Sixth Victim

by Kate Mitchell

  This sounded like a good idea to be around people who Cecelia knew were guaranteed to be safe, she should take this sensible offer, but she wasn’t going to, was she? For one, she hadn’t been on her own for at least two months. Don’t be a fool, Cecelia, take it. She reconsidered her options; it wouldn’t be forever just until she got her head straight. So, if this was a genuine offer then it looked like she was going to accept. Feeling safe came higher than comfort.

  On the plus side, a police cell was handy, she would be able to use the police’s database. Everything she wanted would be at her fingertips although this was between Detective Travis and herself.

  ‘If you can see what I can’t see; I need you to point it out to me.’ Travis’s very words as she left her office. ‘I am making you a temporary police officer unofficially. Damn it, I’m gonna do everything I can to get that killer.’

  A table had been installed for Cecelia as a desk so placed to have her back towards Travis, likewise, Travis was doing the same. Two women’s minds both tackling the Slasher. They must come up with something between them.

  Women’s minds worked differently to a man’s logical process, skipping sometimes the obvious to something which could be considered outrageous, but which suddenly makes sense. This is why a gay person’s mind has the best of both worlds.

  Mapping the list of events as they came to Cecelia on her pad, the problem was, why was the Slasher murdering these women? Except for Phoebe, every girl was a virgin. Poor Phoebe. But why had he raped Phoebe and then carved across her chest? What was it he carved on her chest? Her mind had been blessed not to remember, but these gruesome details must be known. The only way she could honor her friend was to find out who her murderer was and bring him to justice. Somehow, Cecelia didn’t believe either that it was the black man.

  From the office computer, Cecelia went into the police files terrified of facing the truth. Down into the report, there were photographs. Dead eyes stared out to Cecelia, last moments spent in agony, while this monster was the only witness to her death.

  ‘Phoebe,’ Cecelia whispered in pain renewing the torment that she had felt just weeks ago. ‘I am so sorry. So sorry.’ The sharpest of tears fell from her face weaving their way and dropping to her shirt.

  ‘Are you all right over there?’ called out Detective Travis as if she had heard Cecelia ushered her whispers.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m good,’ she quickly poked out the tears onto a tissue. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘That’s what I want to hear. Fighting back is not always easy.’ Travis’s chair creaked as she turned back to her desk. ‘I’m proud of you Cecelia Clark.’

  It was not easy to make out the word, whore, in blooded letters across her breasts just above the stake driven into her heart. Tears without words, Cecelia stared at the monitor with insoluble sadness. Somebody that wicked could deprive Phoebe and herself of happiness. It was as if the murderer went out of their way to destroy their love.

  Was this a plausible motive for these murderers? The Slasher couldn’t stand others being happy when he was not. What could possibly have happened to him to begrudge other people's hopes for the future? Desperation, Cecelia’s mind kept on returning back to the photograph. She must not give in to the anger of her tears. It had become essential that she work her way through it. Vital she survived and lived and lived well if only for the memory of Phoebe.

  But could it have been Phoebe’s husband who had kitted his anger and found where his wife was? Another tangent off the radar, another possibility.

  Yet, to kill children was to kill innocence and everyone’s hopes for the future. Was this a message? Sarah.

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Travis after two hours of recorded silence.

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Cecelia turning around. ‘From what I have found, there is always a black man and a white woman seen in the murderers, but there is no indication of anything about the white rapist.’

  ‘So, you think it’s a white man who’s the Slasher?’

  ‘Yes, and I have no reason for it other than the way I feel.’

  ‘The same here. But the thirteen-year-old described a black man, and it’s the only profile we have got.’

  ‘Not the only one. Don’t you remember, Mary Ann Leigh also gave you a description…’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Detective Travis was not impressed.

  ‘Why haven’t you taken her description seriously?’

  Turning back to Cecelia, Travis changed her attitude. ‘Let’s say it’s personal.’

  Frowning, Cecelia waited for Travis to continue.

  ‘I met Mary Ann once when I was off duty. She’s a big woman if you remember. I dropped my notebook and bent down to retrieve it when she walked into me. I said, excuse me, mam. When I stood up, she said to me, you people are all the same.’

  ‘What do you think she meant by that?’

  ‘I don’t know except I guess I was angry. An officer came across to us and ask if we were okay. I said yes, while Miss Leigh said I had been offensive which I hadn’t. So, you see, it’s personal. I don’t like the woman and I don’t trust her which is why I believe she wasn’t raped. She likes to be taken notice of—you know one of those narcissistic types. The people who disappear when the camera isn’t on them.’

  She carried on staring at Cecelia’s unjudging face.

  ‘But perhaps I can take another look at the description she gave us.’

  Stepping up to her filing cabinet, Travis pulled out her notes returning smoothly to her chair.

  ‘It’s a white assailant that’s for sure.’ With her glasses on, Travis read the notes. ‘Sometimes, I wonder if we are going to catch this man.’ Travis looked up. ‘For the last six weeks, there hasn’t been a peep from him. Just as if he has done enough killing to satisfy his lust.’ She began drumming her thumb on the desk. ‘God knows, I don’t want there to be another murder, but it would be satisfying if only to catch this murdering rapist.’

