Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  “The killer went to inordinate lengths to ensure it was virtually impossible to identify the victim. These tiny holes on the surface indicate he was exposed to low intensity burning.”

  Harper continues with her inspection, studying the skull with suspicious eyes at varying angles.

  Muirhead lowers her camera and tucks a wayward pink hair into her hood.

  The coastal breeze blasts grit against our faces. I glance at the horizon, to Steep Holm island, and Wales, wondering where the skull started its course.

  Waves lap against the sand, sea spray hissing and foam cresting like latte froth, as rubbernecking dog walkers gather in droves like vultures on the promenade.

  “I suspect the cranium was discarded off Sand Point and the undercurrents brought it ashore,” Cardy offers.

  Our eyes lock. She’s older than me, around 48. I recognise her scent, Coco perfume.

  “Is it male or female?” I ask.

  Harper rotates the cranium, digesting the lesions in her mind, as though she’s adding photographs to an album.

  The pitted surface mimics a treasure map, serrations offering clues as to how the victim met his, or her, death.

  “The morphological features of the cranium suggest this was a male. The forehead is oblique, the glabella and frontonasal suture are pronounced. The nuchal crest, inion hook, and mastoid process is robust, all indicators of a male,” she answers.

  I remain silent and allow her to continue.

  “The sagittal skull suture is fully fused indicating the victim was over 35. Coronal suture fully fuses over 40. Taking the roughened bone texture into consideration, and the shape of the eye sockets, which sink and become more prominent as you mature, I’d say the victim was over 50. You’ll need an anthropologist to conduct a thorough examination.”

  After a pause, her eyes stray back, sweeping lashes watery from the unrelenting breeze.

  “The killer de-fleshed the skin before the skull entered the water,” Harper grimaces.

  I shudder, envisaging a hooded figure scraping away flesh with blood-drenched hands.

  “These jagged parallel marks are caused by sharp force trauma. The cheek cut wounds are indicative of his jaw being removed with a blade.”

  This case is fresh territory in my 16 years with the force, a macabre place I’m not keen to enter.

  “Will the anthropologist be able to determine an identity?” Harper shrugs, raising an arched brow.

  “It’s a challenge. Since no teeth are present, pulp cannot be extracted for DNA comparison. Even if they were intact, bacteria in the sea could have destroyed it.

  “It’s possible to extract DNA from the bone, but to identify it, there would need to be familial DNA present in the database. Failing that, the anthropologist will use forensic facial reconstruction. I warn you this is a complex investigation. It will take time.”

  She rotates the skull, observing it as though it’s an ancient relic. Her eyes brighten in kaleidoscopes of colour as they scrutinise the tooth sockets.

  “I’m not certain, but under this partial gum remain, there may be an impacted wisdom tooth,” she blurts, holding the skull upside down, examining it internally.

  “You’ll need a closer inspection under a microscope,” she adds.

  Harper places the cranium inside a biohazard evidence bag and labels the exterior for continuity and transportation.

  “This is a small town with two murder victims killed within weeks of each other. Could their deaths be connected?” I quiz.

  “The MOs are completely different. The stiletto murder strongly suggests a female killer. As for this murder, there is no evidence to suggest a male, or female was responsible,” Cardy answers.

  Could a woman be capable of decapitation and de-fleshing a person? That’s a horrific level of brutality.

  I elude the press and pass a bench inscribed: ‘Take nothing for granted – Michael J Bestwick 1933-2007.’

  I deem the saying apt. I’m just surprised it’s not my mutilated corpse on the sand after what I was a party to.

  37

  EMILIA

  MONDAY 3 SEPTEMBER 2018

  The vivid nightmares where I see their blood entrapped in my palms will stay with me forever; so they should. But they deserved to die for their crimes.

  My actions are immoral, but those vermin stole my body in violent, sickening ways. They must pay. Revenge is the only drug that will get me through this.

  The skull has been unearthed. I trembled during the ITV news broadcast, fearing forensics may find a trace of my DNA.

  CSI teams searched the shore for Piers’ body parts. The camera then zoomed to a police officer. ITV news had just shown one of my assailants in his uniform, confirming Trudy’s suspicion that he is a cop.

  Dad will put feelers out there and identify him for certain.

  One of the top forensic anthropologists in the country, Laura Mullins, is working on the case and building a 3D mould of Piers’ face.

  It won’t be long before an identification is made and then Cipher will know that they are being hunted.

  I do feel remorse for Francesca; she will never be able to bury her husband. But he got his just desserts. The past always catches up. Karma will not be denied.

  38

  DI CARMICHAEL

  TUESDAY 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

  The only way forward with this life is to override my evil with good and be a better man.

  I peruse the anthropology report, which records the cause of death as blunt force trauma. Mullins states the victim is older than predicted.

  ‘Morphological features of the cranium and bone DNA confirm the victim was male. The orbital aperture width measurements indicate an age range of 50-64-years.

  ‘Tooth pulp was extracted from a compacted wisdom tooth, but a DNA profile could not be yielded due to possible micro-organism contamination.’

