The Gilded Madonna

by Garrick Jones

  “Are you positive this person is our killer?” Brendan asked.

  “Absolutely, and I’ll explain why if you’ll just allow me to reveal what I know in a way that’s not too confusing. May I go on?” I asked and then continued when he gave me the go-ahead, albeit with a slight look of annoyance.

  “So, in order to find our man, we need to know how he operates so we can catch him in the act, hopefully early next week at one of the two public toilets we’ve arranged to stay open. I’ve organised two specialist combat veterans at each to act as lures, and we’ll have teams ready to apprehend him the moment he makes a move that will allow us to place him under arrest. For without evidence of direct physical contact, or intent to commit grievous bodily harm, as Q.C. Tancred will tell you, any good lawyer will have the case thrown out of court in five minutes.”

  “Very well, Miss Marple, please proceed,” Brendan said.

  “That’s Agatha to you, D.I. Fox. Nothing fictional about me, not even the reported size of my dick.”

  Everyone but Dioli laughed, but then when he realised everyone else saw I was joking he relaxed and smiled sheepishly. I’d noticed him scribbling furiously while I told the story of the American killer, and what had impressed me was the way he’d nodded while he was writing, as if he was making connections of his own. There was a good detective hiding away in there somewhere. I felt it my duty to help him find that person, even if he resented me for it.

  “Very well,” I said. “Here’s what we know about the way our murderer operates. None of his victims look similar in terms of hair colour, facial structure, or physical build. Therefore he does not have a ‘type’. The way he selects his victims seems to be opportunistic. Like Lola, he feels guilty after having sex with men who he does not intend to murder …”

  “He’s queer then?” Dioli asked.

  “Most likely. What I have learned is that in his ‘normal’ life, he performs fellatio on men for money, but doesn’t seem interested in letting anyone else do it to him—only those he intends to kill. The same seems to go for more intimate play, kissing for example. He gets passionate with his victims, but is aloof with the men he services—enthusiastic while he’s doing it, but aloof, nonetheless. His sex life is compartmentalised. Allowing men to fellate him and kissing them is his foreplay, his lead up to murder. He’s also not known to engage in anal sex, except for when he’s about to—”

  “Wait,” Dioli interrupted. “Don’t all—?”

  “No. Homosexual acts do not always involve penetration. Not all heterosexual activities do either. It depends on the situation and the person. Somehow, our murderer has a sixth sense that tells him which of the men he picks up likes to be the passive partner in anal sex. Either that or he just out and out asks them. Who knows if there are others he’s tried it on earlier in the evening before he’s killed who don’t like to do something in public that’s so risky, or who merely don’t have penetration as part of their normal sexual activity.”

  I continued. “He’s not unknown around the traps, and it was reported to me from several sources that he puts his hand out for payment in exchange for his mouth jobs. It’s to assuage his guilt, his feeling, like Lola’s, that he’s been bad. I was told by one man that he’d said something like, ‘the devil got in him while he was servicing men, and only the fact they paid him for what he did could drive the evil from his body afterwards’. That’s as close as I can get to the actual words I was told, but I believe they’re accurate enough. I didn’t take notes at the time.”

  Mark Dioli cleared his throat and leafed back through his notepad. “I know I’m leaping forward, Smith, but from what I can deduce from what you’ve said, our man kills his victims because, like Lola, he’s using the victim as a symbolic substitute for someone who may have abused him, and he may have, like her, killed that person to stop the violence. It seems like he’s recreating that moment with random victims, like she did with the men she picked up in the bar and then took back to motel rooms.”

  “Those are my thoughts too, D.S. Dioli,” I said and then held up the notebook I’d received from Dai, sent by Howard. “In here is the information we need about the man, his history, and the reason for his behaviour. We’re still in the dark as to why he’s targeted me, but at least let’s try to understand who he is, what drives him, and what’s caused him to become the twisted human being his actions suggest he’s become. Tom has been keeping a psychological profile on the killer for us, so I’ll hand the floor over to him while he explains it in a much more eloquent way than I’m sure I ever could, and I need a moment to go through some of this shorthand again, because I haven’t had enough time to do more than skim through parts of it.”