  Eating herself up with thoughts, Cecelia tried to keep her head down, there was one name that always came to the surface, William.

  ‘What did you think of Mary Ann other than you don’t like her?’

  ‘Why are you asking this?’

  ‘Just curious. No particular reason.’

  ‘You were the one staying with her. You mentioned she has a man friend.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  Odd, or would it be more appropriate to say that she was being contrary? What happened to sharing her suspicions with Detective Travis? Loyalty? No, she didn’t think so not to William, he didn’t deserve it. Mary Ann then? It was apparent that Mary Ann didn’t know about the darker side of William and that he was dangerous. Maybe because it was embarrassing for herself. But was she raped? Yes, she felt she had. He used her without her consent. It made Cecelia feel dirty to think about it.

  If there was anyone she should warn, it should be Mary Ann. The pervert. But what would she say to her? That her boyfriend had almost successfully raped her? And if she hadn’t come to her senses, he surely would have penetrated. How he made her shudder.

  ‘You’re doing a lot of thinking over there,’ said Detective Travis. ‘Want to share?’

  ‘No, not just yet.’

  It was during one of those late-night conversations while the candles burnt down, flickering on their last ebbs that Mary Ann told another side to her story on how she met William. Apparently, he too was also an actor, and then Mary Ann laughed.

  ‘And not a good one. More of an amateur. It was his good looks which got him parts.’

  Cecelia couldn’t help giving Mary Ann a sidelong look, yet what was beautiful to one person is ugly to the next. Mary Ann thought he was good-looking, and that’s all she needed from her partner.

  ‘We were doing this play called Sixth Victim in a theater in Edmonton, London,’ said Mary Ann leaning forward confidentially, moving one lip over the other, there was something in this which she was exceptionally pleased abou
t. ‘In essence, it was about someone that couldn’t see the obvious. It wasn’t a good play. At least, I didn’t think so. This was the first time I was introduced to William Parker. He was nicknamed nosy-parker because he was always seeing things which he wasn’t supposed to be seeing… although I don’t know what,’ she smiled slyly.

  And then Mary Ann’s conversation trailed into the wide web of platonic.

  Parker, so his last name was Parker, and he was also English. The town of Edmonton was also some help. Putting theaters in Edmonton, London into the search engine came up with one place in particular which was the Millfield Theatre, Edmonton, London.

  What a find. The Millfield Theatre actually existed. A time for rejoicing, Cecelia felt like jumping up and down and clapping her hands. This was a success. Sometimes, life was like that, failures, and little triumphs. With the spirit of winning, Cecelia continued her search.

  Now it was a question of dates, but at least she knew the name of the unsuccessful play, Sixth Victim. A telephone number on the website suggested she should call. Cecelia glanced to Detective Travis who was busy with her own searches. A better idea was to call tonight. The Millfield Theatre was still open in the evening with their new show.

  Gone ten o’clock before Detective Travis decided to call it a day. She ordered pizza for them both; a meal which Cecelia didn’t enjoy mainly because she didn’t approve of it; she ate only one slice. These were the little things which she missed about home, eating what she wanted and when.

  But ten o’clock in the evening in Alandra was six in the morning in London an important time factor which Cecelia had forgotten. The telephone kept ringing, but just as she was going to hang up, someone picked up the phone. It was security.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m ringing from America and I forgot about the time difference,’ she hurried excitedly to be making this connection to a world she had never been to but had only dreamt of. ‘I wonder if you could help me.’

  He couldn’t help the lady if she wanted to book tickets; she would have to come back tomorrow.

  ‘You had a play called Sixth Victim, I understood it was performed about five years ago.’ Cecelia continued unperturbed.

  He could not help her with this. His shift would be over in an hour and a half.

  ‘I would be so pleased if you could,’ she gasped gratefully, desperate not to let him go. Do anything, say anything, in fact, lie. ‘It’s my brother, you see. We’re trying to trace him. There was an argument in the family, but now my mother is dying, and mom wants to make it up. She wants to speak to him before she dies.’

  Now, this puts a different matter on her request, it brought the hero out in him. He had the keys to the office and would have a look. Listening from her side of the call, doors opened and shut, crunching footsteps, a corridor with echoes, suggested he must be passing through the theater itself. And the muffled sound of an office entered to be followed by drawers opening, metal against metal, this needed oiling. They say it rains a great deal in England.

  ‘Ah, this is the one.’

  She could almost see his finger running down the ledger.

  ‘Got the play. What did you say your brother’s name is?’

  ‘William Parker.’

  ‘William Parker,’ he repeated under his breath. ‘Nope. There was no William Parker in the show.’

  Was her trial going to stop here?

  ‘Try Mary Ann Leigh?’

  ‘Mary Ann Leigh?’ What had this got to do with looking for your brother, he was thinking.

  ‘We understand that she was his girlfriend and the reason why he went to London.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s see if she’s on the list. No, I can’t see her. Hang on. She’s right at the bottom of the cast, but she hasn’t got a character name except she’s listed as Sixth Victim. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cecelia about to replace the receiver. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Just a moment. Can you tell me what part of America you’re calling from?’

