Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  Then there is the fact that there would be witnesses. The whole episode, and my identity, would be captured on CCTV.

  I’d be arrested and locked behind bars. I wouldn’t last five minutes at Eastwood Park prison among the lifers as somebody’s bitch.

  No, I will not deviate from the plan we’ve mapped out. It is time to throw you all off course.

  Dad says that it need not look like murder; there are other ways to make you all pay without drawing unwanted attention.

  We can make murder resemble suicide that will not get investigated. That would place a distance between the investigation and me.

  I’ve just selected my third target, Judge Geoffrey Peterson. He tried to suffocate me with a bag, therefore, his death will be apt.

  Dad says self-suffocation is common and no questions will be asked. The rest of you will assume he took the cowards way out to rid himself of any connection to Cipher.

  His death will make you re-evaluate. You’ll think that perhaps it’s all in your heads and no one is hunting you after all.

  When you start to believe you might be safe after all, I’ll claim my next target. The clock is ticking. Death is knocking at your door.

  43

  DI CARMICHAEL

  FRIDAY 7 SEPTEMBER 2018

  Goulding, Peterson, and Hamilton join our table at Caesars. Routine is important, Cronwell informs me. We cannot arouse any suspicion.

  I snatch the Champagne bottle, much to the group’s dismay, and pour myself a glass. I need a drink to calm my nerves. This situation is eating away at me.

  These bastards don’t deserve to be warned, but Cronwell is adamant each member must know the truth; their lives are in danger.

  I wish I could destroy Cipher, obliterate the whole of the Dark Web and its illegal activities.

  I’d undo our twisted society that strives on the pain and destruction of others for pleasure. It would take an atomic bomb to achieve it, wipe out mankind and start again.

  I’m ashamed to admit it but there are masses of malevolent characters in our world, more than I’d ever imagined in my worst nightmares.

  The only way forward is to discover who’s behind the murders and get to them before they can hurt the remaining players.

  With so many victims of Cipher, the task’s difficult, but not impossible. That’s if the killer is even linked to the forum.

  Members act out their own deviant sexual desires outside Cipher, which they keep private.

  We have nothing to go on, no clues pointing us to the killer. We must bide our time.

  Christian Hamilton takes a comical approach to the situation, declaring Baldwin and Whitehall shared women. He is of the firm belief the killer is one of the women’s husbands putting them both in line.

  Cronwell had alluded to such a theory at Hugh’s crime scene, the brutality pointed to a male offender. It takes more than a jealous guy to set someone on fire and decapitate them. It takes a person with a cause, with a desperate need for revenge.

  A person so messed up by what life has inflicted on them, they have no regard for the consequences of their actions. An individual with nothing to lose, which makes them deadly.

  “This is fucking serious,” Cronwell spits, belittling Hamilton, and his theory.

  “Baldwin was murdered with a stiletto! His killer was female. She may be a Cipher victim getting revenge!”

  “Or it could be a male killer using a stiletto to frame a woman! You know how they acted outside Cipher ... they were relentless. This has nothing to do with Cipher,” Goulding hisses.

  She is not accepting the blame for their deaths. Cipher will not be linked to either victim in her eyes.

  “We don’t have any proof Cipher is being hunted, but it’s too much of a coincidence that Baldwin and Whitehall were murdered within weeks of each other,” Cronwell whispers.

  “They weren’t only murdered. Their deaths were sadistic. Whitehall was decapitated!” he adds.

  Cronwell’s face reddens, enraged that he’s not being taken seriously.

  “Fucking calm down, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. A woman would not be capable of decapitation!” Goulding spits, necking her Champagne.

  “Whoever killed them wanted vengeance. I’m telling you now that this is payback from one of the women. One of the women who got away!” I state, firmly.

  They stare dumbfounded, as though I’ve gone mental.

  “Clearly, I want to be wrong but it’s no coincidence they were both killed. If I’m not mistaken, one of us is the killer’s next target.”

  The table falls silent, distracted by the gyrations of an erotic dancer in a red thong, her face layered with slutty make-up; thick pencilled eyebrows and chilli-red lipstick.

  She drops to her heels in a seductive motion, but all eyes jolt back to me.

  The dancer whips off her bra, craving attention, her behaviour comparable to a dog begging for scraps. Cronwell ushers her away.

  The girl’s face flushes, clearly dejected. She’s new to the club and looks as though she may cry, having mustered the guts to peel off her clothes, only to then be rejected.

  For the first time, I’ve no sympathy. There are more pressing matters at hand than her crushed ego.

  This is our mess, one that needs to be kept private. Otherwise, we will all be exposed for the animals that we are.

  44

  DI CARMICHAEL

  TUESDAY 11 SEPTEMBER 2018

  We can’t hide the truth. A positive identification has been made by next of kin.

  Francesca holds the 3D sculpture as though it’s an ornament, not a model of her dead husband.

  Mullins has explained how she used clay to form his nose, cheeks, chin, and lips. False eyes and a wig were then added. The resemblance is uncanny.

  Francesca conveys no emotion, remaining cold, as though she is looking at the reconstruction of a stranger. She rotates it, examining the facial characteristics from varying angels.

