by Rob Ashman
His style and approach suited the times and, just as his kill rate had got him decorated, so his arrest rate got him noticed. He rapidly rose through the ranks and became Lieutenant at a relatively early age. That’s when it all began to unravel for Harper.
Lucas had some sympathy for the man. He was a product of his environment and unable to adapt to the demands of modern policing. Lucas stood in Harper’s neighbourhood and looked around him wondering if his predecessor now regretted his inability to change.
Harper wasn’t difficult to find. His apartment was well known to the older guys at work. It was in a run-down part of town where a short walk meant your shoes would be covered in pavement grease. Lucas made his way past the bleak tenement blocks, every doorway he passed stinking of urine, the noise of a passing train thundering off the dilapidated buildings.
Some places, like people, wear the bruises of the past. As with people, these bruises are often starkly visible long after the black and purple has faded. Harper lived in such a place.
Lucas entered an apartment block, making his way up the internal stairwell to number 506. He’d tried to telephone before he left the station, but the number was unavailable. Looking around him, he supposed that Harper had been cut off for not paying the bill. He supposed right. At the fifth-floor landing he thumped his fist on the door marked 5 6, the zero long since departed. The loud knock prompted a lot of scuffling inside and a gruff voice barked, ‘Piss off.’
Lucas raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth disapprovingly.
‘Harper, this is Lieutenant Ed Lucas from the station. I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Piss off,’ came the reply. The door remained firmly shut. This was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated.
‘Harper, I need to talk to you. Max Redford gave me your address and said it would be okay for me to drop by.’ Lucas’s voice was upbeat, guessing that dropping the name of a police drinking partner into the conversation would gain him some ground.
‘Don’t know any Max Redford.’ Harper was having none of it.
‘Harper, open the damn door. I need your help with something.’
‘What about?’ Since Harper’s reply hadn’t used a swear word, Lucas felt encouraged. There was a pause as Lucas weighed up his options. Provide a wrong answer now and the door would probably remain closed forever. Or he could grab Harper’s attention by taking a risk. Lucas gambled.
‘Mechanic.’ The word was greeted by complete silence on the other side of the door.
‘Fuck off.’ This sounded like Harper’s final word on the subject. Lucas waited to see what might happen, but after several minutes he gave it up as a bad job, vowing to return with a warrant and a sledge hammer. The warrant to make it legal and the hammer to hit Harper over the head. He was one flight down the stairs when he heard the sound of the sliding dead bolt and the chain rattling against the wooden door as it opened on squeaky hinges.
‘You’d better come in.’ The gravelly voice sounded resigned and reluctant. Lucas went back up the steps and elbowed open the door, stepping inside the apartment. After the gloom of the stairwell, the flood of light from the window at the far side of the room caused spots to circle in front of his eyes, all he could see were large floating blotches. Harper said nothing.
Gradually, Lucas made out Harper’s silhouette against the window. Between them lay an obstacle course of newspapers, food wrappers, dirty dishes and clothes, all strewn across the floor so that it was impossible for Lucas to make out the colour of the carpet. An orange sofa was against one wall with a big box television opposite it. A set of chairs and a table had been crammed into one corner and a stove and sink shoehorned into the other.
Lucas’s vision was fully restored by now. To his left he saw a bedroom with a single bed and a chest of drawers. Each drawer was open, clothes hanging out, and the door to the bedroom was missing. The place looked as if it had been burgled.
Harper stood with his back to Lucas, staring out of the window. ‘Well, Lieutenant. You wanted to talk to me. I’m all ears.’ His voice was hard and challenging. Lucas cleared his throat.
‘Yes, I wondered if you would help me tidy up a few loose ends.’
‘About a three-year-old case, Lieutenant?’ Harper spun around and stared hard at Lucas. ‘Come on. That’s a clumsy line and you know it. Which particular loose end did you have in mind?’ Harper had lost none of his disrespect for the force.
