by S A Tameez
“Sir, I—”
“I don’t want you getting involved in Dean Morrison’s case. And,” he said as if worried she might say something, “it’s not up for discussion.”
“Sir,” she said.
“Now that that’s all out of the way, what is the latest on Dominic Hudson?”
“Sir, he is being transferred and will have his examination wherever he gets transferred to.”
“Sadly, there’s bugger all we can do about that. Ok, what about Norman what’s his surname?”
“Norman Hyde. No, we haven’t located him. He isn’t at home with his mother, and he hasn’t attended university since.”
“I feel like it’s all becoming a bit of a mess,” he said scratching his scalp, “I got the powers that be on my case about the knife crime incidents and I’m pulling all the resources I can on that, but I know that the Press is not going to take any prisoners if we screw up with Dominic Hudson.” He paused for a second. Zoe didn’t know whether he was just in deep thought or was waiting for her to say something, so she took the safer option and remained silent. She knew how much the Press and their unyielding mission to misconstrue everything stressed him out.
“You think he’s a nutter or an A1 psychopath?” he asked without beating around the bush.
“Sir, he had the items from the victims in his house and he’s admitted to killing them. I think it’s safe to say he’s an A1 psychopath.”
Harold opened his mouth to say something but stopped as the phone on his desk rang.
“Here we go,” he said rolling his eyes and then answered the phone.
“Ok,” he said into the receiver, “That’s fine. She’ll be right there.” He hung up and then glanced at her with a look that could almost be passed as excitement. “That was Keith. Apparently, Dominic Hudson has requested to speak to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, he asked for you specifically.”
The thought of going back into the interview room with him made her both excited and nervous. Not a good combination for this time of day. Not a good combination for any time of day.
“OK,” she said and stood up, “I’ll give Marcus or Vivian a shout to join me.”
“No need,” he stood up and removed his jacket from the back of his chair, “I want to be present. I want to hear what he’s got to say first-hand.”
On the surface, his words sounded admirable, the DCI who cares about the case, wants to nail this guy for his crimes but deep down she knew why he was tagging along. He wanted to make sure she didn’t screw this up. It was too big for her to take charge. Though he wanted her to feel that she was leading things while Nick was away, she knew what was really going on.
It was all in the details.
His little prep talk, the fact that Keith called Harold instead of her directly even though she was the one being requested. She felt like a criminal and Harold was her parole officer, keeping tabs on her, making her check in and report that she’s behaving herself and having a “quick word” when he felt she wasn’t.
It didn’t matter. The cold fact was that she, nor anyone else, could afford to screw this up. If this was the Sailor, then it didn’t matter who did what as long as they nailed the son of a bitch. She had already convinced herself that if Dominic walked out of here on a technicality, she would quit the job and become a Vigilante. Either way, she was nailing him!
The meeting room was cold and smelt of damp wood.
“Thank you for coming,” Dominic said as if he had invited her to a dinner party.
“What can I do for you?” Zoe said with a sigh. She wanted him to think that she didn’t care she was called, make it out like the only reason she was here was because she was in the area or had nothing better to do. But something told her that he knew how badly she wanted to be here.
“I’m concerned,” he said unlocking his tangled fingers, “I’m concerned that you might not find who did it.”
“Who did what?” Harold asked, genuinely looking confused.
“Who killed the girl.”
“I think we’ve already found him,” Harold said.
“I hope you’re not implying that I did it.”
“You’ve confessed to killing all the other victims. What’s one more to your record. You’re going to jail, and you will rot in there.”
“That’s not the point!” He sounded irritated. Zoe hadn’t sensed that from him before.
“What is the point?” Harold asked.
“I didn’t kill Sarah Fowler. You weren’t here for our previous conversation – had you been, you would know.”
“I’m here now. So why don’t you start from the beginning.”
“Where’s the other guy? I liked him.”
“He’s not around at the moment. Why don’t you tell me what you want to say? I’m a good listener.”
Zoe could sense the pressure in Harold’s voice. He wanted him to speak. He wanted him to say something. He was rushing into it. Something that she would usually do, but not with someone like Dominic – this doesn’t go down well with someone like him. He’s in control. He wants you to know he’s in control.
Dominic sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He stared about the room as if inspecting it for imperfections. Zoe watched him as his eyes scanned the place and that’s when it hit her.
The penny dropped.
She knew why he was here.
“You can’t trust us to catch the killer, can you?” Zoe said. Her eyes met with Dominic’s, but he remained silent. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“This is exactly why I wanted you here,” he smiled, “You’re smart. I keep telling everyone that you’re smart. But they aren’t listening.”
It was a compliment, but it irked her. Everything about him irked her. Not even his flawless skin, perfectly chiselled jaw or the cute dimple on his chin could change his creepy demeanour now. He was good looking, damn good looking but his eyes gave him away. They were hollow. Emotionless. Lifeless. Evil. Like a volcano disguised as beautiful mountain – ready to erupt at any moment.