  It’s hard to understand how a de-fleshed cranium, with no DNA or other remains, could be proven to be Piers.

  While it is not a perfect replica of Piers, alongside the 2D facial reconstruction image, it leaves little room for doubt.

  I gauge from Francesca’s body language that she is suffering a mixture of shock and grief. Our findings have been digested, but she’s lost deep in thought.

  Perhaps she will never accept the skull to be that of her husband, without the rest of his body.

  We have no idea where it rests, and we have no forensic evidence to identify the killer. We must act before one of us meets a macabre end.

  Scores of journalists shudder under winter coats, their hair and notebooks saturated by drizzle.

  They await an update on the skull investigation. Everyone has a thirst for it, due to the sheer depravity involved - it sells papers.

  I remain troubled by the killer’s identity and fear she is amongst the sea of unnamed faces in the crowd.

  This isn’t paranoia. It is common for a killer to become obsessed with an investigation to ascertain whether the net is closing in on them.

  I’ve been mulling over the case. Annabelle knows it’s playing on my mind but doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t want to hear the gore.

  I’m certain the killer is female, and the idea sickens my core. My mind constantly replays the rape on repeat, every time I close my eyes.

  If my theory is fact, my gut tells me the killer is connected to Cipher, and it could well be the girl I raped.

  I’d kept an eye out for unidentified, Jane Does, in the aftermath. A body matching her description was never found. That can only mean she survived her ordeal. And if she is still alive, what state of mind would she be in, after what we – after what I – did to her?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m DI Benjamin Carmichael, leading the investigation into the skull, which washed ashore, on Friday 31st of August.

  “A full examination has been undertaken and cause of death confirmed as severe b
lunt force trauma. As a result of those findings, we are treating the death as murder.”

  I lower my gaze to my statement to offer my eyes relief from the intruding camera flashes.

  “Without the body, or a positive DNA match, identifying the cranium has been a difficult task. However, forensic facial reconstruction methods have been used, which has led to an identification.”

  Mullins approaches from my right, carrying the 3D forensic sculpture. The cameras turn their attention to her, snapping away at the clay model.

  “We can confirm that the cranium belongs to missing local man, Dr. Piers Whitehall.”

  I pause and present the 2D reconstruction, and a picture of the deceased beside the model, to allow for comparison. The crowd remains silent, scribbling notes and scrutinising the evidence.

  “Next of kin have been informed and our thoughts remain with his family at this distressing time. I would ask the media not to intrude while they grieve.”

  A wave of despondent glares greets me, unsatisfied that they’ve been instructed to stay away from the family.

  “Dr. Whitehall worked as a paediatric consultant at Weston General Hospital. He was last seen leaving work on the 28th of August, at around 11 pm. His disappearance is out of character. We are, therefore, asking for the public’s help with any information surrounding his disappearance.

  “Our efforts will remain meticulous, as they have from the outset, as we continue to investigate his murder. We will leave no stone unturned.

  “Anyone with information is asked to come forward. Please call 101, or Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111. Thank you for your time.”

  “Is there any link between this case and the other recent murder? It seems a strange coincidence to have two murders in such a short space of time... are they connected? Is this a serial killer? If so, who’s next?” shouts a scrawny reporter.

  I break his probing stare and retreat from the microphone cluster. If only the media was aware of the full facts—that a serial killer has, in fact, darkened our doors.

  45

  EMILIA

  FRIDAY 28 SEPTEMBER 2018, 11.20 PM

  I’ve prepared myself to kill again. Geoffrey Peterson will die tonight.

  I’m shielded with a forensic suit and gloves. My face and neck covered with Vaseline to prevent scratches, should there be an altercation. I cannot risk having my skin under his nails and traces being extracted by forensics.

  Our plan won’t fail, we know what we are doing and have planned his death in detail.

  Peterson splits his time between wealthy Windsor, and a Somerset residence in Wedmore.

  We have waited outside his countryside mansion for two hours for his arrival.

  Headlights illuminate the drive as he slows to a snail’s pace. We observe from the shadows, listening to a cacophony of metal clanging as the garage door mounts mechanical runners.

  The car manoeuvres, inching inside his death chamber, and we follow in close pursuit. The engine cuts, shutting off the classical symphony.

  Peterson opens the door, hauling his colossal weight out of the driver’s seat. Dad offers an approving wink and I prepare the syringe.

  I pluck one of the memories to evoke anger and stab his neck, injecting the contents into his carotid artery.

  The M99 Etorphine acts fast. His legs buckle, body falling like a sack of spuds, unconscious.

  We chose the synthetic opioid as it is used to immobilise large mammals. I needed to fully ensure the drug depressed his central nervous system long enough for me to take charge.

  Dad assists by transporting his 22-stone deadweight body onto a wooden garden chair.

  We proceed with restraint; padding his wrists and ankles with bandages to prevent evidence of captivity that would be scrutinised during an autopsy.

  His arms are bound with a common cord variety behind his back and his legs are secured to each chair leg. He now sits as my prisoner.

