Watch Him Die

by Craig Robertson

  Andrea Wallace was a short, neat woman in a black trouser suit, with blonde bobbed hair and a wide smile. She greeted Narey with a handshake and a wave of her arm for her to follow. They walked along a narrow corridor that had Narey wondering what would happen if there was someone coming the other way. Wallace seemed to read her mind.

  ‘Your first time here?’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Wallace nodded. ‘There’s a look. I’ve seen it many times. But, rest assured, the reality is different from whatever you’re likely to have heard. It’s a lot safer in here than it is out there.’

  ‘That’s good to know, but given how some places are out there, it might not be saying much.’

  ‘Maybe so. But we’re working on making the hospital safer all the time. We’re looking to reduce the number of patients, ideally down to around one hundred from the two hundred and fifty that we currently have. We’ll be moving more of them out to medium-security units, including all of the women.’

  Wallace opened the door to her office and invited Narey inside. The room was neat and minimalist: white walls, a wooden desk, computer, phone and a solitary pot plant was all that was to be seen.

  ‘I’m not going to waste either of our time by going through the issues with us helping you on this. We both know them, and they’ve been discussed above my head and yours. And we’ve taken on board how serious the situation is that you’re dealing with. And a decision has been made.’

  She opened a drawer to her right and produced a beige folder which she placed on the desk in front of her. She tapped it as she spoke.

  ‘We’ve taken into account what you’ve been able to tell us in terms of his possible age, location, time parameters, and the suggestion that we didn’t diagnose him as being dangerous enough to retain. I have to say, it wasn’t a lot to work with.’

  Narey felt her heart sink.

  ‘We typically admit around thirty patients a year – that includes men and women. Most of those are with us for a prolonged period of time, many of them indefinitely. Those who can be readmitted to society on their own recognisance are always far fewer than we’d like. If we commit ourselves to saying a patient is safe to be released without supervision then we must be completely certain that decision won’t come back to bite us on the arse and, more importantly of course, endanger the public. As a result, it doesn’t happen either easily or often. So that, in this instance, has helped us narrow down the possibilities. Getting to the point, within the time period we are talking about and eliminating those who don’t fit the criteria or who have been readmitted here or elsewhere, it leaves just six men who fit the profile.’

  ‘Only six?’ Narey couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you can be confident about that?’ She knew she was only making things difficult for herself, checking all the teeth on the gift horse that was being presented to her, but she had to be sure.

  Wallace pursed her lips and didn’t seem at all impressed by the question.

  ‘I can be as confident about it as I can in the information you’ve given me, Inspector.’

  She took the riposte on the chin, knowing she’d asked for it.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just more – better – than I’d hoped for. May I see the folder? I assume that’s the six men you’ve identified.’

  Wallace nodded and pushed the folder across the desk. ‘It’s all in there. Their histories, staff appraisals, release dates. Take it with you and please, keep in touch. If we’ve messed up by letting someone go who has gone on to do the things you believe he has, then we need to learn from that, and we’ll need to be prepared to apologise for it.’

  Narey nodded at that – there were going to have to be a lot of apologies made before they were finished. She opened the folder and pulled out the top sheet.

  Derek Solomon. Colin McPake. John Paul Kepple. Fraser Anderson. Martin Geir. Ian Bryce.

  Six men. Six files. Six histories. Six chances of finding the man calling himself Matthew Marr.

  ‘You have to be aware, Inspector, that the man you’re looking for may not be known by the names on these files, never mind the name you know him by. He might have invented a completely new life for himself. If he somehow convinced our staff that he should be released by hiding his true self then he’s a person of some considerable guile who has also managed to hide himself from those around him. Anyone that good at hiding won’t be found easily.’

  Narey nodded. ‘No matter how good he is at hiding, we’re nearer to finding him than we were an hour ago. So thank you.’ She held up the folder. ‘If he’s in here, he’s ours.’

  CHAPTER 34

  Igloo. Messages. Vikki, 32.

