by Mark Holme
After another two hours, Jack saw that Harry Dert was an anagram of try harder. A cocky boy, but a clever boy. He had let Jack know more about himself, he knew how to hack into the government databases, and he knew how to make a denture. There weren’t many people with that skill set. Silly, silly boy.
It turned out there was nobody with that skill set, many knew about dentures – but he couldn’t bring half of the NHS in for questioning, despite the temptation to do so. It worryingly turned out even more people knew how to hack.
Time for some nit-picking.
I killed their son, but I didn’t lay a finger on him. Leo did it. So I did it. No, no. Leo did it. Leo did it using my body, so I did it. I must go to prison for this. I must be locked away for the safety of everybody. I’m mad. I can remember it now, I don’t know how I ever forgot. It’s like remembering a dream, except in reverse. In a dream the harder you think, the harder it is to remember the tiny details. Perhaps the tiny details don’t exist in dreams. The harder I think the more and more detail I remember. I’m good, Boy am I good. They’d never catch me. Never catch him. I didn’t even realise I knew how to hack, or mould, or drain blood. I must go to prison for a long time for this.
Ding-dong. I hardly heard the car pull up. Who the hell is calling at this time? Have they caught me already?
“Sorry for disturbing you so late, I’m here to ask you some questions about a murder investigation”, spoke Jack.
No, I’m not ready yet. It’s not my time to go to prison, just one more day is all I ask, and then I’ll turn myself in. I promise, I’ll turn myself in tomorrow.
“No need to look so pale, I’m here to ask you about a drawing called The Praying Hands. Have you heard of it?” the detective queried, now holding his badge out.
“Of course, of course, come in. Tea?” phew that was close.
“Black, two sugars, and leave the tea bag in”
...and I’m the mad one. He made himself comfortable on my sofa, watched the news ending with the weather forecast foreseeing snow at Christmas. I made him his tea, set it on the glass table next to him directly (I have no need of mats) then sat myself on the other two-seater. He had an intimidating stature, nothing like my own of course – he was merely six foot one inch by my estimates, I am six feet four inches precisely.
Trench coat and cigar looked all too familiar, more modern perhaps, but the outline was identical, speech impediment and all. He had lit the cigar without asking.
Puff-puff “I was wondering” Puff “If you could tell me the story of” puff-puff “The Praying Hands”
“Ah, it is one of my many favourites – a tale of brotherly love and hard work. Fifteenth century, brush in grey and white, grey wash, on blue-grounded paper – currently on display in the Albertina Museum in Vienna.”
Ah the beautiful Vienna, were the immortal Hitler grew from infant to boy – I must visit one day.
“I’m surprised you do not know the tale already, it goes something like this. Two brothers in a family, with around 18 siblings I believe, grew up with a passion, much like myself, for art. Upon losing a coin toss one brother, Albert Durer, worked in the mine for years, funding his brother through the art academy. Upon Albrecht’s return from the academy he spoke “And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you.”, Albert responded with tears streaming down his face “No, brother...for me it is too late.” showing his hands to his family sat around the table. They were battered and shaking, unable to draw a line on parchment. Out of love Albrecht painstakingly nit-picking, drew Albert’s hands. I suppose the real moral of the story is that nobody ever makes it alone.”
There is something satisfying about recalling the story; the connection these brothers held, has passed through generation after generation. This is what art really is you know, it is not the image, but the story behind it where the true beauty lies hidden.
There is something satisfying about recalling this story, the failed dreams of Albert, the devastation as he lost the coin toss; wet tears dripping down his face, as his one passion in this world is torn away from him. Something very satisfying indeed.
Now I know I said the word satisfying twice, that’s it, I’m telling him.
“Detective -”
“Please call me Jack, Jack Spencer”
“Jack, there’s something else I must tell you -”
“I’ve always wanted to help an investigation, if you need any help with anything, feel free to come to me”.
Interrupting myself, that’s new.
“Of course, of course – do you happen to have any notes about The Praying Hands I could take back to the station on you?”
His cigar had significantly decreased in size, it was time for him to leave.
“As luck would have it, I do, just a moment detective”.
He watched closely as I jogged up the stairs in the open plan front room, into my mad room, and obtained the papers from the singular draw at the bottom of an oak wardrobe. I had done a piece on them just two weeks ago.
On handing the papers over, I tried to tell him I was a murderer again, this time Leo didn’t even let my lips twitch. How do you defeat yourself? Did Jack Spencer even suspect me? Not at all, on the surface I am a normal man. Half of my insides are normal. He just knew I was the art museum director. He just knew I had more knowledge on art than anybody in the Manchester area, and in modesty, perhaps all of England. Jack Spencer was a fool.
He shook my hand as he left, thanked me for my time, and bid me farewell: “In God's mercy, Goodnight”.
At least I had a worthy opponent in this madness; Jack Spencer, the long lost descendant of Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill. My greatest opponent will be myself. My greatest opponent will be Leo Diavolo.
Chapter 3
Misanthropist Milkshake
I Slept as well as anybody last night. Does this make me a bad person? Does this make me heartless? Or, does it just mean that I was very tired? I may never know. Leo might, but he’d never tell me.