Lucas didn’t answer. Harper was still a big man, though the ravages of neglect and years on the booze had taken their toll. His hair was lank, greasy and badly cut, while under his eyes were dark circles above a stubbled jawline. He wore a shapeless sweatshirt and jeans and had nothing on his feet. He fitted his surroundings well.
Lucas eventually said, ‘I need to understand more about the relationship between you and Victor Galbraith at the time of the Mechanic case.’
‘What the hell for, man? The damn case is dead and buried and so is he. What relevance could that have today?’ There was a crackle behind Harper and a voice came from the back of the curtain. He reached over to switch something off. Lucas saw it was a police scanner. Harper caught his look. ‘I like to stay in touch,’ he said, moving away from the window and sitting on one of the dining chairs.
‘It would help with an inquiry.’ Lucas detected flashes of interest in Harper’s eyes.
‘Okay, Lieutenant, let’s cut the crap. I know the score. I’ll play along with your game for now. Let’s do some dancing.’ Harper got up from the chair, swung it around in front of him and straddled the seat with his arms folded on its back. ‘As you can see, the force has been good to me in my retirement, so the least I can do is cooperate.’ His retort was thick with sarcasm but he couldn’t hide the intrigue in his eyes.
Lucas began slowly and carefully. ‘You and Galbraith worked together on the Mechanic case. All of the standard stuff I can read in the reports. What I want right now is some insight into Galbraith. What was he like?’ Lucas threw a packet of cigarettes at Harper who caught it in one hand.
‘Oh, you want insights? I don’t know if I can provide you with insights, Lieutenant.’ The sarcasm was knee deep. Harper struck a match and held it below a cigarette which glowed red. Smoke puffed into the air. ‘Galbraith was the ultimate shrink. In his world, every action we take, every thought we have, has its roots in our past experiences. Our fears, our pleasures, our little quirks, can all be explained by analysing what lurks in our past. The problem was that it didn’t stop there. The stupid prick also considered that if people committed a crime it wasn’t really their fault but a product of their previous experiences.’
He withdrew the cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the smoke hit the bottom of his lungs.
‘To him, the criminals were helpless to resist their preordained destiny to be dirtbags. He also figured that he could describe the characteristics of a killer by what he saw at the crime scene. He could tell their age, colour, personality type, and even in a number of cases what they did for a living. Psychological profiling, he called it. Psychological horseshit, more like.’
He drew hard on the cigarette and watched the glowing red band suck its way up the white tube. He blew out a great cloud of smoke which spiralled up to the nicotine-stained ceiling.
‘In Galbraith’s head it was their experiences in society that had led them into crime and he thought society had a responsibility to care for them, to shoulder part of the blame.’ Harper was raising his voice, his anger still clearly visible. ‘In doing so, all he achieved was to get the fuckers reduced sentences.’ He hurled the words at Lucas.
‘I can understand your frustration when Galbraith provided mitigating circumstances for the defence, but that’s different from psychological profiling. Didn’t you find that the profiling helped the investigation?’ Lucas probed gently, aware that the ice was thin.
‘It has its place in narrowing the scope, but that’s all. The problem was that Ga
lbraith rammed it down our throats. He insisted that without a profile we would never find Mechanic. The harder he pushed, the harder I resisted. I wouldn’t use his damn profile, he could shove it up his ass. I told him we’d catch the bastard without it. The only thing it was good for was to provide the defence lawyer with a head start.’
‘But you didn’t catch him, did you?’ Lucas realized his question was unwise as soon as it left his lips.
‘The hell we didn’t,’ Harper exploded, standing up and thumping his fist into the back of the chair, knocking it to the floor. ‘We tracked Mechanic down, but the slippery son of a bitch torched himself in that car before we could nail him. We had the fucker, Lieutenant. We had him, and don’t you forget it.’ His voice subsided along with his flush of anger. Harper set the chair upright and sat down, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand.
