Vengeance List

by Gary Gregor

  He allowed his eyes to linger slowly and deliberately over the scene. What sort of sick bastard were they dealing with here? The creep was taunting them now. Jesus, they had to catch this monster. When was it going to stop? How many more would die before they caught this sick fuck?

  He was tired. He had been working around the clock on the murders and still had no real leads. The killer left no trace of his presence at any of the other murders, and he knew this would be no different. He knew it was the same man. He didn’t know how he knew; it was a feeling born of years doing the job he did; an instinct that rarely let him down, and he trusted that instinct. What he was looking at was not the work of a copycat killer, or any other deranged individual; it was the work of the same person responsible for the other three murders. For the first time he could remember in his entire career, Russell Foley felt concern they might never catch this guy.

  His thoughts turned to Sam Rose. What was he doing snooping around? That was all he needed, that horny bastard poking his nose in where it was neither wanted nor needed. After Rose left the job, he hoped never to cross paths with his former partner again, but in a city as small as Darwin, he supposed it was too much to hope for. Both he and Rose had amassed friendships within the force over the years, friendships they shared. He should, he supposed, consider himself lucky they had never run into each other until Sam came to his office asking for information about the murders. The guy had a nerve; Foley would give him that. Fancy thinking he could coerce information from him. He was a civilian for Christ’s sake! What was he doing here in the middle of the night? Foley knew full well it was not admiration for the police, or even idle curiosity that brought the former cop here at this hour. He guessed that O’Reily had rung him. Paddy was everywhere, sometimes even before the cops, which was embarrassing. But why would Paddy ring Sam? Was Sam working for the media? Was he hired to work with Paddy? Was the media’s faith in the police to find the killer so degraded they would hire a private investigator instead of letting the police do their job? He hoped not, but the question gave rise to an apprehension that bothered him.

  When Sam entered his home, he heard the shower running. He looked in the bedroom, and found the unmade bed empty. Ann had picked up her discarded clothes, and they now lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He walked along the hall to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside. Steam hung heavy in the air in the confined space. Through the opaque glass of the shower cubicle, he watched Ann as she went through the motions of showering. Sam was unable to drag his eyes from the outline of her body. He listened for a moment to the soft tune she was humming, oblivious to his presence.

  Finally, he reached down, untied his shoes, and discarded them where he stood. Soon the rest of his clothing lay in a dishevelled heap in the middle of the bathroom floor. He moved silently to the cubicle, reached out and slid open the door.

  Startled, Ann gasped loudly, then relaxed when she saw who it was. She allowed her eyes to wander slowly over his naked body. “You were not there when I woke up. I missed you.” She looked into his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you; you were sleeping so soundly.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I got a call. There was another murder.”

  “Oh no,” Ann groaned. “Not another one, who this time?”

  “A solicitor from Legal Aid, his name is… was, Kevin Thiele.”

  “I don’t think I know him,” she mused.

  “That’s not surprising,” Sam commented. “He was never a particularly conspicuous character. From what I knew of him, he kept pretty much to himself.”

  “Is it the same person responsible?”

  “I honestly don’t know. The police are not talking, but I’m willing to bet it is.”

  Once again, Ann’s eyes roamed slowly over his body. “You didn’t go out like that I hope?”

  “Of course,” he smiled, “it’s hot outside.”

  Ann’s eyes lingered on his groin, noticing he was unable to prevent the transformation happening there.

  “It’s a big shower,” she invited. “There’s more than enough room for two.”

  Sam stepped into the cubicle and took her into his arms, pulling her body hard against him. The water cascaded, strong and hot, over their bodies. She raised her face to his, and he kissed her hungrily. Beneath the noise of the rushing water, he heard a soft moan escape her throat. He supported her weight in his arms as she bent her knees slightly, then jumped and wrapped her legs around his waist. Sam crossed his arms in the small of her back, and gripped her tightly to him. He stepped forward and supported her back against the wall of the alcove. Steam swirled around their faces as they kissed and whispered into each other’s mouth. Sam freed one hand from behind her, reached down between them, and guided himself into her. Ann settled onto him and sighed deeply. She tossed her head back and let the powerful spray strike her full in her upturned face. It was over quickly, neither of them able to contain their urgent need for the other. Under the hot, stinging needles of water beating down on them, they came together in a frenzy of loud moans and tangled limbs.

  Afterwards, they washed each other, alternatively sponging and soaping the other's body. Sam lavished in the pleasure of it. He felt like they had been together always, and yet it was as if they were young lovers exploring themselves for the very first time. Sam wanted to ask where all this might be leading, but he knew it was too soon.

  10

  Sam was late; a legacy of his early morning dalliance with Ann. He found Paddy waiting for him on his office doorstep. Paddy looked refreshed, as refreshed as it was ever possible for him to look. Sam wondered how he managed to look this way, given he most likely hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours, if at all.

  Paddy was unable to hide his impatience. “I’ve been waitin’ half a bloody hour, so I have,” he complained.

