“He won’t tell you what you want to know,” Gretchen says, an edge to her voice now, “and he’ll make you suffer while you try.”
Lydia’s blood boils with fury at this blatant, casual disrespect, but she masters herself in a split second and meets Gretchen’s icy front with a defiant smile. “You’re probably right,” she replies lightly. “You know him much better than I do of course, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t at least try.”
“Alright then,” Gretchen shrugs lightly, “I’ve said my piece and I won’t stand in your way. The powers that be have asked me to give you whatever you need,” she sees Lydia’s eyes light up, “within reason, of course. We still have to be aware of patient confidentiality, so obviously I can’t go into detail about his treatment, but you can see him. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But I thought—”
“Yes, unfortunately we had to give him a sedative this afternoon. He’ll be out cold until the morning, so you can see him after lunch if you like.”
“Thank you,” Lydia says, hiding her disappointment. “That would be great.”
“But since you’re here now, if you like, I can give you a quick t—”
A shrill bell sounds, like a curdled scream from within the bowels of the building, reverberating through the corridors and making the walls themselves scream.
“Oh hell,” Gretchen mutters, already out of her chair and halfway to the door. “I’m sorry, I have to…” she gestures helplessly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Lydia’s hand is inside her bag even before the tails of the doctor’s white coat have whipped out of sight, and in an instant, she is on her knees before the stickered filing cabinet, sliding a pair of stiff wires into the lock and adjusting them with her slender fingers just so. The alarm stops ringing, and in the heightened silence that follows, the soft click of the lock opening sounds like a pistol being cocked right beside Lydia’s ear. She glances anxiously over her shoulder and listens for footsteps, but there are none. She slides the drawer open and finds, to her surprise, only a few files within. Lydia flicks through them, counting in her head; one, two, three, four, five. Jason Devere’s is the last. She knows she hasn’t much time, but an impulse she trusts is telling her to lift them all out, and so she does. You can learn much about a person by the company they keep, she knows, and these four patients are in rare company indeed. With another quick look at the door, she opens the topmost file and scans its contents:
PATIENT NOTES: PRIVATE… CASE FILE: HENRY NASHTON… FULL NAME: HENRY ALBERT NASHTON… OCCUPATION: THERAPIST… 5 FT 10 IN… 183 LBS… SUMMARY: … wife diagnosed with terminal brain cancer… decided to end her suffering, but the attempt was unsuccessful… she died a short time later, in hospital… driven mad with grief, Nashton killed nine patients with poison… claimed to have been ‘putting them out of their misery’… delusional and extremely dangerous.
Lydia has already assessed Henry Nashton before she finishes reading the summary. Though monstrous, his is too simple a case. To be driven mad by grief is a tragedy, but not an uncommon one, as serial killers go. It’s been done, darling, Lydia can hear her agent saying. She drops the file back into the drawer and flips open the next one:
CASE FILE: HILLARY BROWN… FULL NAME: HILLARY ELIZABETH BROWN… OCCUPATION: MOTHER AND HOUSEWIFE… 5 FT 6 IN… 135 LBS… SUMMARY: … divorced mother of two… as a child often assaulted by her alcoholic father… found out that her husband was having an affair… stabbed him and his lover violently and repeatedly in the head with such frenzy that dental records were needed to identify the bodies… since being institutionalised, has taken to viewing herself as the mother of the other inmates… has a healthy loving maternal relationship with her own children… has convinced herself that her husband is still alive, most likely as a coping mechanism.
Lydia hesitates briefly. Hillary Brown seems like another fairly straightforward case, but the tingle at the back of Lydia’s brain is telling her there’s something more here, probably more than Gretchen realises. The greatest evils are often hidden behind a deception we all want to believe: the illusion of love. And no love is stronger than that of a mother for her children. The idea of Hillary Brown makes Lydia shudder. But this is not what she is here for. She drops the file into the drawer and moves on:
CASE FILE: HOLLY ADDAMS… FULL NAME: HOLLY MICHELLE ADDAMS… OCCUPATION: HEIRESS… 5 FT 8 IN… 123 LBS… SUMMARY: … despite inheriting a fortune from her wealthy parents, Holly’s desire to accumulate ever more wealth led her to marry several times… each of her husbands meeting their demise under suspicious circumstances… she resembles somewhat of a black widow… deeply sociopathic and antisocial… narcissistic… hyper-sexuality… manipulation of men in order to get them to do her bidding… seems frustrated to have a female doctor.