‘Yes, you did. You’re right,’ Lucas placated him. ‘Why did Galbraith die?’
‘I don’t know for sure.’ Harper slowly shook his head, looking at the floor. ‘The only thing I can think of is that he might have worked out Mechanic’s identity. And for that reason, Mechanic shot him. But if he had figured it out, he kept it to himself. It’s the only rationale that makes any sense. Galbraith had fingered the killer and arranged to meet with him on that piece of waste ground. What I do know is that he didn’t tell me or any of my team about it.’
‘But why did he keep it to himself?’ asked Lucas.
‘Oh, that’s easy. To prove he was right all along and that his methods worked and mine didn’t. The only problem was his damn profile failed to predict that Mechanic would kill him.’
‘Do you have any idea of the identity of the person that Galbraith met that evening?’ asked Lucas.
‘That’s the worst of it. Not a clue. Up to that point the enquiry had uncovered absolutely zilch. So how in God’s name Galbraith miraculously hits the jackpot is beyond me.’
‘How did you know it was Mechanic who killed him?’
‘The slugs dug out of the body were an exact match to those found at the previous crime scenes.’
Lucas was gripped. His mind raced with facts from the case notes. He fired another question.
‘How do you mean, “dug out of the body”?’
‘We removed two bullets, one from his chest and the other out of the ground underneath his body. The round passed straight through his stomach.’
‘But the file notes said he died from a bullet fired at point-blank range to the head.’
‘Yes, that’s right, it does. But we also dug out two other bullets which matched those found in other murders.’ There was an edge of annoyance in Harper’s voice since he had to repeat himself. Lucas backed away – he didn’t want to switch Harper off now he was talking freely.
‘When did you start receiving the notes from Mechanic?’
‘They happened throughout the case. We kept them quiet. The press coverage was so heavy in terms of detail that any sicko could have pretended to be Mechanic and given a good account of themselves. The notes contained specific details only the killer would know, we had to keep them secret to have any chance of using them as evidence.’
‘That must have been hard.’ Lucas was losing Harper who was drifting away to a safer place.
‘They crucified us every step of the way.’ Harper’s eyes were watery and vacant. Lucas saw that it was time to leave. He thanked him for his time before walking to the door, his mind still racing with unanswered questions.
‘Did Galbraith keep records, or notes of any kind? These scientist types often do.’
‘Yeah, he sure did.’ Harper rose from his chair. ‘He used to get through a new pen just about every other day. He wrote everything down, must have recorded every time he took a crap. The man was a fanatic.’
‘When did you last speak to him?’
Harper thought for a while, then replied, ‘He phoned me when I was in a bar on the night he was killed. The jerk tracked me down to ram that damn profile down my throat again and banged on about how I’d got it wrong. Phoned me in the damn bar. Can you believe that? I was so angry – I couldn’t even have a quiet beer without that bastard having a go. This time he wouldn’t let it drop, went on and on about how I’d got it wrong. In the end I slammed the phone down and never spoke to him again. We found his body the next day. Whatever he knew, he took it with him. He was an annoying prick.’
Lucas walked out of the apartment and onto the landing, not looking back.
‘Give my regards to Max Redford,’ Harper called after him.
14
Driving back to the station, Lucas replayed the conversation with Harper in his mind. He again had that nagging sensation that something wasn’t right.
Why would you blow a hole in a person’s head, then pump two bullets into their body while they were lying on the ground, obviously dead? He sucked his teeth and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. You really are a convoluted son of a bitch, Mechanic. I can’t trust anything I hear or anything I see.
He pulled into the station, shoved the gear shift into park and got out, slamming the door. At the front desk, the officer was talking on the phone. Lucas interrupted, ‘Do you know where Dr Sells is?’
The officer covered the mouthpiece and replied, ‘Yes, sir, she said something about getting her kit and going to the gym. She may still be there.’ He returned to his caller.