  ‘Alandra, California.’

  ‘The land of the sun.’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Cecelia. The price of his help was the dream of everlasting sunshine.

  There was nothing substantial and proved again that Mary Ann was lying.

  William wasn’t an actor, but he could have been one of the stagehands which would be a drop in status for Mary Ann and her independently wealthy lover. Ticking this off, Cecelia went down to the next entrance on her list. Think Cecelia, think. You’ve got a brain so use it.

  Try databases, there must be one a record of rapists. Again, to the search engine, she tapped her request. One had been created by the FBI over thirty years ago to catch nationwide criminals. Strangely, it wasn’t anything to do with genetic coding but with behavioral traits. It was called, Violent Criminal Apprehension Program or better known as ViCAP. Putting in William’s name in the register, Cecelia ran it through the system. It was a hope, but the chances were low as this program was hardly used. Disappointing but this was another search that also was crossed off.

  Methodical, Cecelia had never been this systematic before. An exercise of almost deliberate slowness and the only profile she was building up was of a man whose existence was difficult to prove. But this didn’t mean anything; a clever man will always fall off the radar even though these days, it was becoming more difficult. Which was all the more reason to look deeper.

  Steadily, Cecelia worked into the early hours of the morning and was surprised to realize that she had not taken any Xanax since yesterday. It must be the hours she had spent staring at the screen which had interfered with her vision. A headache started to beat in her temple, aching into her mind and breaking into the rhyme of her thinking. Exhausted now and no wonder, not so long ago, she’d suffered a major breakdown. Time to get some sleep. But sleep was not draping its winged charm around her. A long night ahead was promised which was made worse by the thought of the cell bed.

  Came the morning, she might have had two hours sleep, but that had been beaten up with dreaming. Tomorrow night, no matter what happens, she was going home.

  ‘I have a feeling,’ said Detective Travis entering her office and seeing Cecelia there. ‘That we haven’t heard the last of the Alandra Slasher,’ she tossed several copies of the newspapers on Cecelia’s desk. ‘Last night, there were at least a hundred calls about sightings of the rapist. People are becoming nervous. It’s like a national attack of fear with people spooked by their own shadow. But what do you expect when the papers have splashed his picture across the pages? Here, take one and tell me what you think. What on earth’s wrong with you? Are you sick, are you ailing for something?’

  ‘I’m trying to go cold turkey from the medication which the hospital prescribed for me. But it’s not easy, it’s a fight with the devil and at times it feels like the hands of the addiction are going to win.’

  ‘No, don’t ever give in, not to that monster. I never did think highly of taking anyone offline by drugging them out of their heads. You need to get through these things—don’t run away from them. You’re going to have to deal with them one day. So, how are you feeling now?’

  ‘Pretty shaky, and rather nauseous, but apart from that, okay.’ Cecelia didn’t like to admit strange thoughts were running through her head, more than usual. It must be the withdrawal process.

  This was received with a nod and a smile from Detective Travis. ‘Hang on there, gal. It will pass, everything passes,’ she returned to her desk. ‘Oh, while I remember it, we’ve had a call from Phoebe Howard’s husband, a Harold Hardaker. Did she ever mention anything to you about her husband?’

  ‘He was the reason why she left England. Phoebe said he used to beat her up badly, she was terrified of him. Why, what does he want?’

  ‘He wants to take the body back to England.’

  ‘He can’t do that to her. She was happy here.’

  ‘I’m afraid he can do whatever he likes,
she was still legally married to him.’

  ‘Is there no way we can stop him? She was terrified of him.’

  ‘Guess it doesn’t matter anymore since she’s dead. Her body belongs to him. She has no use for it anymore.’

  ‘No one can own your body. I won’t let him.’

  ‘So, what will you do to him?’ Detective Travis grinned and turned her head. This was a no-winners fight.

  ‘Is he in this country?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Where is he? I would like to meet him.’ Suddenly this seemed to be the most important deed that Cecelia had ever wanted to do, to meet the man who had nearly killed her friend.

  ‘He’s staying in one of those Travelodge places just on the outskirts of Roseland. I’m not sure that it’s a good idea for you to meet him. Whatever you think about him, they were still officially married. And besides, Cecelia, she’s dead. No one can hurt her anymore.’

  No, but I can hurt him. She felt unreasonably aggressive.

  ‘Most of the sighting,’ continued Travis, looking down her list. ‘Are unproductive; people overreacting which is understandable. But I suppose it’s better than not receiving any information. This black guy is turning up everywhere. I just don’t understand just how he disappears,’ she sighed. ‘It’s putting a strain on the relationships between folk.’

  ‘How is the girl?’

  ‘Yeah, she is recovering slowly, but he’s made a mess of her. I can’t see her having any children when she’s older. People like him are sick. He decided this time not to penetrate her with his penis but used some other instrument. It might even have been an adult toy or even a crowbar, judging by the internal examinations carried out on the other victims. This man hates women and the sooner we get him off the streets the better.’

  To Cecelia, the police station became noisy; a side effect perhaps from coming off Xanax and affecting her sensitivity. Another reason to get out of this place and return home.