by Gary Gregor
“Good,” Ann smiled. “And are you here today as a private investigator?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Sam answered. “I apologise for not making an appointment. I’m afraid I might have got off to a bad start with your secretary. She seemed a little annoyed with me.”
“Apology accepted, and please don’t worry about Margaret. She’s extremely efficient, but perhaps a trifle too rigid in her observance of university policy. But, about your visit, I’m intrigued. What on earth would a private investigator want with me?”
Sam wanted a lot of things with Ann Curtis but, for the moment, opted to keep those thoughts to himself, at least until he got to know her better, which he hoped would be in the very near future. “Information,” he said.
“Information?”
“Well, more a case of your thoughts and ideas really,” he explained.
“Now I am curious. About what?”
Sam shifted in his seat. “About the recent murders.”
“Goodness yes,” Ann said. “What a terrible business. I saw Roland Henderson just last week at a Law Society dinner. I had drinks with him and his wife. The poor woman must be devastated.”
“It’s tragic,” Sam agreed. “I was hoping you might be able to provide some information that would be helpful to me.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, of course,” she offered. “But I don’t understand. Are you working with the police?”
“No, I’m working independently of the police. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific than that, but confidentiality prevents me from disclosing who I’m working for.”
“I see,” Ann said. “I must admit though, given my interest in the workings of the criminal mind, I find all this intrigue fascinating.”
“It’s your interest in the criminal mind that brings me here, Professor Curtis.”
“Oh please,” she said, “let’s dispense with the formalities. Call me Ann.”
“Okay, Ann,” Sam smiled. “And Mister Rose is my father’s name. I’m Sam.”
“Terrific.” Ann tossed her head back in a way that had the thick, soft mane of burgundy hair bouncing lightly on her shoulders. Sam was suddenly aware of a quickening of his pulse. If Ann noticed his awkwardness, she chose to ignore it.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I was hoping you might be able to provide an insight into the character of the person responsible for the murders. His personality, his background, how old he might be. That type of thing.”
“You mean, like a profile?”
“Exactly,” Sam nodded.
“I’m getting the impression you believe the same man is responsible for each of the killings.”
“I can’t speak for the police,” Sam said, “I’m not privilege to their investigation, but I think it could be the same person, yes.”
“So, you want to know if he was an abused child devoid of parental affection, I suppose you mean?”
“Something like that, I guess,” Sam shrugged.
“Well, you can forget any thoughts of childhood molestation,” she began. “From the little I know of the murders, I don’t think the person responsible is motivated by any long standing obsession with sexual revenge.”
“Can you be certain of that?” Sam urged.
“Not without specific details of each murder. However, given the information available, I’m reasonably satisfied that lust is not his motivation.”
“Is it a man?”
“Oh yes, almost certainly,” Ann responded. “We know from early press reports the killer used a knife. Knives are not the weapon of choice for women. They almost never use them to commit murder; unless it is in the heat of the moment, or in self-defence where a knife is the closest available weapon. Again, without knowing specifics, I’m guessing these murders were pre-meditated. History suggests that in cases of pre-meditated murder, a man is far more likely to use a knife than a woman. The concept of plunging a knife into someone is a bit too grizzly for a woman.”
“Is he a serial killer?” Sam asked.
“That depends, possibly, yes.”
“Depends on what?”
Ann shifted slightly in her chair and brushed at a lock of hair that had fallen across her eye. “It depends on whether or not the policeman victim… what was his name?”
“Richter, Carl Richter,” Sam prompted.
“Yes Richter. It depends on whether he was murdered by the same person who murdered the two judges.”
“Why?”
“Because, generally speaking, two murders would not be sufficient to categorise a person as a serial killer. Three or more however, all in a similar manner, and with a time lapse between each, tends to indicate differently.”
“What’s your feeling?” Sam asked.
“Well, keeping in mind I know no more than most people about the facts of the killings, my instincts tell me the same man is responsible for all three deaths.”
“Is he likely to kill again?”
Ann clasped her hands in front of her. “If he hasn't finished what he started, yes he will,” she nodded. “If he’s motivated by an agenda, he will continue until he’s completed what he set out to do. If, on the other hand, there is no agenda, and the killings are purely random, he may continue until he is caught, or until a voice somewhere in his head tells him he’s finished. In this case however, I suspect he has an agenda.”
“Really?” Sam leaned forward.
“Victims of serial killers almost always have something in common,” Ann continued. “They’re all hitch-hikers for instance, or they’re all prostitutes, young boys, young girls, or elderly women. These three men all had an association with the law. There is a difference here however.”
“I think I know where you’re heading,” Sam said.
“Good, we’re on the same wavelength,” Ann flashed that captivating smile. “In most cases, while the victims have something in common, they are usually chosen at random and are, in fact, strangers to their assailant. I don’t see that as being the case here.”