  Hi Ryan, are you still on this site?

  Delivered, 14.34

  Read, 14.34

  Hey Vikki. I was thinking about you and wondered if you might be online

  Oh were you? That’s sweet. Maybe I was thinking the same

  That’s good to know! How was your lunch?

  It was good. So what are you doing with your afternoon?

  Apart from talking to you? lol I might read for a bit. I’m in the middle of a book and loving it

  What are you reading?

  Don’t laugh, right?

  Promise

  Emile Zola. La Bete Humaine. I am not saying this to sound intellectual or anything. I’m just a huge fan of his books

  Are you kidding me??? I LOVE Zola. I’m not sure I’ve talked to anyone before who’s properly liked him

  Really? Well I do. I don’t usually tell people because it just sounds wanky. But he’s brilliant. I don’t read them in French or anything, just the translations

  Me too! What’s your favourite?

  Oh, tough question. I’ve read a lot. Maybe Le Ventre de Paris. Any of the Rougon-Macquart books really

  Love them! You are full of surprises Mr Teacher

  I try :) Sorry but I’m going to have to go. I’ve got a phone call. Will you be on tonight?

  I might be :)

  I hope so

  I will be :)

  CHAPTER 35

  Steph Hansen was shaking when she sat opposite O’Neill and Salgado in her modest, whitewashed single-storey house on Jeffries Avenue on the southern edge of Cypress Park. Her eyes were wet and red, and she wrung her hands constantly.

  She was slim and blonde, lightly freckled, make-up free, her hair tied harshly behind her. Sitting on a large green sofa built for three, she looked little and lost.

  ‘I know this is difficult,’ O’Neill led with the under-statement, ‘but we need you to tell us about Dylan. Anything that might help.’

  Steph puffed out her cheeks and gathered enough courage to do it.

  ‘He’s a great kid. Never been any trouble, even when he was a teenager. The other moms used to say to me how lucky I was that Dylan never came home drunk or got in fights or stayed out late, never gave me any lip either. He would help around the house, especially after his father died. He’s sweet. Kind and caring. He’s . . . I always think he’s nineteenth century meets twenty-first.’

  Neither of the cops took her meaning, and shrugged.

  ‘Dylan doesn’t go out much. He gets anxious in crowds and prefers just one or two people at the most. That’s why he works from his apartment. He prefers talking to people by email. Or text. Or online. He’s an old-fashioned kind of guy who does most of his talking via modern technology. I know I’m biased because I’m his mom but he’s a great writer, really brilliant, but you’d probably never think it talking to him because it takes so much for him to open up. He’s not unsociable; like I say, he’s sweet. And funny. He’s just happier with one or two people at a time.

  ‘Bob, his dad, died when Dylan was fifteen. Since then it’s just been me and him. He moved out to Glendale four years ago, but he comes over at least once a week and we have dinner and hang out. But otherwise it’s just him and his movie scripts, the ones that he reads and the one he
’s working on for himself. And his cat. Oh shit, shit. The cat. Kubrick will be starving to death.’

  The last line fell between them like a body hitting the floor during a wake.

  ‘We’re going to his apartment from here, so we’ll check on the cat,’ O’Neill reassured her. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  Steph didn’t dare ask if they meant Kubrick or Dylan.

  ‘So, does he have any friends, anyone we can talk to who might know where he was headed or who he could have confided in? A girlfriend maybe?’

  There were two sharp shakes of the head. ‘No. Dylan doesn’t have close friends. Apart from me. He prefers it that way. He has people he speaks to online, gamer friends and such, but he isn’t the confiding type. And he’s never had a girlfriend, not that he’s told me about anyway and I think he would have done.’

  The mention of online friends had Salgado and O’Neill glancing at each other. They wouldn’t ask just yet though.

  ‘Mrs Hansen, can you talk us through the last time you spoke to Dylan? Anything he said, anywhere he said he was going, anyone he’d planned to meet.’

