by Karen Long
“It’s a show of power and taste. He kills the women but it’s more than just his control over life or death, it’s about his skill as a performer… he’s an artist in his mind. And as such his gallery has just opened and there will be more to view soon.”
“How many more?’ asked Samuelson in a low tone.
“As many as he can create before we catch him,” she said simply.
There was a pause as Marty Samuelson took in the implications. “Je-sus. What’s the plan?”
“Whitefoot and I will go and talk to pathology, see if there’s any lip tissue left from Belinda Myrtle to run chem tests on. Maybe we can match lipstick. Then we’re going to talk to Tracy Earnshaw about her role. She seems to have been more proactive in Lydia’s kidnapping than she let on to. I’m going to send in a couple of patrol officers to track down Mandy and find out what else she knows. Wadesky and Timms need to dig harder, there’s more there. Focus on intrusion without theft, stalking and maybe animal abuse with display…”
“Holy fuck! At least narrow it down to a demographic.” moaned Timms.
“Is Ruby Delaware still our ‘go to’ profiler slash psychologist?” Eleanor asked Samuelson. He nodded.
“Then let’s get her to give us a profile. And we need immediate transfer of any missing females reports and any break-ins that don’t fit conventional patterns. There’s not enough staff for this boss. Give me Smith and Rutger from vice.” Eleanor stared at her boss.
“You can have Smith and first call on Ellis and Paget but I can’t call in Rutger yet.” He leaned towards her, lowering his voice. “You sure we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?”
She nodded slowly.
He sighed then turned to the team. “Ok, let’s get this moving and I want debrief… regularly!” He pointed menacingly at Eleanor and then stood up and looked at Wadesky. “What the fuck are you eating?”
Wadesky lowered the donut, embarrassed.
“Did Timms give you that shit?” he said angrily.
“Not voluntarily,” Timms snorted.
“I’ll send up breakfast ok?” He had reached the door and turned round to face Eleanor. “You going to charge Sashia Yesikov and that mutt Barnes?”
She shook her head. “Nothing doing there.”
“Ok, they get released end of the day but I want them eyeballed. The DA is working on a way to shut them down and Feodor is being shipped over to the Feds due to his misconstruing the terms of his parole.” The door slammed noisily after him.
Chapter Fourteen
The killer stood still and drew in several deep breaths. The cold air made his chest contract and he watched intently as his exhaled breath condensed in a thick cloud and drifted slowly towards the trees. If he was to analyse what his favourite part of the whole proceedings were he’d have to say this part. All of the screaming and begging was over; not that he didn’t enjoy that aspect of the performance, but it was so predictable. All his victims so far had made the same noises, which were generally too loud and made the same pleas. Not one of them varied their performance and he felt that maybe a future scenario might require some considerable thought if he was to maintain his enthusiasm for the whole thing. After all when a thing became commonplace he generally walked away from it; he’d done that plenty of times before. But here, in the clearing, he was flushed with success and pride. His last presentation had shown a considerable improvement on the first couple but this one really did deserve some appreciation from his audience.
The moon had been unusually bright as he set up his tools and had made the clearing operation considerably easier than he’d imagined. He had selected the area several months earlier whilst walking in the park. The trees formed a natural auditorium and the red oak tree that stood in the middle of the arena had been scarified by decades of love carvings and dates. He knew that there was at least an hour’s work required to tailor the space to his needs but he was prepared and had made sure that after such a strenuous twenty-four hours he’d have sufficient stamina by drinking several litres of isotonic sports drinks. He began pruning back the lower branches using a hand saw and dragging them over to the periphery of the arena but this was taking too much time and energy; he really wanted to have the preparation finished before dawn broke. It was always going to be a risky business using a chain saw but he’d selected a battery powered one, which although massively underpowered for the task in hand was considerably quieter than the motorised version. Early recces of the site had proved that there was very little in the way of pedestrian traffic during the night and any clandestine trysts took place closer to the car park where both shelter and a getaway could be secured. The site was at least eight hundred yards from the nearest house and the single elderly resident wore a hearing aid. No, it would be ok to use the power saw for a limited amount of time.