  Garden tools hang off the breeze block walls with precision alongside a frayed spider’s web.

  The fusty air offers hints of petrol and earth wafting from soil clumps clogging a pitchfork.

  I stare with contempt at the beast before me. I won’t label myself as a murderer because this isn’t murder; it’s suicide, borne out of shame and guilt, as a pathetic excuse for a man recognises the monster he had become.

  Peterson worked hard to achieve his ambitions. Only, he didn’t solely apply himself to the criminal system, he crossed the ranks to the underside of it.

  He thought he was invincible due to his position in society. It is time he came face to face with his past and suffered.

  Peterson’s face remains slumped into fatty neck tissue, offering no distinction.

  He repulses me; wayward eyebrows frame his crinkled eyelids. Saggy under-eye flaps hang low. He smells of body odour and whisky. His shirt strains across his belly, mimicking the fictional, grossly overweight, Nutty Professor character.

  Dad and I remain patient. Not a word is exchanged while we wait for him to regain consciousness.

  We knew this wouldn’t be a quick process. However, I needed to render him immobile to play the game.

  What we’re doing is wrong. We are fully aware of that fact, but it’s as though we are both high on revenge. It is pumping through our blood and veins, feeding our minds.

  Peterson’s eyelids blink. The movement kickstarts a wave of panic and excitement.

  My face exudes confidence, yet my hands tremble behind my back.

  His haggard eyes study his surroundings with confusion. He remains silent, Adam’s apple bobbing.

  I watch him come around, dribble trickling from his mouth like a baby. It’s time to play and this time we are playing by my rules.

  46

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 29 SEPTEMBER 2018, 12.06 AM

  Peterson’s eyes glisten with taints of fear. They’re anchored on the bag in my gloved hands. The one I’m going to suffocate him with.

  I crouch and offer a smile, as though I’m an excited child admiring Santa. His breathing intensifies, terror discharging through him as he struggles against the cords.

  Dad and I snigger at his feeble attempts. His eyes widen, panicked, having seen us; the double act.

  “Please ... what do you want from me?” he mutters.

  “I want to watch you die,” I answer, bluntly.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Aw, please don’t hurt me,” I mimic.

  Dad remains silent, I take the lead.

  “This is the only way to make you pay for your crimes.”

  Peterson looks baffled by his captivity, there’s not even a flicker of recognition.

  “It is time to pay for what you did,” I screech.

  “Though I can see that you don’t remember me. I was a point on your scoreboard. I’m the girl who got away.”

  I refrain from showing him the scars.

  “I thought you liked to play, Geoffrey. You seemed to enjoy suffocating my face while you raped me.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes widen, a flicker of recognition in them. He’s starting to remember his crime against me.

  I dangle the bag in my fingertips. His eyes dart like a jaguar to Dad, pleading for help. Dad smiles, offering me encouragement – and no comfort to Peterson.

  “You won’t find any empathy from him. This was his idea. This man has taught me everything I need to know, Geoffrey. You should never upset Daddy’s girl.”

  His forehead creases, eyes bulbous as he continues to tug at the cords. He pauses, defeated and out of breath.

  I smile as he studies me, eyes fixated on the bag. The plot thickens.

  “Perhaps if I offer you a reminder, it might jog your memory.”

  I shove the bag over my own head, gasping and sucking the plastic in and out. The surface mists, air warming my cheeks.

  It transports me back to that spot, knees burrowed in the mud
, his hands groping my breasts, the tip of my nose twisted. I can barely breathe.

  Through the mist, figures gather, shining the light on my face. Tears threaten my eyes at the vivid recollection. I tug the bag away leaving a sheen of sweat on my face. Dad stares at me, horrified.

  “Now do you remember? I was one of the women you suffocated for kicks,” I yell.

  He gawps, mesmerised, as though I’m insane and he’s watching a mental patient have a meltdown.

  Dad looks sickened by my performance. I’ve planted a gruesome image inside his head, one he’ll be unable to erase - I just wanted Geoffrey to remember.

  I’m winded, as though I’ve been punched. My gaze darts back to the beast; his cheeks flushed.

  “It all became too much for you, didn’t it, Geoffrey ... that’s why you have taken your own life. You couldn’t cope with the shame.”

  His eyes rage, blood vessels swarming. He tries to rock the chair backwards to free himself. Dad is quick to respond, rendering him still with a firm, gloved hand.

  “I was going to type a suicide note, but you don’t have anyone in your life, do you, Geoffrey? That’s because you abandoned your normal existence to live in the darkness and act out your sick fantasies.”

  I feel no pity. Perhaps when I am home alone later, with the dead faces haunting me, I’ll experience guilt. But right now, I’m empowered.

  I’m in charge of his fate and seeing him before me while recalling his vulgar words and grubby body against mine, makes me want him dead, more than ever.

  His method of death, suffocation, is poignant. Auto erotic asphyxia is used as a fetish to ‘get off’ before a person frees themselves at the last second.

  The participant, a ‘gasper’, tightens a noose around their neck or uses a bag to increase sexual excitement by restricting oxygen supply to the brain.