This morning I decided to go for a hot chocolate at the local coffee café; “Naked Beans”, the sign was written in squiggly black bold writing, with a bright pink oval background. Deals on the wall said “Have a foursome”, selling four drinks for the price of three. It was modern, colourful, silver, glass, and I felt at home here. I felt comfortable.
Behind the bar was the ghastly Natasha, the grumpiest looking coffee distributor in Manchester.
In the queue my head was craned upwards. The hot chocolate list alone was ten items long: Cheeky monkey, Strawberry blizzard, Caramel cove, Banoffee fudge pie.
Do you know hot chocolate was created by the Mayas around two thousand years ago? Owning a cocoa beverage was essential to any member of the Aztec society close to 1400 AD. It was even used as a medical remedy until the 19th century. I cannot even begin to comprehend the amount of variations, or how many different flavours of hot chocolate, exist in the world today. The thinnest and most tasteless version is obviously created by the Americans. A quick fix tactless monstrosity. Over seventy percent of cocoa beans entering America, or German America to give it its full title, are from the Ivory Coast. Harvested by slave children that have almost certainly never tasted chocolate themselves. How sweet does that chocolate taste now? It tastes exactly the same. We need a fair-trade system, but how can we have fair trade when we strive for a superior race; people who are viewed as inferior beings will never be treated as equals. CAFOD, Christian Aid, Oxfam, Tradecraft, the World Development Movement and the National Federation of Women's Institutes, all fight for a fair trade system. It is like a mouse trying to give a cat orders, not many of them have survived. I wonder were the cocoa beans in my hot chocolate have come from? Could I drink it with a clear conscience? Is it really so different from looking upon an advert for child abuse and ignoring it? On second thoughts, I’ll have a milkshake.
“LEO, Rock
y Road milkshake” yelled Natasha, her brown eyes piercing as I stepped forward, her brown hair tucked scruffily under a hair net, under a black cap with pink writing upon it. She might be quite attractive, had she been a bit cleaner and well groomed.
“You’re hard faced, I’ll give you that” she said, as she put the milkshake on the pick-up counter.
“Pardon?” I responded.
“Think your funny do you? It’s stuck-up men like you that are putting this country back in the dark ages. Now grab that drink, and leave, before I shove it where the sun don’t shine”
“Do you treat all your customers like this? You can bark at somebody else, because I won’t be back in a hurry” I said. I know I’m not very good at arguing, or confrontations at all really. I wouldn’t let this witch speak to me like this.
“GET OUT!” she screeched.
So I did.
I looked at thick black letters on the side of the pink cup:R/rd Leo .
Leo must have said something horrible to her. She was grumpy all the time but she has never been aggressive to anybody, and I’ve seen some very awkward customers ordering drinks at Naked Beans. This has got to stop. Leo will never let me speak to the police, but a doctor – a doctor might be allowed to know our secret. There is such a thing as doctor/patient confidentiality, right?
Jack Spencer had been in his office since 6:00 AM. His eyes were beginning to ache, and his head had been throbbing for at least an hour; easily beating down the two pain killers he had knocked back. The body had been hard enough to identify – no blood, no face, no dental records. Finger nail clippings.
Despite the controversy with exclusive identification from bite marks, DNA testing of fingernail clippings can be used. There was a case in 2007 that used DNA advances to identify a suspect from a murder in 1983 of 23 year old lady Judith Flagg. The Maine State Police Crime Lab scientist was Catherine Macmillan and testified in court to her findings. The suspect was Thomas Mitchell, Jr.
The deceased hands, were the hands of a seventeen year old apprentice brick layer: Sam Morgan.
It was always the worst part for Jack, finding out the name of the victim. You see a dead body and somehow it doesn’t seem real, it doesn’t seem to be made of flesh and bone. You give that same body a name and the whole scenario becomes far more personal. Too personal.
Investigating further in to Sam Morgan, not much was found. He had been below average at school, yet somehow very capable on the building site. He was set to take his next set of safety exams, in order to eventually fulfil his dream of becoming a foreman. His family knew of no enemies. His work mates seemed genuinely upset at his death. Nothing. His only other friend hadn’t seen him for months due to a heavy exam schedule.
Why would somebody kill this boy? Why would someone look at him and decide that he no longer deserved to live?
Spencer even followed Sam Morgan’s journey to and from work, on the eighty-three bus service between Oldham and Manchester city centre. Of course he disembarked at Sam’s current building site in Failsworth to question the workers, and even the surveyor who was checking up on progress.
He questioned every single person on that bus, the ones who worked in retail, the retired army officer, the old lady who smelled a bit funny but was incredibly proud of her grandchildren, the art students and unemployed. Only one had even heard of the murder case, never mind realise he was the same boy who they smiled at every morning.
It was the small child from Jack’s flat, off school for a teacher training day. He had only seen the boy once but managed to recognise him from the news, and from Detective Spencer’s small photograph. Nothing.