  We have no DNA and therefore no clue to his identity. Mullins must use forensic facial reconstruction techniques.

  I continue scrutinising the report.

  ‘A deep indentation on the crown is consistent with a cleaver wound. Jagged parallel marks suggest a serrated kitchen knife removed the skin and the jaw was forcibly removed with a small, single edge blade.’

  The body was tossed aside and discarded in the sea like an animal carcass. Only, this was a human being and his family deserve answers and justice. I may be a dirty cop, but I am still a cop, and a good one. I’ve closed all my investigations. I will solve this murder, too.

  39

  EMILIA

  THURSDAY 6 SEPTEMBER 2018

  The old Emilia is gone. The person that stares back at me in the mirror with renewed vigour and confidence is what Daddy moulded.

  You’ve given me courage and equipped me with skills to eradicate my monsters and rid their evil from the world.

  I will myself to shed a tear for my crimes, but they no longer flow. I have become cold.

  Perhaps I have moulded myself into a heartless bitch, but I must be a person with those traits. A person who carries guilt cannot be an accomplished killer.

  I will not end this killing spree until I have exacted revenge and all my targets have been eliminated. Only then will I be satisfied and healed.

  Once this is over, I won’t carry on killing. I haven’t become a serial killer that is going to plague the streets after dark hunting and murdering men because it gives me a perverse thrill.

  I will only kill those who deserve it; the men who killed me inside.

  What will life be like in the future? Who knows? One thing I do know is that Emilia is not the person she thought she was. I won’t admit it to you, Dad, but I am petrified of the monster I have become.

  40

  DI CARMICHAEL

  THURSDAY 6 SEPTEMBER 2018

  Fear punctures my heart. This cannot be real. If it is, it means Cipher is being hunted and we are all going to die.

  With the search parameters extended, new hits have yielded on m
issing persons, the result disturbing.

  There are two matching missing persons (MISPERS). I know the victim’s identity - Piers Whitehall.

  I noted his lack of attendance at Caesars Palace. He hasn’t missed a meeting since I became involved in this sordid game.

  Piers is competitive, it’s unlike him to fall down the leader‐ board. He wouldn’t allow it, not unless he was dead.

  Whitehall’s sunken eyes stare from the photo. How could we not have known that he was missing?

  If it is Whitehall, we have a serious situation. We’re two Cipher members down, both brutally murdered. That can only mean one thing; someone knows what we all did.

  The modus operandi (MO) is different, at opposite ends of the scale, but the fact remains, two Cipher members have been murdered. One stabbed, the other decapitated. Could their deaths be connected?

  My eyes quickly scrutinise the Missing Person Initial Investigation Guide, deciphering the details surrounding Whitehall’s disappearance.

  Reported missing by his wife, Francesca, on August 29, and last seen at work (Weston General Hospital) on August 28.

  The report indicates that an ‘open door search’ of the hospital was undertaken with no result.

  Custody checks have been examined, along with patient admissions at Weston General and Bristol hospitals.

  Items of intelligence have been examined, including bank details and telecoms via the force Intel Bureau. His mobile phone is switched off; therefore, a location could not be pinged.

  His bank account has no recent transactions and his car remains unaccounted for.

  I glance through the characteristics section, outlining establishments frequented. It’s brief, mentioning his membership at Weston Golf Club, with no reference to Caesars.

  The remainder of the report outlines there is no risk of domestic abuse, evidence of previous habitual disappearances, or any preparations evident regarding plans to leave.

  I peruse the Internet, Stalking and Lifestyle sections. There is no evidence he uses chat rooms or was planning to meet a stranger and he has not been the subject of harassment or stalking. There is nothing out of the ordinary and no suggested link to Cipher.

  The walls close in. I release the document, gulp water and drum my fingers against the desk.

  Cronwell’s eyes have shot up, reading me from across the Incident Room. I’m sinking, being pulled under, and there is no escape from this nightmare.

  I deserve to die but now isn’t my time. I won’t allow it until I have repented for my sins.

  Cronwell bolts to his feet, curiosity etched in his eyes. He jerks his head, ushering me to follow him for one of our ‘confidential meets’. It’s the norm when he wants to discuss a matter without the prying ears of the Intelligence Officers.

  I follow him outside to the rear car park. He paces beside his Audi, dragging on a cigarette.

  “What the fuck is it?”

  I hand over the document.

  “Missing persons’ files produced a lead.”

  “What? Spit it out.”

  Colour slips from his face, which turns death white as he encounters Piers’ photo.

  “Did you know he was missing?” I ask.

  He shakes his head matter-of-factly.

  “No. What the hell?”

  “He was last seen on August 28. His wife reported him missing after he failed to return from work,” I summarise.

  “I see that, Carmichael. I can read.”

  His palm runs over his balding head.

  “He’s been inactive, but Peterson presumed it was due to work commitments.”

  “This is no coincidence, is it?”