  Tom had a natural flair for delivery, and, as I’d discovered since he’d started working for me and Harry, was fluent when reporting facts and eloquent along with it. As he spoke, he wrote down short sentences on the blackboard, each preceded by an asterisk.

  “Let’s just recapitulate the salient points of what Clyde’s just told us and, if you don’t mind, I’ll add my own observations at the same time. The most important thing we’ve learned about the man is that he shows signs of extreme emotional disturbance, exhibited at times of social failure, or in moments of embarrassment. This occurs as childlike whines while pivoting on the spot, with one arm extended up and over the opposite shoulder, scratching at his spine—a recognised sign of extreme emotional stress. He’s also taken to jumping nervously from foot to foot when faced with a difficult choice. While these symptoms are indicative of a disturbed psyche, in my opinion the most telling feature of these behaviours is his ability to turn them off suddenly, with no warning and no transitional phase. He simply transitions from irrational to normal as if someone’s flicked a switch.”

  I looked up from my notes and smiled at Harry, who seemed as pleased as Punch at Tom’s confident delivery.

  “And this behaviour has been observed frequently?” Dioli asked.

  “The whining and quick change on two occasions by the same reliable witness and then the twisting and anxiety on many occasions by more than one observer.”

  Tom waited a moment for more questions, but then when none were forthcoming, continued.

  “As Clyde explained earlier, the killer takes great pleasure and is proud of his ability to perform fellatio, and demonstrates a great deal of personal pleasure while he is doing it. He has both upper and lower dentures, which he removes beforehand, and because of this he’s very popular.”

  I noticed Dioli shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Maybe something had hit a nerve, but he went back to notetaking while Tom continued.

  “Under normal circumstances he’s only interested in performing oral sex, for which, as Clyde’s already told us, he hopes to be paid. As far as we know he’s never angry if he’s not given money, as long as he’s complimented. The only times he allows himself to be fellated is when the man is an intended victim. On the occasions he’s in the mood to kill—as we know at intervals of seven to eleven days—he always dresses in a unique manner. Fully clothed from the waist up, but without trousers or underwear. He seems to cover the top half either with a long jacket or an overcoat, but likes to open it to expose himself to possible victims when he first meets them. It seems part of his ritual.”

  “Why would he do that?” Mark asked.

  “He has a big cock and he likes to see the surprise on their faces, I suppose,” I said, glancing up briefly from what I’d been reading.

  “However, something Clyde learned only recently is the only link we have between the murders in the toilets and the Bishop case,” Tom said.

  Vince stared at me. I shook my head and then indicated he should wait until Tom explained.

  “The murderer has a large shaggy dog, which he takes to parks with him on nights he is not going to commit a murder. He ties the dog up somewhere nearby while he services men.”

  “Jesus!” Vince said. “So you think it’s the same dog that was seen just before S
usan and David were taken outside the butcher?”

  “We believe that if the man in the phone box could corroborate the description of the dog we know belongs to the killer to the one he saw, we might be able to hope the Bishop children are still alive, and safe and well.”

  “How could you possibly know that, Tom?” Vince asked, amazed.

  “That’s my story,” I said, “and it’s part of what I’m about to tell you, but I think I need a quick break before I explain why I believe it to be true and who the killer is, what turned him into a murderer and the connection between him, me, and Q.C. Billy Tancred.”

  It was like a vaudeville act. Dioli, Vince, Jeff Ball, and Brendan all turning to look at Billy, disbelief in their eyes.

  *****

  Luka was sleeping soundly when I checked on him. I’d left the old lockup via the side door and had crossed the driveway to the forensics department. Jack was snoring softly in his armchair.

  I ran my hand over Luka’s brow. “Sorry you had to go through that,” I whispered to him. Harry appeared through the door and kneeled behind me, folding his arms around me.

  “Jeff’s got the copies of those two magazines that Green Eyes bought from Luka’s shop.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t looked yet. He’s an extraordinary man, isn’t he,” he said, his head on my shoulder, our ears touching.

