by Rob Ashman
One room housed the summer holiday they’d had in Sarasota. Long sandy beaches and snorkelling in the crystal waters, chasing schools of tiny fish. Another contained the Christmas when it had snowed and Santa brought Mechanic a twelve-speed bike. It was all wrapped up in coloured paper and propped up on its stand by the tree.
There were many rooms, each one providing a defence mechanism which allowed Mechanic to function with at least the outward signs of a normal life – a home, a job and some friends. But the labyrinth of rooms gave the darker, sadistic side of Mechanic’s personality freedom to roam, waiting to seize control.
And that darker side came in the form of Daddy.
The abuse had gone on for years. It would strike at any time without warning. It happened when Daddy had a bad day, it happened when he had a good day. It happened when Daddy was happy, it happened when he was sad. The external stimulus which brought on the attacks was hard to identify. One thing was for sure. It generated a rage that could only be brought back to earth in one way, and that was where the young Mechanic came into the equation.
It was clear that, since Mom had left, Daddy was angry a lot. There was no one to talk to, no one to tell. Daddy had made it clear that if Mechanic breathed a word of this to anyone then the next step would be to be taken into foster care. Daddy also made it clear this was all Mom’s fault. The only reason he was like this was because of what she’d done. He had never acted like this before the split. It was all because of her and the way she’d abandoned them for that pot-smoking, beach bum fuckwit. Every attack reminded Mechanic of Mom’s betrayal. Every slap, every punch, every time Daddy ejaculated, only to break down afterwards and cry like a baby. This was all Mom’s doing. The bitch was to blame.
One room held a special place for Mechanic. Inside was the holiday of ’66 when they took the VIA train from Quebec City to Montreal. They crossed the St Lawrence River, enthralled by the moving cinema on the other side of the window. Factories and farms sprawled as far as the eye could see. Trailer parks flashed into view and then were gone. The young Mechanic liked it when the train slowed down to little more than walking pace, passing along back gardens in the small towns. This house had kids, probably a girl and a boy. This one was owned by older people who loved gardening. This one had the remnants of an outdoor barbeque party which hadn’t been cleared away. It was a kaleidoscope of images for Mechanic’s fertile imagination.
All was going well until they pulled into Drummondville. A smartly dressed middle-aged man got off the train holding a briefcase and an overnight bag. He was wrestling with the strap on the bag which was twisted, crouching down to untangle it, when two youths burst out of the jostling crowd and knocked him to the floor, shouting at him to hand over his bags. He went down hard, disorientated due to the speed of the attack but still had hold of his luggage. Mechanic stared out of the window as the assault continued not eight feet away.
‘The fucking case, man,’ shouted the louder of the two. ‘Give us the fucking case.’
Mechanic was transfixed.
Briefcase man was flat on his back with his feet slightly raised. The second youth kicked him just below his ribs. Mechanic saw his face contort with pain as he doubled over to protect himself.
‘Give us the bags, motherfucker,’ yelled the loud guy. ‘The case, man. Give us the fucking case.’ The guy who’d kicked him took another swing. Briefcase man blocked the kick, and grabbed his attacker’s leg above the ankle.
Everything went into slow motion.
Briefcase man kept a firm hold of kicking guy’s leg and swept his own right foot in an arc, taking the legs clean from under the other attacker. As his legs went one way and his body the other, the assailant spun in the air like a no-handed cartwheel and his head crashed onto the platform.
Briefcase man twisted kicking guy’s foot clockwise sending him spinning sideways to the ground, and in a single motion got to his feet, still holding the ankle. He snapped the leg sideways and stomped his right foot into kicking guy’s groin. He then calmly walked three strides across the concourse to where the other youth was on his knees, looking on in disbelief as his buddy held his busted balls. This was unfortunate because he didn’t see the left-foot kick which almost detached his head from his shoulders. The force of the strike lifted him into the air and laid him flat on his back. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Briefcase man stood up straight and dusted himself down. He checked his pockets – keys, wallet, all was in order. He picked up his bags and walked off. As the train pulled out of the station there was a piercing high-pitched squeal. Mechanic thought it came from the carriage wheels, but then realized the sound was coming from kicking guy, still laid out on the concrete, both hands clutched between his legs.
That chance encounter changed Mechanic for ever. The tsunami of abuse which would occur in the years ahead made Mechanic a sociopath but it was the chance encounter with an ex-marine on a station platform in Drummondville which drove Mechanic to acquire the tools to inflict extreme violence.
There was one enduring problem with the labyrinth inside Mechanic’s head. Since the abuse had stopped, it was where Daddy now lived, wandering along the corridors from room to room.
Mechanic often caught the distant sound of footsteps on wood block flooring as Daddy stalked around waiting for the opportunity to take control. He would talk to himself as he moved about, the soft whispering of a conversation far away.
Mechanic’s eyes opened in shock, torn from the drifting clouds of Pachelbel’s dreams. The sound of faraway whispering drifted through the labyrinth. Was it really there or was it just a false alarm? Mechanic stopped breathing, beads of sweat quickly formed then broke and ran in rivulets. The sound of footsteps came closer. The voice was becoming clearer.