  “Yeah? Well, I keep business hours these days Paddy. I had enough of working nights and weekends when I was in the job. I’m a respectable businessman now. I even got invited to join the local Chamber of Commerce, how about that?”

  “That’s respectable alright, sure enough,” Paddy scoffed sarcastically. “You’re a right pillar of the community, an example to us all, to be sure.”

  Sam fumbled with his keys, found the right one, and unlocked his office door. At first, he never saw the large, brown envelope on the floor at his feet. When he stepped on it, he realised someone must have pushed it under his door. He picked it up and read his name scrawled across the front in what appeared to be thick red ink; the kind left by a felt-tipped marking pen. He turned the envelope over in his hands. It was sealed, but bore no stamp or postmark. He placed little importance on it and tossed it aside onto his desk. He would get to it later. It was probably a file from the insurance company who provided most of his work.

  “Come in,” he invited Paddy. “Would you like coffee?”

  “Black, no sugar,” Paddy answered, helping himself to a chair and producing a sheaf of papers from the depths of his jacket.

  “What have you got for me, mate?” Sam asked

  “It went better than I expected,” Paddy replied, dropping the papers on the desk.

  “Do tell.”

  “My contact at the morgue came through for us.”

  “He did?” Sam enthused. He placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of Paddy. “What did he give you?”

  Paddy paused, reached again inside his jacket, and produced the now familiar flask of whiskey. Sam watched as he splashed a more than generous measure into his mug. “Care for a shot?” Paddy offered, “purely medicinal, of course.”

  “Do you always carry that around with you?” Sam asked.

  “Aye, lad. It goes in me pocket, before I put me shoes on.”

  Sam raised his hand and covered the top of his mug, silently amazed at the old man’s constitution. “No thanks, I’ll pass. It’s a bit too early in the day for me. Thanks jus
t the same.”

  “As you wish,” Paddy shrugged, slipping the flask back from whence it came.

  “Come on, mate,” Sam urged. “What have you got?”

  Paddy flicked the papers across the desk. Sam picked them up and saw it was a copy of the pathologist’s report detailing the findings of his examinations of the remains of Carl Richter, Malcolm Costello, and Roland Henderson.

  Methodically, he read through the reports, pausing occasionally to sip his coffee. Finally, he finished reading the last page. He whistled softly through clenched teeth and dropped the reports onto the desk. “How did you get hold of these?” he looked at Paddy.

  “It cost me, so it did. Or, should I say, it cost you,” Paddy answered, “three hundred dollars; a hundred for each report.”

  “Your man doesn’t come cheap,” Sam observed.

  “It would mean his job under any circumstances," Paddy said. "More so given the secrecy surrounding this case.”

  “Have you read this?” Sam asked, tapping the report.

  “Of course, we’re partners, are we not?”

  “Yes, I suppose we are,” Sam agreed somewhat reluctantly. “What do you make of it?”

  “It’s the same man, no doubt. The murder weapon was the same in all three murders; at least that’s what the pathologist is suggesting."

  Sam picked up the report and flicked through the pages again until he found what he was looking for.

  “… a long, thin bladed knife,” he read aloud, “strong but flexible, possibly curved slightly and extremely sharp. Like a razor.”

  “The same for each murder,” Paddy added. He sipped noisily at his adulterated coffee and smacked his lips in appreciation.

  Sam felt the feeling again, sat back in his chair, and let it wash over him. Something was familiar. What the hell was it? Something from somewhere in the past, what was it he felt trying to surface from the depths of his memory?

  “What about Thiele?” he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on more recent events.

  “I stayed around for a while after you left,” Paddy said. “I didn’t learn much more than you already know. Someone cut his throat while he slept, so it seems. I expect the autopsy is being performed at this very moment. I’m headed there when I leave here. See if I can find out anything new, although I expect Thiele’s report will say the same as those there,” he indicated the pages Sam was holding. “What about you? How was your visit with the lovely Professor Curtis?”

  Sam shifted in his chair, the scent of her still strong in his mind.

  “She also thinks the same man is responsible. However, she is not convinced we are looking for a serial killer, in the true sense of the word. She thinks, the fact there was an association with all the victims and the legal profession, indicates he is targeting specific individuals. Given this latest murder, the theory has gained in credibility in the last few hours. She suggests there might be a common link between all the victims, other than their profession. She feels if we find that link we may well find the killer.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Paddy observed, swallowing the last of his coffee. “Where will you be if I need to reach you?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam shrugged. “If you find out anything new, you can leave a message on my machine, or try my mobile. I think I might pay my employer a visit.”

  “Judge Hackett?” Paddy queried. “No, Sam, you can’t do that. You can’t talk directly to him. It was a condition he insisted on. He’s not prepared to risk it being revealed they have little faith in their police force. I gave my word. If you must contact him, you must do it through me.”

  Sam rubbed his eyes, his frustration evident. “Okay, okay. But it’s not going to be easy. If there is a connection, he might be able to shed light on it. Lord knows we could use a break.”