“Oh?” Sam uttered curiously. “That’s interesting. What makes you think that?”
“Again,” she said, “we are working with limited specifics, but its common knowledge Richter was killed at Police Headquarters. Costello was killed in a public park in broad daylight, and Roland Henderson at the Supreme Court building. In each case the killer must have taken considerable risk of being caught, or at the very least, seen by someone in the vicinity. That suggests to me he chose his victims specifically. If he fitted the usual profile and selected his victims at random, he could surely have found easier targets with much less risk of being observed.”
“Perhaps the risk is part of the thrill for him?” Sam mused.
“Yes,” Ann agreed, “that is often the case, and it very well could be here. It could also be that it is his way of taunting the police. It’s been known to happen.”
“What about the man himself? You know, age, physical characteristics, all that stuff?”
“We have to look at history for that,” Ann answered. “We have to stereotype him. Statistically the majority of serial killers are male, white, aged between thirty and fifty and are of average build. They are generally as nondescript in appearance as the chap next door. They go to great lengths to ensure nothing about their appearance will attract undue attention.” She paused. “I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that, but if we take the mean average, you will be looking for a white man, about forty years old, unspectacular in appearance. And,” she added, “when he’s not killing judges or police officers, he will be the friendly next door neighbour who volunteers to collect your mail and feed your cat when you are away on holidays.”
“Well,” Sam responded, “that would be about half the population.”
“I’m afraid so,” Ann agreed. “That’s about as specific as I can be without resorting to wild speculation. I prefer to leave that to the media, they are much better at it.”
“So,”
Sam summarised, “I’m looking for a forty-year-old, average looking bloke with a grudge against authority; that should be easy.”
Ann ignored his sarcasm. “There are examples of serial killers who extract vengeance against those who represent authority because they feel authority has wronged them somehow. The identity of the victim is usually irrelevant to the killer. His grudge is against the authority as an organisation, as opposed to a specific individual within the organisation. I can’t help thinking though, that in this case, the killer is choosing his victims because of who they are rather than who they represent.”
“A link between the victims other than the fact they all represented the law?”
“I’m sure of it,” Ann said. “Because of the risk involved in each case, it would suggest the victims were specifically targeted. If you find what else was common to all three victims, it may give you a motive, if nothing else.”
“Is it likely the victims might have known the killer?”
“Given what I’ve already said about carefully choosing his victims, I think it is a distinct possibility.”
“Could he be suicidal?” Sam posed.
“When he’s finished, assuming he’s not caught first, he might take his own life. If he does, he’ll leave no explanation, and his family and friends will be taken completely by surprise. The killings will mysteriously stop, and probably remain unsolved. Such cases are rare however, because again, generally speaking, serial killers are cowardly and weak by their very nature. Suicide is not an option they would consider. In some cases, for inexplicable reasons, the urge to kill leaves him, and he no longer feels the need to impose his violence on others. This man will, I think, continue until he has completed the task he has set himself. Only then will he feel vindicated and stop the killing.”
“He sounds like a delightful chap,” Sam offered.
“He’s the worst kind of serial killer, Sam. Most of them have a deep, basic emotional instability about them. I think this man is quite sane; at least that’s how he appears to others, and that makes him even more dangerous.”
As if by pre-arrangement, the telephone on her desk rang once. Ann excused herself and picked it up.
“Yes, Margaret?” she said into the mouthpiece. “Thank you, we were just finishing.” She lowered the hand piece to its cradle. “Sam, I’m sorry, I have another meeting in a few minutes.”
“No,” Sam said, getting up. “It’s my fault. I’ve kept you from your work. I should have made an appointment.”
“That’s all right,” Ann said, also rising. “I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to discuss aspects of my work on a one-to-one basis, as opposed to in front of a class room of students, half of whom sleep through my lectures anyway.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine anyone sleeping through one of your classes,” Sam smiled.
“Now you’re flattering me,” she laughed as she followed him to the door. “But don’t stop, I love it.”
Sam turned and faced her. “Thank you, you’ve been a great help. I guess that’s why you’re the professor and I’m just the lowly private investigator.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Sam. Remember, I’m familiar with your reputation. I suspect you are far more astute than you let on.”
“Now you’re flattering me!” Sam laughed.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more specific,” Ann continued, “Serial killers are a breed of their own. A lot of it is assumption, speculation and ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. I only hope you catch this fellow before he kills again, because if you don’t, he will.”
“At least I have an idea of who I’m looking for,” Sam offered his hand. “Thanks again.”
“Anytime,” she said, taking his hand and holding it perhaps longer than she needed to.
As he left, Sam thought she said it as though she meant it.
As he walked slowly to his car, something nagged at the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. An indefinable thing, a question, a fact, something sitting there, somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, but omnipresent enough to tweak a nerve of… of what, remembrance perhaps? He didn’t know. It wasn’t something that concerned him sufficiently for him to agonise over, it was just… well… something.
