used to sit and enjoy the sunshine. She often told me that she could hear Eddie approach from a distance because he would always whistle this tune. What was it called? For Ellen? No, that’s not it. Some foreign name. Aaahh, I can’t remember,” she croaked as she tapped a finger to her forehead.

  “Fur Elise?” I said and her eyes instantly lit up.

  “Yes, that’s the one. How did you know?”

  “My mum used to play piano, and that was one of her favourite tunes. I have many, many childhood memories of sitting at home, reading, building models, or just listening to her play from my bedroom.” She nodded, set her wine glass on the coffee table, then took my arm and coaxed me up. She led the way, beckoning me to follow. In one of the back rooms, and to my astonishment, sat a Beale piano, the same type my mother still owned. It sat nestled against one wall, its deep chestnut covers shining with polish.

  “This was my mum’s. I had to move Jude and I here when she passed away a couple of years ago, but this is the one thing I will cherish forever. She always played that song too although her own repertoire of music was quite large. She loved playing this,” she said as she ran a finger lovingly across the wooden fallboard. Her eyes were distant and I could tell she was having a moment. I stood quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

  “How about your parents?” she suddenly asked without looking around at me.