  “That’s true enough, but the judge thinks you can do it, and so do I. He and his colleagues have put their reputations at considerable risk in hiring you, and their terms are not negotiable.”

  “Okay,” Sam conceded once again. “I’ll play it their way, at least for the moment.”

  When Paddy left, Sam sat for a long time reading and re-reading the pathologist reports. Perhaps he had missed something. He hoped he might find it in the pages of the reports. If it was not there the first time he read it, it was not going to appear as if by magic in any subsequent readings, he guessed. Finally, he tossed the pages aside, got up from his desk, and walked across the room. He stood in front of his office window and watched the traffic as it jostled, and manoeuvred its way to and from the city. Like a pendulum, his thoughts swung from Richter to Costello, from Henderson to Thiele, then to Ann Curtis.

  Suddenly he remembered the envelope he discovered when he entered the office. He stepped back to his desk, picked it up and studied it again, more closely this time. He ripped at the seal, upended it over his desk, and shook it. Nothing fell out. He shook it again and still nothing. He turned it up, and peered into the opening. Then, he saw it; a piece of paper, stuck in the bottom of the envelope. He reached in and removed the single, small scrap of white paper.

  “Oh, shit!” he hissed. “Oh, shit!”

  It was a list. On it were four names. Richter - Costello - Henderson - Thiele. Each of the names were numbered, 1, 2, 3, 4. Following name number 4 - Thiele, were two more numbers, 5 and 6. There were no names alongside these last two numbers. Each name on the list had a big red cross through it, made with a red marker pen, it seemed.

  Sam dropped the paper onto his desk, and then picked it up again, gingerly this time, between two fingers. He held it as close to the edge as he could without dropping it. He was too late of course; his fingerprints would already be on the paper and they would be the only ones. The killer would be too smart to leave his prints all over it. He stared at it, long and hard, but no “eureka” moments of revelation came to him. He put the paper down and carefully picked up the envelope it came in. There was no stamp on the front. Someone must have hand-delivered it, but who? Anyone could have slipped it under his door. Maybe it was a nut job playing out a sick prank. No, that was not possible. No one other than Paddy O’Reily and Judge Hackett knew he was involved.

  Then, there it was! Like a slap in the face, the realisation hit him. It had to be the killer! There was no one else it could be. The killer had been there; in the very building; standing outside his door! The killer delivered the envelope himself! What did it mean? The thought of the maniac standing outside his door as recently as a few hours ago sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, and he felt the hair bristle at the nape of his neck.

  “Jesus Christ!” he whistled. “Jesus bloody Christ!”

  For a moment, he felt isolated and alone; more alone than at any time in his life. He looked around the small office, half expecting a crazed maniac to be hiding somewhere, but knowing he was truly alone. He wished he had opened the envelope when Paddy was here, that way he would have someone to share this with, someone he could talk to. He felt the way he remembered feeling as a young boy when one, or both of his parents, sent him to his room. It seemed, to his young mind, to be far away at the other end of the family home; away from the safety and security of the rest of the house.

  It wasn't a feeling of fear; more like apprehension; like someone hiding in his room; a faceless, nameless, malevolent stranger, hiding behind the bedroom door, or under the bed, lying in wait for him to come padding tentatively along the long, dark hallway in his teddy bear pyjamas. He shuddered involuntarily, and shook the childish thoughts from his mind, silently cursing himself for his foolishness.

  What was he to do now? Legal, ethical, moral, and probably a hundred other reasons, suggested he should hand the list and the envelope over to the police immediately. It was evidence. These days, forensic science had advanced to a point where they could identify from where a piece of paper was likely purchased. An analysis of the handwriting could provide information in regards to the author of the list. Sam knew these things better than most.
He was an ex-cop, he should do what was right and give it to Foley. Withholding evidence of a crime was an offence, he also knew that better than most, but something held him back. A part of him wanted to keep knowledge of the list’s existence secret, at least for the time being. Doing so was almost certainly going to bring him a great deal of hurt; particularly from Russell Foley. If Foley discovered he was in possession of such important evidence, he would not hesitate to bring the full weight of the law to bear against him. He was committing a serious offence by not turning it over to the police, but still he hesitated. Did the killer send a copy of the list to the police as well? What if he didn’t? What if this was the only copy? What if he and the killer were the only two people to have seen the list? What would that mean? Was he sending Sam a sick, cryptic message, and if so, why? Why him?

  Sam decided not to tell Foley. Not yet, though the logic behind his decision eluded him. Now his desire to find this bastard was no longer a matter of economics. It was no longer just another paid job. For an unknown reason, this had become personal. The anonymous killer had made it that way.

  11

  Russell Foley stifled a yawn. He was tired. His eyes, red and puffy from considerable lack of sleep, felt like someone had thrown a handful of sand in his face. He rubbed at the irritation, knowing it would only make it worse.

  In front of him, on the opposite side of his desk, sat Assistant Commissioner, Peter Story. Story thumbed through the latest murder file, pausing over the glossy, eight-by-four, photographs taken by a forensic photographer at Kevin Thiele’s home several hours earlier.