He unlocked his car, climbed in, and for a few minutes, he sat in the campus car park mulling over the things Ann Curtis had said. Now he had a better picture of what the killer might look like. Scant as that description might be, it was a start, at least. A mental image, albeit speculative, was better than no image at all.
When finally, he started the car and drove from the university grounds, he wished he had asked her out to dinner.
Ann Curtis returned to the chair behind her desk. She should be on her way to the opposite end of the Administration block by now if she was going to be on time for her next meeting. For a few moments, she allowed her thoughts to linger on Sam Rose. What was it about him that intrigued her? He was good looking, she supposed, without being drop-dead gorgeous. He had an air of strength and self-confidence about him that could not be mistakenly interpreted as arrogance, and she was sure, somewhere beneath the image he presented, she detected a gentleness she suspected not many people ever got close enough to see. What was it? What was it about Sam Rose that left her feeling ever so slightly girlish?
There had been men in her life, too damn many of them, she often thought; a legacy of her looks she supposed. Most of the relationships she entered into were superficial at best, and based on the physical needs of both the man she was with at the time, and those of her own. Only twice had she ever considered herself on the verge of falling in love, and both times, her heart was broken. The experience left her burdened with no small amount of cynicism in regards to the whole love, life-long commitment thing. It was her job. She knew that now, and had long ago come to terms with it, even though it sometimes left her with feelings of loss and inadequacy. Most of the men she met who were of eligible status, were intimidated by her position and by the nature of her work. More than one of her partners expressed concerns he felt he was being analysed during their relationship. It was a failing in her character, she knew that, but as far as her work was concerned, she was simply not prepared to compromise; not at that time. Not back then, when she was still on the way up, on the way to being the best in a profession still considered in many circles to be exclusively a man’s domain.
It was different now. She had the job she wanted, and she was content, at least professionally. It had not been easy. Along the way, she paid a price for the career choices she made, and these days, she seemed unable to embark on anything other than platonic relationships. It had been a long time since she felt that light, feather soft fluttering low in her belly. What was it about Sam Rose that stirred those vague but not totally forgotten feelings deep inside her now?
She wondered if she might get the opportunity to see him again, hoping she would, and hoping it would be soon.
Her secretary poked her head around the door, and reminded her she was late for her meeting. She gathered documents from her desk, and pushing aside thoughts of Sam Rose, for the moment, she hurried from the room.
7
Sam could no longer avoid what he had been purposely avoiding for a year. He had to see Russell Foley. Given their history, in particular, the way they parted company back then, he expected very little in the way of information from Foley, but he had to try. He didn’t look forward to the liaison, and wished he could avoid a face-to-face meeting, but knew he couldn’t.
It would happen one day; Darwin was not a big city where they could both live and never run into each other, either by design or by coincidence. It might just as well be today as any other day, and it might just as well be by design rather than embarrassing coincidence.
He never bothered to make an appointment; he knew to do so would only illicit Foley’s refusal to see him. Apart from an occasional beer with one or two of his former colleagues, Sam had seen few of them since he left the force, and a
part of him fondly anticipated seeing more of his old friends again.
Entering the foyer of the Criminal Investigation Branch in the headquarters building, he heard the old familiar sounds that were an integral part of his daily work life over so many years. Sounds that were once so omnipresent he hardly noticed them, now seemed louder than he recalled. Office sounds. The muffled tapping of clumsy fingers on computer keyboards churning out yet another report destined for confinement into already bulging filing cabinets. The low, distant hum of the building’s air conditioning system rumbled quietly from cavities hidden from view behind walls and in ceilings discoloured with age, and screaming for a fresh coat of paint. Voices, faint but audible, drifted to him from the main squad room just beyond where he stood. They were the voices of detectives going about the business of trying to salvage some sanity from the madness that was the juggernaut of a soaring crime rate. Some of those new to the squad would never make it, Sam knew. They would fold under the relentless pressure of a ridiculous workload, or succumb to ultimatums delivered by spouses insisting families must take priority over police work. Others would ride it out. These were the ones who would ultimately become the backbone of the branch. The ones who would be, and could be, relied upon to deliver results regardless of how disproportionate the balance between hours spent at home with the family and those spent at work may sometimes be. These cops long ago stopped losing sleep over the inadequacies and inconsistencies of the judicial system. They chose instead, to simply get on with the job and let those supposedly more qualified and better paid deal with what they saw as blatantly obvious flaws in the system.
Sam approached the reception counter where a uniformed policewoman sat, engrossed in a glossy magazine. She quickly shoved it out of sight in a desk drawer as she looked up and saw him.
Sam offered her a smile and a knowing wink. “Not the Police Gazette I gather,” he said, referring to the discarded magazine.