  “Who, Luka?”

  “Hm.”

  “Him or Dai, which would it be?”

  He didn’t answer but kissed my cheek. We hadn’t had that conversation yet, and I wasn’t really sure I was ready for it.

  *****

  “This photograph was delivered to me on the eleventh of December, the day I returned to the office after our trip to Melbourne,” I said, passing around a blown-up ten by eight to the others. “That handsome guy in the middle and the brute sitting behind him are none other than yours truly and our esteemed legal eagle, Billy Tancred.”

  “You haven’t changed one bit, Billy,” Brendan said.

  “You have,” Billy replied. “You used to be a nice guy.”

  Brendan smiled.

  “The photo is connected to our Silent Cop killer. It links him with us four mates in the desert in North Africa. At the front is Johnny Edgar, killed not too long after this photo was taken, and at the rear Sonny Mullins, who was beaten to death by a gang of louts outside Garden Island while trying to stop them attacking some poor sailor’s girlfriend.

  “Johnny was an orphan. He spent three months in Petersham Boys’ Home in 1927 when he was just six years of age, before being sent to the Dr. Bagshaw’s Home in Mudgee, out west.”

  Mark Dioli glanced around nervously, but I smiled at him as kindly as I could to let him know his secret was safe.

  “Five years later, in 1932, when our mate Johnny Edgar was eleven years old, a small frightened child was found dumped at the gateway of the home, tied to the cattle grate by a rope around his neck. He was filthy and covered in sores. A note was pinned to his jacket with his name, Dennis Kemeny, born twenty-third of January, 1927. The superintendent of the home appointed Johnny Edgar to take this child under his wing, clean him up, and look after him. Dennis Kemeny is our killer, fellas.”

  “And you’re sure, Clyde?” Brendan asked.

  “Positive, and now I can tell you why.” I referred to my notes and read out what Howard had written, beside which was an asterisk and several exclamation marks.

  “The source says, and I quote: A note was pinned to his jacket with his name, Dennis Kemeny, born twenty-third of January, 1927, and the boy, despite his filthy condition, was the talk of the orphanage, mainly because he had the brightest green eyes anyone had ever seen. So,” I continued, with a slight voilà in my voice, “Dennis Kemeny is our Silent Cop killer.”

  “But if you know his name, then—”

  “Hang on, D.I. Fox. As I said, he changed his name and it’s all part of the story, if you’ll allow me. The man who sent me this shorthand pad is someone who works as a supporter of children’s charities, having grown up in an institution himself. However, today he is a successful businessman of some considerable wealth with a desire for privacy. He’s also deeply connected to the Crown commission on which Lieutenant Colonel Ball, Harry, Billy, and I sit. For that reason, I can’t reveal his name.”

  Vince knew it was Howard. I saw it on his face.

  “Not only did he speak yesterday with the superintendent and his assistant who were in charge while Kemeny was there but he also got the names of three boys who were at the home at the same time and who were his friends. It cost him the best part of five hundred quid, plus the promise of anonymity, to get the information I’m holding here in my hand. So, although I haven’t had a lot of time to digest it all, this is what I’ve learned.”

  I outlined the contents of the twenty or so pages of carefully written shorthand.

  At the Dr. Bagshaw’s Home in the 1930s and up until the end of the war, while Johnny Edgar and Dennis Kemeny had been inmates, a group of three groundsmen and the religious counsellor, Rupert Bishop, coincidentally bearing the same surname as the parents of the kidnapped children, but not related to them, worked at the institution.

  It was a perverse enough surname for a hideous man that abused boys and young men on a regular basis. Dennis Kemeny had been Bishop’s favourite, forced to do whatever the counsellor required, always praised for it while he was about it, but then vilified and made to do acts of penitence as punishment for taking advantage of Bishop’s kindness and “good nature” afterwards. The three friends of Kemeny, who Howard had contacted, had often been forced to participate.