Mrs Needermeyer had lived in the small house overlooking the park for the last thirty-five years and she took endless comfort in watching the seasons change the trees’ appearance, and the rhythmic arrivals of migratory birds held a fascination for her that had filled many a lonely hour. At eighty-three, she seldom felt the need to sleep for long periods of time, in fact her ‘cat naps’ generally lasted for two or three hours at most, which was why she was sitting on a small oak occasional chair watching a pair of screech-owls hunting mice in the brilliant moonlight. Mrs Needermeyer seldom bothered to put in the new hearing aid her son had bought for her but she was so tickled by the petulant shrieks of the owls that she turned it up to maximum. It had taken her at least three minutes to work out exactly what the hideous racket was that was now accompanying the owls. Who could possibly be chopping down trees at this time of the night or, for that matter, who could possibly have permission to commit such an act? She picked up the phone and called emergency services. The gentleman on the end of the call line had been extremely sympathetic and admitted to being very fond of owls himself. He said that a police vehicle would be dispatched immediately to investigate the matter.
Ellis sat in his patrol car and sulked. He hadn’t spoken to his partner Eva Paget for at least an hour. Not that she cared very much. It was a slow night and all Ellis did was bitch about the horrible consequences of trying to be a decent cop and saving ungrateful bitches who should be spending their hard-earned cash on shoes rather than kinky sex. So she focussed on her Sudoku and waited for the inevitable call from control. She didn’t have to wait long. The call was succinct and short. They were to go and locate a transvestite prostitute known as Mandy, last seen at the Xxxstacy night club and find out where she lived, her group of friends and any information she might have on the murder of Belinda Myrtle and Lydia Greystein. But before that they needed to investigate a possible tree crime in Jubilee Park.
“Chain saws and trannies Ellis; now that’s variety!” laughed Paget and turned over the engine. Ellis said nothing.
It was just before six am and there would be at least another hour before sun rise. Dr Hounslow disliked entering the sunless morgue before sunrise and leaving in the dark, which was why she had purchased three desk lamps each one fitted with a bulb that mimicked natural light. She was just pondering whether she could manage to carry at least one of them from the car in with her when Eleanor and Laurence arrived. “Matt will fax the final report through this afternoon. I did say that to Detective Wadesky last night,” she said tersely.
Eleanor nodded. “It was on another matter regarding the case.”
Dr Hounslow pointed at the three large boxes sitting on the back seat and handed the car keys to Laurence, while pulling out the handles on her wheeled trolley box and heading towards the morgue at a brisk pace.
Eleanor followed her into the building, leaving Laurence to manhandle the boxes and catch them up.
“Did you perform the autopsy on Belinda Myrtle last February,” asked Eleanor as they walked. “A prostitute hit by a freight train.”
“I did. Poor lady. Not very much to examine,” responded Dr Hounslow thoughtfully. Eleanor hel
d the door open for her.
“Why?” asked the pathologist as she moved swiftly towards her office, nodding politely at colleagues.
“We think there might be a link between Myrtle’s and Greystein’s death,” replied Eleanor.
“Really?” Hounslow unlocked her office door and indicated that the two officers should take a seat. They sat silently as Dr Hounslow plonked her briefcase heavily on the table and rammed the trolley box snugly against the banks of grey stainless steel filing cabinets. She dexterously flipped on the coffee maker, whilst unlocking a cabinet and selecting the relevant file. She flopped it onto her desk, tantalisingly close to Eleanor who knew that if she were to manhandle the folder before being offered she might find herself strapped to a gurney sporting a pair of matching toe tags. She stared at it while a rather knowing Dr Hounslow prepared three cups of coffee.