Lydia is intrigued. Though one-dimensional for a serial killer, sex is always a good seller. But she feels that this case is too much of tired cliché, as well as missing that extra something. The pure, chaotic darkness, perhaps, that the most dangerous human beings possess, that makes their minds impenetrable to most people. She makes a mental note of the name to look up later, returns Holly’s file to the drawer and reaches for the fourth:
CASE FILE: WAYLON WARRINGTON… FULL NAME: WAYLON EDWARD WARRINGTON… OCCUPATION: STOCK BROKER… 6 FT 2 IN… 205 LBS… SUMMARY: … once a successful stockbroker… hiding a passion for cannibalism… suffered bullying and abuse from his mother as a child… developed a sadistic streak… extremely uncooperative… displays a complete lack of empathy for his victims, primarily young men… could point to repressed sexual appetite as a contributing factor.
Waylon Warrington is compelling and mysterious, it’s true. The cannibalism is appropriately taboo and the possible sexual component intriguing. This would make for a good case, Lydia thinks. Maybe the best of the bunch, but still something is missing. Hands trembling, she slides Waylon’s file back into the drawer and pulls the last one towards her, opening it with an almost religious reverence:
CASE FILE: JASON DEVERE… FULL NAME: JASON THOMAS DEVERE… OCCUPATION: NONE… 6 FT 0 IN… 195 LBS… SUMMARY: … extremely uncooperative in our sessions. I have hardly gained any knowledge from him in our time together… outwardly, he seems quite normal, if somewhat detached… enjoys playing games… only period of his life he will willingly talk about is his childhood… speaks fondly of 8th grade teacher in particular, one Mrs Eagle… severe bipolar disorder with frequent suicidal thoughts… the multiple murders to which he has himself confessed reveal him to be a cruel psychopath with an unparalleled and frankly horrifying appetite for torture… has a br—
Quick footsteps outside in the hallway set Lydia’s heart racing, blood pounding in her ears as she throws the file back into the drawer, sliding it closed with her foot as she rises and turns to see Gretchen Engel appear around the door. For a moment the doctor looks suspicious, but Lydia’s mind is quick and before Gretchen can speak, she is raising the phone that she slipped from her bag as she stood.
“Reception,” says Lydia, simply, waving the device in the direction of the nearby window. “I thought it might be better over here, but…”
“Oh,” Gretchen replies, disarmed. “It’s these thick walls. You have to go all the way outside. It’s very irritating.”
“Ah, no worries.” Lydia perches herself on the corner of the desk. “Everything under control?”
“Hmm?”
Lydia nods towards the door.
“Oh!” Gretchen looks around. “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, nothing’s ever properly under control here lately. Not since the last round of budget cuts. I told them there’s a reason we’re supposed to have a ratio of staff to patients, but as usual—” She catches Lydia’s eye. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. But I’m sorry, I won’t be able to give you that tour this evening after all.”
“Tour?”
“Yes,” Gretchen looks confused. “Like I said… didn’t I say?”
Lydia
shakes her head.
“Oh, well I was going to before… but now I have to get back to this thing, I’m sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure,” Lydia replies. “No problem.”
“Do you need me to show you out?”
“I can manage.” Lydia smiles, extending her hand. “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
The doctor’s hand feels warm against Lydia’s cool skin, and softer than she remembered it being the first time around. There is a look in her emerald green eyes that Lydia cannot quite place. Is it worry? Fear? No, something more complex and interesting than that. Something evasive, illusive. Lydia doesn’t know. But it’s that haunting look she dwells upon as she makes her way back through the dark corridors of Mortem. She can just hear the muffled strain of something that might be human voices soaking through the walls, lingering in the air like ghosts. Then they fade away, the deep gravel of the car park crunches beneath her feet, and the night’s chill stirs a familiar, gnawing hunger.