Lucas made his way to the basement and peered through the gym window. It certainly wasn’t the usual hive of sweaty activity as he opened the door and walked in. Several guys were milling around, playing on pieces of equipment but with no serious effort taking place. Then he spotted the reason, Jo Sells on the bench press.
Unlike the others in the gym, Lucas didn’t have the excuse of pretending to operate the weights. He just stood and stared. He couldn’t figure out which was the most distracting – her legs splayed either side of the pressing bench, or the enormous weight which was lifted rhythmically and effortlessly from chest to full arm extension and back again. Lucas forced himself to snap out of it and walked over to Jo.
As he reached her, she exhaled strongly and sat up.
‘Oh hi! Been there long?’
‘Long enough to know why your handshake is so firm.’
Jo laughed and threw her head back at the weights. ‘This is nothing. I haven’t trained seriously for a long while. This is only a warm-up.’
Lucas’s eyes widened. He estimated that she was pressing almost her own body weight. ‘Hell of a warm-up,’ was all he could think of to say. He continued, ‘Fancy taking a ride out to the Mason house?’
‘Sure, I’ll take a shower and meet you in the front office in twenty minutes.’ She jumped to her feet and followed Lucas to the door. The men who’d been pretending to train clapped as she left the gym. She flashed them a smile and quipped, ‘Keep practising guys, it’s all in the wrist action. But then you’d know all about that.’
Nice put-down, Lucas thought, despite the fact he was still annoyed with her.
Lucas pulled out of the station parking lot and headed south with Jo beside him. They sat in silence for the first few miles, watching the afternoon shoppers buzz around and the local hobos getting their first slugs of cheap alcohol for the day. When they hit the freeway, Lucas spoke.
‘I need your help.’
‘Sure,’ Jo said looking straight ahead. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘No, what I mean is I need your help now.’
‘Okay. With what?’
‘This thing is progressing fast and I need a crash course in serial killers. Why they do what they do, what are the different types, what are their motives? You know, the basics. I don’t know what I’m dealing with here and that’s not good.’ He paused. ‘I need you to help me.’
‘Okay … Wow, there’s a lot to say. Where to start? Er ...’ Lucas wasn’t sure if it was the question that had fazed her or the fact that he’d asked for her help.
‘Just talk and we’
ll see how we get on. What did the profile say about Mechanic?’ Lucas felt that he had provided enough of an introduction and so stopped talking.
‘It said that Mechanic was a white male in his late twenties, early thirties. He probably had a steady job and was a reasonably intelligent and affable individual. He was socially adept, was likely to have had a girlfriend or a family and he probably lived in a steady place, in a stable environment. He was an organized killer who—’
‘What does that mean, an organized killer?’ Lucas interrupted.
‘Serial killers can be divided into two categories: organized and disorganized. A disorganized killing has the characteristics of being unplanned. The murder is a spur of the moment thing. Disorganized killers don’t plan their attacks. A victim can be chosen merely by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In these cases, the killer makes no attempt to hide the body and tends to use items found in the immediate vicinity as murder weapons. More often than not the bodies are disfigured after death or the killer has sex with them post mortem. These guys are loners and don’t develop attachments to others. They have a low IQ, move around a lot doing menial casual work and are socially dysfunctional.’ Jo was recalling extracts from numerous lectures that she’d given on her favourite topic.
‘But that’s not our guy, right?’ asked Lucas.
‘No, ours is well organized. He’s a predator who meticulously plans every detail. He brings with him all the tools he needs to carry out the killing and will have selected his victim against a set of clearly defined criteria. He’ll probably stalk his prey until the time is right to kill. Then he destroys any evidence and hides the victim. For such people the act of killing is a piece of theatre. They run the kill over and over in their heads until it’s perfect, then they carry it out in line with the fantasy. After each one, they replay it over and over to find where they can make improvements. Our guy probably has a higher than average IQ and is most likely to have taken tokens from the kill site as a reminder.’