The only sounds in the room were the intermittent splutter of the coffee maker and the odd sigh and tut from the pathologist as she leafed through the file on Brenda Myrtle. With the last drip of coffee into the pot, Dr Hounslow closed the file and stood up. She didn’t bother to ask how each officer liked their coffee rather she poured three cups, added a drop of milk and placed them in front of Eleanor and Laurence. Laurence craved sugar but judged that the woman in front of him was unlikely to warm to any request for sweetener, so he sipped his coffee and waited for Eleanor to kick-start the conversation.
“Dr Hounslow…” she began but the pathologist held a finger up. Eleanor fell silent and waited. Suddenly with a shake of her head the pathologist stood up and made for the door.
“This will take a few minutes as I have to access stored materials from the basement archives.” She opened the door. “Probably the same amount of time as it would take you to unpack, assemble and plug in one of my wonderful new lamps Detective Whitefoot.
The killer stood silently his head cocked to one side studying his latest creation. Cassandra Willis had irritated him beyond measure by screaming incessantly even when nothing was happening to her. He had wanted the experience to be enlightening for both of them and had planned to take his time and savour the smells and sounds of her torment. However, the awful woman had screeched like a pig, which was why he’d been forced to adapt his program and slice her tongue out. He’d contemplated a less drastic alternative but it was crucial that the outward appearance of her mouth wasn’t damaged in any way. After this event she seemed to calm down considerably and even gave the impression that she was quite enjoying the whole experience. Well that was often difficult to gauge because the artist couldn’t trust what his canvases truly meant when they were being created. They always lied, trying to second guess what he wanted from them but how could they understand his needs? This was anathema even to him, a man ‘in touch’ with his inner self. He sighed deeply and felt the momentary warmth of self-pity wash over him. He could not be understood in his own time; no artist of true stature and vision ever was. His motives and meanings would be his legacy, studied and debated years after his own death; it was possible that he’d even appear on University syllabi. He smiled at that idea.
The woman’s body had been repositioned at least three times before it met his approval. He knew that if his canvas was readjusted too many times the large hook that had been inserted between the second and third vertebrae had a tendency to snap through the spine and leave the body to stretch away from the head like a piece of old fashioned taffy, especially problematic in a heavier woman. He had first looped three meters of heavy duty titanium link over one of the primary oak limbs, which dipped into a generous curve about ten feet from the ground. The lowest chain link had been fitted with a carabiner, which would accept the smaller of the double ended hook. With the mounting device in position he then had to lift the woman higher than the carabiner and carefully lower the hook onto it, whilst supporting her weight. It was an extremely delicate operation and one that he’d spent a great deal of time perfecting with the use of dead pigs and later for a more authentic experience, weighted shop mannequins. However, when he first hung the canvas he had been distressed to see that the head was rather unattractively mounted. It leaned precariously to the left and caused the plastic to stretch the woman’s features so that she looked comically malformed. He had wrapped his arm round her pelvis and lifted it slightly, using his right hand to readjust the hook and freeing the plastic so he could obtain a more relaxed expression. Unfortunately, as a perfectionist, he had to make another minute adjustment to the hook and heard the sound his artist’s sensitivity feared the most: the cracking of vertebrae. Telling himself firmly to leave well alone he forced himself to take several paces backwards. He looked critically and tried to see none of the faults but only the beauty. It was at that moment that he saw the torches and heard the sound of footsteps. He watched silently weighing up whether this was a good or bad thing. He wanted his latest creation found and appreciated certainly but he wasn’t entirely finished. The viewing arena needed to be cleared of all twigs and debris and any materials likely to be counterproductive to both the enjoyment of the experience and a threat to his freedom. He took in a deep, considered breath and studied the light beams as they criss-crossed the wooded area near to the solitary house of the old woman. The beams appeared to be positioned at shoulder height, which meant they were likely to be police officers who held their torches that way and were therefore, in all probability, searching for him. He would go; leave them to it. Resolved, he started to walk backwards admiring his work and checking that he hadn’t left anything too incriminating. The power saw had already been positioned at the entrance to the arena ready to be collected as he headed back to the car he’d hidden in the trees. His arms full of twigs and branches he stepped reverently backwards giving his masterpiece his final appraisal when he noticed the woman’s feet, which previously were clear of the plastic bag’s sealed end, were now straining and bulging the plastic. In a moment of horror the killer recognised immediately what the problem was and sprinted back to the woman. As he’d feared the vertebrae had dislocated and the lower part of the torso was beginning to collapse, the neck obscenely stretched and showing evidence of internal tearing. The familiar sensation of disappointment and anger began to flood his system with unwanted hormones. He clamped his jaw tightly and tried to think of a redemptive plan but the sounds made by the police officers crashing through the woodland made him even more frustrated. All this planning and effort was going to be flushed down the pan. He’d be a laughing stock!