  Steph tilted her head to her shoulder, looking above them to the ceiling. Maybe a vain attempt to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks. Her words came out stilted and punctured with sniffles.

  It had been six days and there was little remarkable about the last time they’d spoken. It hadn’t even been real conversation, just Dylan’s version of it. A flurry of exchanged texts studded with emojis and exclamation marks. He’d been excited because he’d read a script he loved and was recommending big time to the production company. He’d said how he wished he could write something as good as that and she’d told him not to be silly, that of course he would.

  He’d had no plans other than to hunker down and make notes on the script then work on his own. She knew he could go days without resurfacing and that’s why she hadn’t questioned his lack of reply to her texts.

  They both knew it was almost certainly a pointless question, but it had to be asked.

  ‘Mrs Hansen, has Dylan ever mentioned a man named Ethan Garland?’

  The woman looked at O’Neill then to Salgado, eyes wide, as if she didn’t know what the right answer was but was desperate to help.

  ‘I’ve never heard the name. Should I have? Oh God, I’m sorry. Who is he?’

  ‘We believe he’s the man who took Dylan.’

  Her mouth dropped. ‘Then why haven’t you arrested him?’

  O’Neill laid it out for her. The whole tangled, sorry, frantic mess. How Garland had died. How they didn’t have the first freaking clue where Dylan was. How she couldn’t mention Garland’s name to the press if she was asked. None of it eased her panic.

  ‘What are you doing to find him?’

  ‘Everything we can.’ It sounded as trite to them as it did to her.

  ‘Mrs Hansen, you talked about Dylan having online friends. What can you tell us about them?’

  She shrugged dismissively. ‘Losers. I’m sorry, that sounds terrible, but they’re the kind of weird gamer freaks that live in their own little bubble and you don’t know they exist until they crack completely and shoot up a school. Dylan isn’t like those guys and I keep telling him he shouldn’t talk with them.’

  ‘Are there any names he mentioned, people he talked to a lot? And what sites did he use?’

  She looked contrite. ‘I didn’t listen much when he talked about those guys, I’m sorry. Is it important? The guys he talked about didn’t even have real names; they were all like they were out of Lord of the Rings or Star Wars. Let me think, oh God. Okay, okay. I think there was one guy named Grimblade and another named Warlock or Warshock, something like that. But the sites? I have no idea, none at all.’

  Salgado went for it. ‘Did Dylan use non-gaming sites? Maybe talk to other people online?’

  ‘Not that I . . .’ Steph looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean? Why are you asking that?’

  ‘We’re just trying to get a handle on what might have happened to Dylan. Any little thing might lead us to where he is. We think that Ethan Garland talked to people online before meeting them.’

  ‘Wait, he’s done this before?’

  ‘We believe so.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘But we’ve no knowledge of him talking to gamers. Would Dylan have talked in chat rooms or maybe dating sites?’

  ‘Dating sites? Internet dating? I . . . I don’t know. He’s never mentioned it but then he wouldn’t – he’d be embarrassed telling me about anything like that. I guess he might have. This is what you think it is? Dating sites?’

  ‘We’re not saying he did,’ Salgado tackled the fire they’d lit. ‘We just think that’s how Garland got his victims.’

  The clumsy mention of victims plural sent Steph Hansen into a spiral. She was quickly lost to a tumult of tears, becoming inconsolable and devoid of any further useful information.

  They left with promises to keep her informed of any developments, and headed for Glendale.

  *

  Dylan’s apartment was in a three-floor modern building on Lomita, whitewash and brown, about two blocks from Maple Park. Hansen had a car registered in his name, but there was no sign of it in the spots outside the block or on the street. The landlord let Salgado and O’Neill inside then reluctantly left them to it.

  They were greeted by the plaintive cries of a hungry cat – a handsome dark-striped tabby who came straight to them in search of food. He wound his way round their ankles, meowing shamelessly to be fed.

  ‘I’ll get him some food,’ Salgado announced.