“You want to help us catch the killer,” She could see the confused expression on Harold’s face from her peripheral vision. “You didn’t kill Sarah Fowler and you need the world to know it.” It was all falling into place. All those years studying criminal psychology and she had missed it completely. “It wasn’t worthy of your stamp. The girl was killed recklessly, with rage, with emotion, without care. That doesn’t deserve your stamp. Not the stamp of the infamous Sailor. The sophisticated killer who was always a step ahead of everyone.”
He smiled and tilted his head.
“I knew it from the moment you walked into my house that you were who I was looking for,” he said, “You’ve got that tenacious vibe about you. I like that.”
He read her well. Except he hadn’t read that the thing she wanted to the most right now was to leap over the table that separated them and punch in his smug face.
“You couldn’t have your legacy ruined by some random murder that didn’t even come close to how it should have been done. A cheap counterfeit act performed by a con artist.” She leaned forward with a confidence she didn’t think she had left in her, “You need us to find the killer or people will assume you did it. You butchered a young woman with no style, no class, no sophistication, no precision, no perfection. Something amateur. Something anyone could have done. That’s how people will remember you. The killer who flopped at the end. The killer who couldn’t keep to his high standard. No endurance. His great finale was a cheap killing of a woman who didn’t deserve the Sailor stamp.” She thumped her fists on the table, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it!?”
He clapped and his smile dropped.
“I both admire and applaud your tenacity and wit. You want to get inside my head? You want to know why? I won’t give you that. I am happy for you to make assumptions and theories, in fact, I quite enjoy listening to them. But now that we’ve got more of a mutual unde
rstanding, perhaps we should stop flirting and catch the killer.” He spoke in a way that showed no emotion, no remorse nor regret.
“Do you know who killed Sarah Fowler?” Harold asked outright.
“Of course not,” he said.
“I think we’re wasting our time,” Harold said with a sigh, clearly losing interest.
“But, my impatient friend, I may be able to help you.”
“Yeah, how?” Harold folded his arms.
“My very being here has helped you. It wasn’t me. Which means, the killer is still out there.” He leaned forward, “I can tell you that she wasn’t killed at random.” He let that sit for a moment as if waiting for them to ask him for more. He was loving this. He wanted them to depend on him. He wanted them to beg. He wanted complete control.
“Anything else?” Harold asked.
“The killer was someone she knew or knew her. She wasn’t killed by someone who had killed before. The killer hadn’t planned to kill her – it happened in a moment of fury. A moment of uncontrollable rage. Normally fuelled by passion or jealousy.”
He wasn’t telling them anything new, but he had clearly examined the body.
“How did you know about the body?” Zoe asked, “You found her, you clearly examined her. That’s how you know about the way she was killed.”
“Fate. As I don’t believe in coincidences. I walk around that area a lot. I have arthritis in my hands,” He lifted his trembling hands. “I feel very uncomfortable in the morning, so I get out and go for a long stroll. When I saw her, washed up, dead, I lay next to her for a while as I did with all the others. It’s quite an extraordinary feeling. Indescribable. You have her, completely. She becomes yours at this point, entirely yours. She can’t move, talk. You own her, every part of her, even her thoughts. She’s yours entirely. Oh, how I missed that feeling.”
“Your arthritis,” Zoe said, trying her best not to get too sucked into this crazy speech and stick to the investigation, “That’s why you stopped. You had lost your ability to perform.” She chose her words purposefully. She wanted to hit him where it hurt. “You become dysfunctional.”
“So, we’ve determined that you need help,” Harold said.
Zoe was certain he was far beyond help. Lock him up and throw away the key. “But you’re not helping us. So, unless you have something useful to say, we’ll end the interview here. You can save your sick fantasies for the psychologists.” Harold’s patience had gone.
“Follow the blue hoody!” He snapped. The words felt as if they knocked the wind out of Zoe.
“Excuse me?” Harold said, “What do you know?”
“Follow the blue hooded top and you will find your killer.”
“What else do you know about the killer?” Harold asked, his voice raised.
“I’m ready for my transfer now.” He smiled and started looking around the room, resuming his inspection.
“You think he did it?” Harold asked as they sat back in his office. “He’s clearly nuts!”
“Not sure. I don’t think so.”
“You studied these guys in Uni, right?”
“Yup. And sometimes, I wish I hadn’t.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he chuckled, “But how did he know about the blue hooded top?”
“I don’t know. But he won’t do our job for us, that’s for sure – he’s not going to tell us who did it – he wants us to do it. Must be a control thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s psychopathic. He did what he did for his sick narcissistic pleasure. He wants to control and own people. He thrives on people looking up to him.” She took a deep breath. “He would have made the victims beg for their lives. The death would have been quick, but the mental torture would be long.”
“Sick.”
“Yes. And now he wants us to turn to him. He wants to be in the centre of this.”
Zoe’s phone buzzed. The buzz was loud enough for Harold to hear it.
“You going to get that?”