  He fixes his furious stare on me, eyes burning, face overridden with dread. A heavy silence hangs until he mutters the words that I do not wish to hear.

  “Cipher is being targeted. We’re being hunted.”

  41

  DI CARMICHAEL

  FRIDAY 7 SEPTEMBER 2018

  I haven’t felt this afraid since I awoke unsure of my actions during the alcohol blackout.

  I’m not sure what’s worse, unrelenting uncertainty or knowing that you’re being hunted by a person with expert skills required to dispose of a body viciously.

  Hugh Baldwin was left for us to find. Whitehall was dismembered and disposed of in a way that he would still be found, but there would be unanswered questions.

  The fear coiled around my spine tells me that what lies ahead for the rest of us will only be far worse.

  Mullins has used 2D forensic facial reconstruction on the cranium to rebuild his face and aid identification.

  By using cranium contours and tissue markers, she has been able to sketch a likeness of how the victim could have looked.

  I’ve provided her with photos of the missing person’s - Whitehall and another man in his 60s, Freddie Parkinson.

  I await in anticipation, heart thudding against my ribs for confirmation that it’s Piers.

  Mullins smiles, hands over her sketch, and places her hands on her petite hips.

  “We have found a match,” she dictates with enthusiasm, glossy grin widening.

  “It’s remarkable,” I reply.

  I’m overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions. Relief that I have an identity and distress that my worst fear is founded.

  “The anatomical landmarks of the face all match, there’s no denying the resemblance to this gentleman, Dr. Piers Whitehall,” Mullins says cheerily, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear.

  My heart dips, tumbling as though I’m on a rollercoaster free fall.

  Mullins face brightens, donning a look of accomplishment.

  “To ensure that there is no room for doubt, I’ll create a 3D facial reconstruction using clay, the muscle groups, and soft tissue depth markers. This will help me to create a model of what he may have looked like.”

  “Great.”

  “3D facial reconstruction has only a 70 per cent success rate because facial features, such as the nose and lips, are not necessarily indicated by the shape of the skull. But it’s worth a shot and it’s the closest match you’ll get to an actual identification without any DNA.”

  Her face exudes confidence.

  “I’ve seen this before,” she adds.

  The tone of her voice and demeanour alter, her shoulders sag as she bites her polished thumbnail.

  “What?”

  “Decapitation.”

  She pauses, takes a breath.

  “It’s indicative of vengeance and extreme hatred. It’s what you call textbook from the murder manual.”

  Panic wraps around my insides. My theory has become fact. This is revenge, the killer is acting in retaliation for Whitehall’s sinister deeds. We have a serial killer on our hands and each Cipher member is now a potential target.

  “I’m suggesting to you that the killer knew the victim and wanted to dispose of him brutally. Setting him on fire was personal!” Mullins elaborates.

  Her words electrocute my bones.

  “Is there any evidence to suggest this murder is linked to the stiletto case?”

  “No, nothing. Sorry.”

  Mullins is drawn back to the 2D image.

  “Who am I looking for?”

  “A person hell bent on retribution. This man was being punished; that’s my theory.”

  Cronwell resembles a gutted fish slumped on a bed of ice; mouth slack, eyes glazed with disbelief.

  I share his fear, my stomach drumming with anxiety. This pathway was dangerous and could only have led to danger and ruin the lives of those involved.

  Cipher should have seen it coming; I did. That’s why I wanted to be free of it all, only they wouldn’t let me escape. Now it’s too late and it’s only a matter of time before we are all dead.

  We both accept Mullins’ findings, even without the 3D model to gain complete certainty.

  Cronwell didn’t want my suspicions to be confirmed, only now he has seen it with his own eyes. We have proof, the skull belong
s to Whitehall.

  Someone knows what we all did, and the killer is going to keep hunting us until we have paid for our crimes.

  42

  EMILIA

  FRIDAY 7 SEPTEMBER 2018

  I’m at Caesars sipping a glass of Champagne to toast my recent achievements – two targets dead.

  I snatch occasional glances at you all; you remain unaware of my presence. I’m nothing to you, I don’t exist on your radar, and that is the way I want to keep it; for now.

  Wyclef Jean’s ‘Perfect Gentleman’ blasts across the dance‐floor. A young blonde hangs from a pole in a thong, her hair sweeping against the floor like a broom.

  I examine you all, pathetic excuses for gentlemen, in deliberation. The cops appear agitated; their cages rattled.

  Pieces of the jigsaw are being slotted together. It’s no coincidence, after all, that two of your gang are dead.

  Part of me wants to saunter over seductively with a concealed blade and then slice each of your throats from behind in quick succession.

  I imagine how the swift flick of the blade would slice you open and render you all immobile, arterial spray rhythmically spurting into one another’s faces.

  You’d be forced to watch each other bleed out on the velour booth, unable to prevent blood flow leaking from your wounds.

  The image is appealing, knowing I’d kill you all in one swoop and get it over with quick. But why should I allow you that ease? You made me suffer over a prolonged period.