  When he saw the amused look on O’Neill’s face, he shrugged defensively. ‘We won’t get any peace otherwise.’

  O’Neill smiled to herself as her partner changed the cat’s water and filled two dishes, one with wet food and one with dry, setting them both down in front of Kubrick’s eager mouth.

  ‘Can we get on now?’ she asked him.

  ‘Sure. Let’s go.’

  The place was a bit of a mess; a typical young man’s apartment with clothes growing in every corner and books and movie magazines stuffed under chairs and below cushions. They counted six glasses and three plates in the living room, plus a stack more in the sink.

  They moved from room to room, taking photographs on their cell phones as they went, knowing that forensics would follow in their wake to do the same job properly. They tossed drawers, looked in cupboards, took notes of the numbers in and out from the phone’s display records, and hunted high and low for anything that would give them an insight into Dylan’s disappearance.

  The bathroom still held what they took to be his toothbrush and most likely the few essential toiletries that someone like Dylan would need. If he’d been planning on being away from home, he would have taken those with him.

  They’d need to get his mother over, see if she could identify what might be missing from the house or his wardrobe other than the things that they’d seen him wearing. Most probably nothing, but they’d have to check.

  They returned to the first thing they saw when they entered the apartment – a large desktop computer; a few grand’s worth of premium gaming hardware that dominated the main room. ‘He’s put this together himself. Probably spent more on components for it than that second-hand Nissan of his,’ Salgado murmured. ‘I think it’s what they call a Hackintosh. Runs Mac OS but ain’t a Mac computer. I’d guess it cost more than everything else in here put together.’

  ‘Not that there’s much to beat.’

  ‘Nope. He certainly didn’t spend it on his clothes.’

  ‘Can we switch it on?’ O’Neill asked him.

  ‘Let’s try, but I’d bet my last buck that someone who springs for this much tech doesn’t shy from all the passwords he can find.’

  He pushed what seemed to be the start-up button and, sure enough, the beast flickered into life. And, sure enough, a password was demanded before they could enter the beast’s lair.

>   ‘We need to get Geisler in here,’ O’Neill huffed. ‘Get him to take this thing apart and find who Dylan was talking to.’

  ‘We might not need to go all hi-tech,’ Salgado countered. His gloved hands held up a notepad next to the laptop, indents from scribbling clear on it. ‘Old school.’

  ‘Jesus, Salgado, are you going all Columbo on me?’

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  He took the pencil next to the pad and rubbed it across the paper until writing began to form.

  Erica. Gravity Hill. 8.30.

  O’Neill pushed her bottom lip out in a show of grudging admiration. ‘Well, what do you know?’

  ‘I know that we’re going to Gravity Hill. Once we work out what it is. And that Erica probably wasn’t the kind of girl that Dylan Hansen thought she was.’

  ‘Not a girl at all? Do you mean a woman?’

  ‘I mean a man and you know it. Gravity Hill mean anything to you?’

  O’Neill had to think. ‘Not here, no, but there’s one back home in Massachusetts. In Greenfield, about a hundred miles west of Boston. Weirdest thing. You park your car, stick it in neutral, release the handbrake, and the car rolls uphill.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘Nope. It’s just an optical illusion. Or ghosts. People say it’s ghosts.’

  ‘Not you though, I’m betting.’

  She lowered her brows and frowned at him. Of course not. She already had her phone in her hand and was googling.

  ‘There’s three in southern California. One in San Diego, one over in Ventura County and one . . .’ she googled some more, ‘just eleven miles away. Gravity Hill, Altadena. On Loma Alta Drive. A twenty-five-minute drive.’

  ‘Nowhere is a twenty-five-minute drive in LA unless it’s supposed to take five minutes.’

  She ignored him and read aloud from the website. ‘Something strange happens when you put your car in neutral at Altadena’s gravity hill. Instead of sliding backward, your car rolls forward, up the hill, as if pushed by an invisible pair of helping hands.’