“Hello,” she answered but used her hands to subtly press the volume button. Lowering it so Harold couldn’t hear Curtis on the other end.
“Hey, we found something on the IC1 male from the station. The one Sarah had an altercation with.”
“Ok, I’ll be there shortly,” she said as calmly as she could, trying not give her excitement away.
“Who was that? Anything important?” Harold asked as he put on his reading glasses and started typing on his keyboard.
“No, just Curtis chasing up on something. Nothing important,” she lied. She didn’t want Harold following her around, babysitting her.
“Ok, I’m going to grab a coffee from a great little place nearby that Nick introduced me to, can I grab you one?” She stood to leave.
“No, I’m fine with the crap that comes out of the machines,” he said holding his plastic up.
“Zoe,” he called as she approached the door, moments from freedom. She scanned her mind for anything she might have said or acted that may have betrayed her, given away that she was hiding something and desperately trying to get away. She mentioned the coffee shop because she was planning to go there after she had spoken to Curtis. The best lies were the ones with the most amount of truth.
“Second thoughts, I will have a coffee. It’ll be nice to have a change from the poison being dispensed from the machines.”
“Sure,” she said.
Chapter 35
“I’m so glad you’re OK,” Nick said, “You gave me such a scare.”
“Me too. But I think I enjoyed the break,” Stacey said. Her eyelids opened and closed in slow motion. “It’s been a tough 9 months and I think my body forced me to shut down for a bit. Nothing to worry about. I’m fine now.” She said trying to sound perky, but her voice was faint, weak and her speech slightly slurred. She’d been awake for 27 hours and 31 minutes. Seemingly more alive every hour.
“Thank God,” Nick commented.
“God?”
“I even prayed. I was so desperate.”
“Really? Did it help?”
“I think so.”
“Well Pastor Nick, thanks for the healing.”
The sarcasm was a clear indication she was back.
The door opened and Nick’s mother marched in carrying their baby. Her mother-mode had kicked in. She carried the baby everywhere, washed him, changed him, fed him organic baby milk. She stared anxiously when the nurses or doctors wanted to examine him. She refused to let them be alone with him. She insisted she had to be present at every point and questioned their every move.
He thought this would annoy Stacey – it would have driven Katie up the wall. The next world war would have broken out if this had happened with Michael – if Michael had survived. His heart sunk a little at the thought. The thought that Michael never got to meet his brother.
Stacey seemed relieved his mother taking over. Nick had warned her months back at how his mother would get around the baby. But Stacey shrugged it off and said she would be glad that their baby would have a guardian angel.
Stacey was rewriting the laws of daughter-in-law and mother-in-law relationships, changing the dynamics and the stigmas attached. Destroying universal laws and equilibriums, but in a good way.
“You should go for a bit,” Stacey said, “You’ve been here for too long and I know you’re feeling it in your back.”
“I’m fine,” Nick said straitening his spine.
“Look, your mother is having the time of her life, bless her, and your father has gone to the house, and you really look like you could do with a shower and a long nap. Why don’t you go home? We’re fine here.” She gently squeezed his hand. He could feel the loss of strength in her grip.
“No, I’m not going to leave you here like this and—"
“Look, we’re fine,” she pointed at his mother cradling the baby while reading him a book.
“What about you?”
“I’m absolutely fine. I could
do with some rest as well.” She smiled and her eyelids looked heavy and closed slowly and then opened again.
“Ok,” he said, “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“I’m good, thanks. Now, get out of here.”
It wasn’t easy leaving her, but she was right. He was a mess and needed a change of scene. If anything, his anxiety and fussing was probably driving her crazy. He couldn’t help it and it was worrying him. He couldn’t afford to repeat his past life – the delicate veneer could easily break. He couldn’t allow this to trigger off the dependent personality disorder he had buried deep within him. He had to fight it. He had trained himself to fight it.
He couldn’t go home; he knew that much. Home would make him think about Stacey. Sleep was out of the question. He drove to the station without thinking. He wasn’t sure why he was there. It was like the way Zombies were always drawn to the shopping centres, places they spent so much time in when they were alive. He had turned into a zombie and ended up in the car park of the station.
Perhaps he could go in and see Harold, explain what’s going on. It would be good to talk to someone other than himself. Harold was his friend and mentor. He would sugar-coat his words in a way that would make things sound OK. He was good at that.
He scrolled though his contact list, stopping at Patrick. This would be a good time to talk to an old friend. He was more than an old friend; he was a therapist. Perhaps the best person to talk to right about now. Patrick would understand that he could not think about anything other than Stacey and have flashbacks of Katie and Michael. He stopped. He wasn’t ready to talk to Patrick.
He suddenly felt claustrophobic, and he could no longer function. He needed Stacey to be OK. He needed to be with her. He needed to with her right now and never let her out of his sight again. He threw the phone on the seat as panic surged through him. He started the engine with the intention to floor it out of the carpark and get to the hospital as fast as he could.
“Nick!” A familiar voice called, “Hi,” Zoe tapped his window.