Mechanic leapt from the sofa and ran to the small room down the hallway where the gym equipment was kept. Grasping a dumbbell in each hand, Mechanic started pumping the weights. First the right then the left, each movement swelling arms and shoulder muscles as they strained against the heavy weights. The footsteps were close now.
Mechanic had learned that intense physical exercise could block Daddy’s attempts to gain control. The more painful the exercise, the more chance there was of fighting off the attack. A menacing voice spoke inside Mechanic’s head.
‘Didn’t go to plan again, did it?’ Daddy was not happy.
Mechanic was galvanized into increased effort, muscles beginning to feel the intense burn as the lactic acid coursed through swollen veins. The dumbbells were moving slower now as the muscles became tired. Mechanic’s face contorted into a grimace, teeth clenched together, snarling against the pain.
‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You adjusted well but it wasn’t to plan. There needs to be another – soon.’
Mechanic fought against the failing muscles. This was always the most difficult part, the tipping point. If Mechanic allowed the pain and physical exertion to win, then Daddy would be in control. Maintaining the searing pain was the only way to hold him back. It was unbearable. Adrenalin surged through Mechanic’s body, making it shake.
Chest burning.
Arms burning.
Mechanic fought against the pain. Daddy was insistent.
‘When will we be ready for the next ...’ The sentence faded as the voice got farther away. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it was gone.
Silence.
Mechanic collapsed on the floor, arms flopped uselessly against the hessian matting. The pain and exertion had done its job. Mechanic rolled across the floor and stared at the ceiling, gasping for breath. Mechanic had feared that the imperfect way in which the McKee killings had taken place would trigger another attack, but was not expecting it so soon.
On a scale of zero to ten this attack had been a six, a minor assault, which was easily repelled. Mechanic was still in control, but knew only too well the attacks would grow in intensity. Before long it would be impossible to hold Daddy at bay.
28
Lucas sat in a black sixteen-seater van in the rain. Fat water droplets hammered on the roof and resonated through the whole vehicle. It was a hot night and the atmosphere in the van was like a sauna.
The windows misted up making it hard to observe the front entrance of the Silverdale Heights apartment block. Holed up in the van with the SWAT team it was difficult to hear, difficult to breathe and difficult to see. Despite this, Lucas was struggling to contain his expectation and excitement.
The briefing at the station had been short and sweet. Lucas had decided early on that this raid was not going to be a gentle knock on the door. It was going to be fast and it was going to be hard.
Bassano alerted the SWAT team that overwhelming force was needed to apprehend the occupant of Apartment 10. They were fine with that.
The rental agreement said the sole tenant was Mr Ellis Baker, a twenty-eight-year-old white male whose occupation was listed as IT consultant. The team dug around in the files but found nothing on him, not even a parking violation. He was clean. A short telephone conversation with the block manager told Lucas that Baker lived alone and was often away on business. It also told him that Baker had moved in about twelve months ago.
That was all they needed to know.
The men and women surrounding Lucas in the steamy van were the service’s finest, the toughest and the best trained. They were dressed in black paramilitary style uniforms with enough firepower to start a small war.
During the briefing, Jo and Bassano gave them the minimum amount of information necessary to carry out the raid. You could see the knowing glances passing between the SWAT team as Bassano relayed the statistics to them: white male, twenty-eight years old, wanted for questioning, suspected of killing fifteen people plus an FBI agent, all by gunshot wounds. That certainly grabbed their attention.
Bassano and Sells sat about twenty yards away in an air-conditioned car. The conversation was patchy – she talked about the case and the details surrounding Ellis Baker, he talked about himself.
She was determined to ignore Bassano’s line of chat and kept bringing it back to the job in hand. This was an irritating first for Bassano. He was used to being the one on the receiving end of the chase and this was putting him off his game.
He knew Lucas would disapprove but Bassano had a gift for ignoring the obvious when it was inconvenient. Okay, so she was a colleague working on the case, his boss didn’t trust her and she was implicated in the leak in the previous investigation. But hey, she was hot. However, she was proving to be a struggle and the more she ignored him, the bolder his advances became.
It bothered him that she continued to feign disinterest. From Jo’s point of view, he was simply beginning to bother her.
Jo was nervous and kept drawing and then shouldering her handgun. Bassano had stopped talking and was thumbing a grainy photograph of Ellis Baker taken from the lease agreement documentation. He looked pale and geeky with unruly hair – he looked like an IT consultant.
The radio in Lucas’s hand crackled into life with three short buzzes. This was the signal from the plain clothes SWAT guy to confirm that noises were coming from inside and Baker was at home. Could they really have uncovered Mechanic’s identity at last?
Lucas looked at the digital clock on the dashboard and gave the signal. It was 11.15pm. The side of the van slid back and the black figures jumped down into the cool night air. The apartment block was on four floors with parking spaces in the basement. It was newly built and well decorated both inside and out. A large glass door led to a reception area with a security guard sitting behind a half-moon desk watching TV. As it was after eleven the glass doors were secured shut.