“What the fuck are we looking for?” carped Ellis.
“Not sure… you smell that?” replied Paget swinging her torch round.
“Like what?”
“Fresh sawdust. Someone has been doing a bit of late night tree management but why?”
Ellis thought he didn’t care very much why and was trying to remember whether he’d got any leave left this year as he was well overdue a bit of ‘R and R’ on a foreign beach, when the bullet struck him in the chest. It had been silenced and without the aural cues neither he nor Paget were completely sure of what had just taken place.
“Ellis? What the fuck?” hissed Paget as she watched his face twist into a grimace as he buckled to his knees.
This time there was a palpable hiss and thud as the second bullet hit Paget in the side of the face and silenced any further thoughts. In a final neural explosion of lights and comprehension, Ellis was able to understand that they had both been killed but as to why and by whom there was insufficient time.
Laurence had managed to unwrap, connect and position all three lamps in the time taken by Dr Hounslow to visit the basement. When she entered the room she was carrying two slightly dusty folders bulging with photographs. Sitting down quickly she opened the first and spread the materials in front of them. “Twenty years ago I was working my post-grad internship with Dr Reznor. That was when the morgue was attached to St. Anselm’s,” said Dr Hounslow in a low voice.
Eleanor nodded remembering the old building which spe
nt proportionally more money on disposing of rats and roaches than people.
“This was one of my first cases,” she said pointing to a photograph of the face of a young girl lying on a concrete floor. The girl’s eyes were open and beginning to take on the milky hue of the recently deceased. Her lips were strangely dark and her perfect skin and halo of blonde hair made her look angelic.
“Carin Hughes was one of two bodies found by neighbours on the fourteenth of November 1992. An older woman, her mother Marilyn Hughes, was found in the vehicle,” said Mira Hounslow. She pointed to several other photographs showing a woman’s body slumped against the wheel of an ancient Ford pick-up. Eleanor looked at the pathologist her eyebrows raised.
“They were suicides,” said Dr Hounslow. “The garage doors were shut and the car had been running for some considerable time before the alarm was raised.”
“What’s the connection?” asked Eleanor, her eye’s bright with anticipation. Slowly Dr Hounslow pushed another photograph towards the two Detectives. The black and white photograph showed Carin’s body. Eleanor drew in breath and held it for a moment as she worked out the implications of the image. Carin Hughes body was wrapped tightly in a plastic sheet. Only her head was exposed.
“She was murdered?” stated Eleanor.
Dr Hounslow nodded and raised an eyebrow. “But not by the individual who placed her in the plastic.”
Eleanor and Laurence both stared at the pathologist who began to narrate the events using the series of photographs in the folder. She pointed at the figure slumped inside the Ford’s driver’s seat.
“Marilyn Hughes, Carin’s mother. Suffered from a schizophrenic disorder and had recently been sectioned for displaying suicidal tendencies. She appears to have persuaded or forced Carin to accompany her into the garage where the doors were locked and the car’s engine started. The keys to the garage were found in Marilyn’s pocket.”
“They died at the same time?” queried Laurence.