Two
Driven Desires
Lydia kicks off her red stilettos, and they land with a soft thump on the thick, patterned brown carpet. Soft, warm light from the antiquated fixtures makes the floral-patterned wallpaper look old and dirty, and the desk upon which she now sets her laptop is vandalised with a thousand tiny dents and scratches. Is this what passes for five-star accommodation, she wonders? Maybe this is what rich people enjoy, the illusion of living a humbler life in a previous era. They’re not greedy, just nostalgic and misunderstood.
A knock at the door heralds the arrival of a waiter in a crisp, dark green waistcoat. He is young, and somewhat awkward, with uneven black hair that looks like his mother still cuts it.
“Manhattan, Miss?” He presents the cocktail to her on his little round tray shakily, like a peasant offering a sacrifice to a cruel queen. Lydia gestures towards the desk, then sinks onto the bed and stretches her legs, wiggling her stockinged toes. It has been an awfully long day. She notices the boy watching her, and he looks away instantly, cheeks flushing red. “Will there be anything else, Miss?”
“Please,” she eyes the name badge on his chest, “Daniel, call me Lydia.”
“Yes, Miss…” he shifts uncomfortably, “Okay.”
Lydia lets the boy marinade in his awkwardness for a few moments. Being in control of people was an addiction, and this was as easy as scores came. An innocent young man in service to a beautiful woman. She could make him do practically anything she wanted. Not that she would. Knowing she had the power was enough.
“No, thank you, Daniel,” she says finally. “That will be all.”
The boy gives a little bow as he backs out of the room, forcing Lydia to stifle a laugh until the door closes. She knows he will be dreaming about her on that bed for a long time. As she dwells on that satisfying notion, her laptop chimes an alert. Lydia rises with a sigh, makes her way to the desk and taps a key. A chubby, middle-aged woman in heavy makeup and a cobalt blue suit that pops against the stark white background of her office appears on the screen.
“Oh, hi Donna,” says Lydia, settling herself in the chair.
“How’s it going down there?” Donna’s voice is brash New York, but with the unmistakable rattle of a chain smoker. “You managed to locate food and water?”
“I’m in Decanten, it’s not the sticks.”
“Darling, everywhere outside of New York and LA is the sticks.”
Lydia rolls her eyes. Part of her is offended; the young Lydia who grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia, but it is a part of herself she recognises less every year. She is becoming more like them, more like the Donnas of the world who don’t have time for anyone who isn’t important and connected. She prickles at the thought.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Donna presses her. “What did you find? Something juicy I hope.” Lydia remembers Gretchen’s teasing. Oh god, I really am becoming like her.
“I didn’t meet him yet,” she replies, reaching for the cocktail. “They had to sedate him before I arrived. I don’t know why. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Ooooh!” Donna purrs with delight. “He sounds like a live wire! Do be careful, darling, won’t you?”
“You’re worried about me?” Lydia smirks, one eyebrow raised.
“Of course I am!” Donna looks comically offended. “You’re like a daughter to me.”
“You’re worried about losing your commission.”
“Oh honestly, the way you talk people would think I’m some sort of monster.”
“More like a wicked stepmother, really.”
“Tough love is still love, darling. So when do you think you’ll be finished?”
“Good grief.” Lydia almost spills her drink. “I haven’t even met the guy yet.”
“You don’t need to meet him to start writing, do you? You know what he’s done; use your imagination for goodness sake. We have to turn out a book a year, Lydia. You’re only hot for as long as you’re hot.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means get your backside in gear… and don’t look at me like that, darling. I’m only looking out for your best interests.”
“Yeah, and your bank account.”
“What was that, darling?” Donna inclines her ear towards the screen. “There was some noise outside.”