Two of the SWAT team ran to the back of the building where the fire escape ladders were secured to the wall. Another two ran to the underground parking lot and the rest took up their positions on either side of the reception doors, their backs pressed against the wall. Lucas walked forward and flashed his badge at the bored security guard, hitting the button for the front doors to swing open. The guard’s jaw dropped as Lucas entered closely followed by eight storm troopers who were seriously tooled up.
Lucas held his hand up for the guard to be silent and motioned for him to step away from his desk.
‘We have a potentially serious situation here and we need your co-operation.’ Lucas was calm and measured.
‘Anything, man. Just name it.’ The guard was excited by the prospect of an evening’s entertainment.
‘I want you to sit here until we need you.’ Lucas pulled the office chair from behind the desk and put it against the opposite wall. ‘When we need something we’ll ask.’ The guard took up his position as if he had a ringside seat for a big fight.
One of the team hit the button to call the elevator. The other went to the electrical cabinet behind the desk and when the elevator arrived at reception pulled the circuit breakers. The buttons on the control panel went dead with the doors wide open. To the left there was a main staircase leading to all the floors with a much smaller set of service stairs in the opposite corner. Two of the team went to the service entrance and the rest took the main stairs, leaving one in the reception area to keep the guard company. Bassano and Sells followed at a safe distance.
On the first floor a young couple came out of their apartment, laughing and obviously drunk. They sobered up fast when a black figure ushered them back in with a ‘shush’ and closed the door behind them. Ellis Baker had the corner apartment on the second floor with what looked like a new front door. That’s unfortunate, Lucas thought.
One of the team put his ear to the door, gave the thumbs up and stepped aside. This allowed Big Tom to move into position. Big Tom was the name given to the fifty pound steel bar, about two and a half feet long. It was also the name of the six-foot-four-inch, two-hundred-and-forty pound officer who swung it. It impacted with a deafening thud just below the Yale lock and the door frame splintered.
The SWAT team piled in with their guns levelled, shouting at Ellis to get down on the floor.
Lucas could see that this wouldn’t be easy. Ellis was sitting in an armchair with his head back and his eyes shut. His trousers were around his ankles and between his splayed legs sat Lucky Miranda, a thirty-dollar hooker doing what thirty-dollar hookers do best.
‘What the f—’ Ellis said as he struggled to detach himself from Lucky Miranda, get up from the chair and pull his trousers up – an all-in-one movement he was never going to make.
‘On the floor!’ the officer shouted, his gun about three feet from Ellis’s head.
‘Hey man, what is this?’ Lucky Miranda was able to join in the protest now she was disengaged from Ellis. She rolled away to the side and sat on the floor drawing her knees up to her chin.
‘On the floor, with your hands behind your head!’
‘What the fuck is this about?’ Ellis said eating the pile of the carpet.
‘Clear!’ came a shout from the bedroom and then again from the kitchen.
The guy banged his knee into Ellis’s back and pulled his hands behind his back, locking them into metal cuffs. Once secured, he patted Ellis down for concealed weapons.
‘Who’s the woman?’
‘She’s a hooker, man, just a hooker. Look, why are you doing this?’ Ellis was finding it hard to talk, lying on his front with a policeman kneeling on his back.
‘What do you mean I’m just a hooker?’ Lucky Miranda had taken offence at the word just.
‘Shut it lady.’
‘You guys are going way overboard with this cleaning up the city shit,’ Miranda said as she looked at Ellis face down on the floor, his front door swinging on a single hinge.
The whole thing lasted no more than twenty seconds.
Lucas stepped forward. ‘Ellis Baker, I need you to accompany me to the station. We have some questions for you.’
‘This is crazy, man,’ yelled Ellis. ‘She�
��s just a piece of Friday night fun. Come on man this is fucking stupid.’
‘Let’s talk about it at the station.’ Ellis was lifted to his feet, taken down to the waiting van and driven away.
Bassano stood shaking his head in the empty flat, Ellis Baker’s picture still in his hand. Not that he had ever met one, but Ellis Baker did not look like a serial killer. He looked like an IT consultant.
29
Bassano and Jo Sells sat opposite Ellis Baker in the interview room. Bassano pressed the button on the tape machine and it emitted a long beep. Lucas was the other side of the two-way mirror in the next room, watching Baker intently.
‘Right Mr Baker, you are not under arrest and you have not been charged, we just want you to answer a few questions.’
‘I can’t believe this. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Baker was very agitated. He had kept asking the same questions over and over again in the van driving back to the station, only to be met with stony silence.
‘It was nothing, people do it all the time.’ He continued to protest in the interview room.
‘You do have the right to have a lawyer present—’
‘A lawyer?’ Baker was out of his chair. The officer at the back of the room moved forward but Bassano stopped him by raising his hand. ‘Why the hell do I need a lawyer? This is stupid, man. She was just a bit of entertainment that’s all. She sure as hell wasn’t underage or anything.’ Bassano had to agree with Ellis on that point. No one could ever mistake Lucky Miranda as underage.
Baker sat back down and Jo continued. ‘Mr Baker, we need you to help us by answering some questions.’