What kind of person needs to place their work upon a plaque? Somebody who wants to be noticed, inferring they are not being noticed right now. What point are they trying to make? What do they want to be heard? Something religious most likely, but this looks more like art than prayer.A taste for the theatrical.That’s not much to go on Jackie. That’s not much at all. What kind of person wants to bring art to life? A fantasist. Why The Praying Hands? Why that tale? An actor maybe? A man (it is usually men who do this) who’s very job is to bring fiction and art into reality. No, actors make other’s points on stage, not their own. Murder was definitely this man’s stage. There’s one problem with being in the limelight, eventually the light turns off.
Jack returned to the office to find exactly what he was hoping for, the murder profiler had placed his report on the desk. Jack’s office was separated from the other officers, he worked best alone.
Case M1279: Sam Morgan
Criminal profiling
Has been suspected of ….. Blah blah blah
…. Blah Blah Blah
Profiling Models
Possibly fits the Blah de Blah Blah Model, devised in 1962 by ….blah blah
Blah de Blah
Finally...
Conclusion
The murderer clearly has a message to tell the world. Whether this is motivated by Religion or Art is still inconclusive, though it is almost certain that he will kill again to get across this message. Usually burning the body would suggest that the killer could not bear to look upon the body; however in this case it is a form of degrading, or worshiping, as the killer took excessive attention in arranging the remains. This killer is almost certainly male, and he has no concept of regret, or wrong and right. He does not see people as people. He views them as materials, as animals, he will not distinguish between his victims and because of this a pattern will be very hard, if not impossible, to track. The cannibalism again reaffirms the warped perception of wrong and right, it is entirely possible that the killer was merely curious. He is organised to the point of an OCD sufferer except I am almost certain he does not have OCD himself – he will appear perfectly normal on the surface. Finally he is a misanthropist; not being able to view humans as individual people causes his hatred of one human, to spread to all.
Misanthropist – what on god’s earth does that mean? Jack flicked through his dictionary like a father, determined to find the number for his long lost son in the yellow pages. Misanthropist: A great hate of everybody without discrimination.
A great hate of everybody. No pattern to track. Looks perfectly normal on the surface. An interest in art or religion. A message to make. The only way I’m going to catch this monster is if he walks through my door and confesses.
Chapter 4
Starry Night
I never tasted that milkshake. I threw it in the black cylindrical bin at the bottom of the escalator. Walked for two and a half hours from the town centre to Tandle Hill Park, completely ignoring my house along the way.
It’s quiet during the day, I come here a lot when I’m not required at work. There’s a section to the left through the wooden gates that’s called “life for a life”, were people (including myself) plant trees as a memorial to lost loved ones. My trees were for my mum and dad.
I just needed to apologize.
A doctor’s waiting room should have me in it right now, but I can’t drag myself away from this peaceful dwelling. I could wait here all night until the stars come out and the navy blue waves descend. Before I had time to convince myself to leave, that’s exactly what happened. It was a starry night.
I couldn’t stop thinking what my parents would think of me, the Leonidas they knew was a playful seven year old, not a twenty seven year old monstrosity.
Fire – burning, flames, heat, red, orange, fascinating, destructive, death, run. They burned them like witches. Italy fought alongside the Germans, and they still burned them. The Axis powers melted into the German powers, as they turned against their own. Accused of being Jewish because they had dark hair. They didn’t even understand what was being said to them, or why it was being said, or why they were being nailed to a large wooden Star of David. They cried reaching out to each other unable to hold hands, or even see each other with the rope around their necks forcing them to look up at the starry night. Darkness surrounded
them, then the fire lit up the field, as well as my blue eyes. Flames flickering in my pupils. The screaming would have been unbearable to anyone, let alone their own son. I watched until the last embers burned out, just a fine wisp of grey smoke spiralling up into the universe. It was beautiful. That was real art.
I wonder what they would think of me now. In the morning it won’t matter, I’ll be locked up one way or another; be it in the mental ward or a prison cell, I will not kill again. I mean, Leo will not kill again.
Leo will not kill again was the last thought I had before he took control of my body, leaving my mind as my own. He drove my dad’s black side panel van to an abandoned mill, and began painting Vincent Van Gogh’s The Starry Night on the brick wall.
The Starry Night, 1889 Oil on Canvas, currently located in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Pure imagination. “The imagination is a faculty which we must develop and it alone to creation of a more exhilarating and consoling nature”. I desire most profusely to have viewed the world like Van Gogh. To be able to transform your imagination so accurately on to canvas must have been so satisfying for him. Of course he struggled with mental illness himself for most of his life, it could be said that by admiring his paintings, his transformation of real life through his mind, we are admiring these very mental problems. He died a year after painting The Starry Night, a self-inflicted gunshot wound just as Hitler had planned.
The great ones really are misunderstood. Van Gogh’s mind was so beautiful because it was broken. Hitler is beautiful because nobody really understood his point of view, I do. I very much believe in a superior race. He was in an asylum when he saw the view of the night sky. Leonidas wants us to go into an asylum, maybe that’s not a bad idea; I could grab the patient’s minds and twist, and stretch, and prod, until they really are mad, angry at the world like I am.