Lydia purses her lips. She knows Donna heard her just fine. “We’ve already had this conversation,” she says more loudly, “I can’t keep doing this.”
“But you’ve got so much talent. Please don’t make any rash—”
“Not now,” Lydia snaps. “I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed.” She sips her drink and looks away from the screen. At moments like this her agent feels like the mother she never had growing up and Lydia hates the feeling of disappointing her.
“Alright,” Donna says, somewhat coolly. “You get some sleep, darling, and I’ll speak to you in a couple of days.”
“Goodnight,” says Lydia, closing the laptop before waiting for a response. Reaching for her bag on the floor nearby, she pulls out a ragged bundle of newspaper clippings and carries it, along with her drink, to the bed. Settling herself amongst the half dozen chintzy cushions, she starts to look them over for what feels like the hundredth time. Amongst breathless descriptions of crime scenes and courtroom drama, the photographs of the victims rise up off the paper and embed themselves in the front of Lydia’s mind. These people, these real people, men, women, children, their faces calm, happy even, blissfully unaware of the sheer agony and horror that lay ahead of them. What went through their minds in their final moments, she wonders? What would it feel like to die that way?
A sick feeling begins to rise from the pit of her stomach, and she takes a large gulp of her cocktail to suppress it. A question that haunts Lydia in moments like this, dances mockingly around the fringes of her consciousness as she tries to force it away. Is it possible to truly understand evil without either becoming evil, or becoming a victim? She shakes her head firmly to dismiss the thought and turns to another clipping. Krimson Killer Caught screams the headline, and as Lydia’s eyes travel down the page, one line in particular stands out:
“It’s him,” said Detective Gilbey of Decanten PD. “We’re sure, but I urge the public to remain vigilant as we’re still looking for several missing persons and time is a critical factor.”
“Detective Gilbey,” she says out loud. She feels like she knows the name from somewhere else. A flicker of a memory she can’t quite catch. She thinks for a moment, before setting her drink down on the bedside table and reaching for her cell phone. It rings, and rings. This sound has always made Lydia anxious, and she has no idea why. It seems to her to grow louder with each repetition, like a warning. The line clicks.
“Decanten Police Department,” barks a weary female voice.
“Yes, I’m looking for Detective Gilbey.”
“Do you have information about a crime?”
“No, wel
l…” Lydia hesitates, “actually I was hoping he could give me some information.”
There’s a noticeable pause. “Ma’am, this isn’t an information service. Do you have a crime to report?”
“No, but listen, please,” Lydia says quickly, “I might be able to get some information for him. About a murder.”
“What murder?” The woman’s tone is sharp now.
“I don’t exactly know yet.”
“Ma’am, are you aware that false reporting is a crime?”
“I’m not reporting anything!”
“Then why are you wasting my time?”
“Look, can you just give him my number? It’s 212-505-6868. Please. It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is. Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Before Lydia can reply, there’s a click and a dial tone. She drops the phone onto the bed with a heavy sigh. Why are phone calls always so difficult? But of course, she already knows the answer. Lydia likes to see a person, to hear their tone of voice, and look into their eyes and read their body language and use her own to manipulate them. Without those tools she is disarmed. Weak. Vulnerable. She stretches out the fingers of her right hand and centres her frustration within the gem that she wears upon one of them. Despite the light of the bedside lamp, the ruby looks more black than red.
Lydia closes her eyes. Her body is pleading for sleep, but her mind is wide awake. With a weary sigh, she pulls herself up from the bed and crosses to the desk, opening her laptop and staring at the glowing screen. Of the hundreds of thoughts swirling around her brain, one has momentarily clarified. What she had managed to read of Jason Devere’s case file emphasised his childhood. Doctor Engel must think there’s something significant to be found there, but she hasn’t yet. And there was a teacher. What was her name? Lydia’s face tightens, her fingers half-clenched like claws as she tries to remember. Her thoughts are racing now, soaring, as if through a clear, blue sky, searching, scanning…
Face of Evil Page 2