  Once a week, the head groundsman would come back to the home legless drunk from the pub in town and pick two or three of the boys to come to his loft, above the garage. He’d be loving and kind, caressing, kissing them, allowing them full access to his body, but ultimately violently sodomising one of the boys and then encouraging his two fellow workers to do the same. Dennis Kemeny had been on the end of that brutality more frequently than most of the others.

  Our friend Johnny Edgar had protected Dennis as much as he could. They’d formed a bond of friendship. As he’d grown older and stronger, Johnny had been able to prevent some of the abuse, but not always. Dennis had always remained a favourite of both Bishop and the groundsmen.

  In 1937, when Johnny turned sixteen, he was no longer eligible to be a ward of the Dr. Bagshaw’s foundation, but the superintendent kept him on for two years, employing him as a kitchen hand and cleaner. Those had been the only good years for Dennis, as Johnny had become a grown-up quickly, developing physically and emotionally before his years, and had been able to protect the younger boy most of the time.

  And then the war had come. In 1939, Johnny enlisted. Dennis had been devastated, but Johnny had promised he’d come back and take Dennis away from Dr. Bagshaw’s, and they would get a flat together and try to make a normal life as best friends. Dennis had only been twelve at the time and not only had his world crumpled around him but also his protector was going away. In the presence of several of his friends, and in private, Johnny had made them swear to try their hardest to look after the younger and more vulnerable in the home, and had made them promise they’d never ever hurt a child themselves. I explained that when I first went through the shorthand notes, that promise had stuck in my mind. I sincerely hoped it was the reason that if he’d taken them, Dennis Kemeny would never have harmed the Bishops’ children.

  Johnny had left for war on the lunchtime train. Later that same night, Dennis had been tied down and repeatedly violated by the groundsmen and his two mates. He’d sunk his teeth into one of them, and for his “uncontrollable behaviour”, on the next visit from the itinerant dentist, and with a convenient letter from Bishop’s friend, the local doctor, he had been restrained while all his teeth were extracted.

  Howard’s contacts had all said this was the act that had started his rapid decline into what they variously described as “fits of
madness” and periods of disassociation from the world.

  “Was it him then who sent you the photo of us four?” Billy asked after I’d reached this point of my explanation.

  “In 1942, when Sonny got shipped back with the 9th, he brought back the canister of undeveloped photos that Trafford Olsen had taken of us, which included that one I passed around of all four of us on the motorbike in North Africa. Sonny Mullins visited Dennis in Mudgee and told him that Johnny was dead and gave him the roll of film, telling him about us four close friends. One of the men who my source interviewed was present, had known Johnny, and was witness to the conversation.”

  “How did Sonny know about Dennis Kemeny when we didn’t?”

  I held up my hand, my forefinger twisted around my middle finger. “They were like that, Billy, just like you and I were. They shared a two-man tent. I guess we’ll never know, but I can only assume that there was some sort of conversation along the lines of ‘if I don’t make it home, make sure you give that reel of film to my pal, Dennis Kemeny, in the boys’ home in Mudgee’. If I know Johnny, he probably also told Sonny that Dennis was to look us up when we came home and we’d take care of him. I don’t know, Billy, to be perfectly honest. They’re both dead so we’ll never know.”

  I let what I’d said sink in for a moment. And then, just as Brendan was about to say something, I interrupted him.

  “I have something that might link the way in which Dennis Kemeny kills and mutilates his victims to Johnny’s death,” I said. “My mate Billy Tancred has been busy investigating on his own. He got in touch with our old C.O., who’s now retired, and asked him a few questions.”

  “In 1947,” Billy said, “a young man presented himself at the army base in Enoggera, asking to speak with our ex-C.O., introducing himself as Dennis Edgar, brother of Johnny, and begging for details of how Johnny died.”

  “Wait!” Brendan Fox said. “How is this relevant?”

  I explained the story of Johnny’s squad targeted by improvised mines made from terracotta pots jam-packed with artificial star sapphires and tiger’s eyes made for the jewellery trade. When I finished, Mark, Vince, and Brendan could not have looked more astonished had they tried.