by Derek Fee
Baird looked at Wilson.
‘We are keeping an open mind regarding possible motivations for Mr Whyte’s disappearance. Roger Whyte was a wealthy man and that might also be the motive behind his disappearance and possible murder,’ Wilson responded.
‘Are there any other related cases?’ McDevitt said.
‘Not at the moment.’ Wilson sometimes felt like strangling Jock.
Baird pointed at a female journalist, who asked about Whyte’s mother. Wilson answered and saw Baird look at his watch. The constable picked up a microphone and professionally closed the proceedings.
Baird shook hands with Carrington. ‘My office,’ he said to Davis and Wilson. As soon as they entered the office, Baird removed his cap and tossed it on the desk. ‘What was McDevitt up to in there?’
Davis and Wilson looked at each other. Wilson knew that he was being passed the ball. He explained the situation of the letter McDevitt had received ‘That’s the problem with making a call to the public for help. All sorts of characters creep out from under their rocks.’
‘Don’t snow me,’ Baird said. ‘Is there someone else missing?’
‘It appears so,’ Wilson said. ‘But we have no reason to connect the two disappearances. Whyte was wealthy, the second man was as close to a pauper as you can get.’
‘Is the second man gay?’ Baird asked.
‘Yes,’ Wilson said. ‘He was reputedly a gay prostitute.’
‘But he’d no arrests or convictions,’ Davis added.
Baird sat behind his desk. ‘How high is the possibility that someone, or some group, is targeting gay men?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Wilson said. ‘But so far we have no clear evidence to connect Whyte and Carmody.’
‘People like Carrington have made the connection. And we’re not dealing with an unfortunate case of gay bashing. It looks like men are being murdered. We need to get a handle on this and quick. I do not want people out on the streets waving banners.’
‘Ian and his team are doing their best,’ Davis said.
‘Whatever you need, you have it,’ Baird said.
There was a knock on the door and Baird’s PA stuck her head around the corner.
‘I know,’ he said. He stood, picked up his hat and turned to Davis. ‘I want a daily briefing.’ He led the way from the office.
‘Jack’s in town,’ Wilson said when they sat in the rear of Davis’s car.
‘I know, we spent the night together. He’s squiring some American psychologist around.’
‘He’s invited Steph and me to dinner, but I thought the visitor was a copper from Quantico.’
‘He is from Quantico, but he’s not a copper. What will you do about Whyte?’
He looked her in the face. ‘Pray for a break.’
‘Then we must pray together.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Wilson leaned over O’Neill’s shoulder. Unlike the grainy images of yesteryear, these images on screen were clear enough to see the pimples on noses. ‘Run me through what you’ve got.’
O’Neill’s fingers flew over the keys. ‘This is Whyte and Heavey leaving Deanes at three o’clock. They talk for a few minutes and then leave in opposite directions. I picked Whyte up on Royal Avenue, heading towards CastleCourt shopping centre. I’ve asked the security at CastleCourt for their CCTV footage. I’m also looking at the CCTV we have from our own cameras that cover the exits. It’s slow, but we’ll get there.’
He looked over at Moira and saw that she was watching them. ‘Anything?’
Moira shook her head.
The pressure was ratcheting up and he had no idea how to push the investigation forward. Graham was on the phone. Answering calls was a waste of time for a trained detective. Wilson decided to test Baird’s offer of additional help and ask for some first-year detective from one of the other stations to man the phone. He could find something more productive for Graham to do. If there really is a killer out there, he has murdered two men and hidden their bodies without leaving a trace.
He went back to his office and emailed Baird to request the additional person for the duration of the investigation.
Browne could not stop thinking about how he had screwed up. He also questioned the wisdom of his plan to involve himself in the investigation through his nocturnal manoeuvres. He was a bookworm and had read the PSNI manual from cover to cover. He knew there were severe penalties associated with launching your own private investigation. His behaviour was erratic at best and downright stupid at worst. Being found out would probably end his PSNI career. Perhaps that was his ultimate aim. Maybe it wasn’t about Whyte or Carmody, maybe it was about him and the PSNI. Across the room, Graham was exploding into the phone. He imagined the idiots he had to listen to. Moira and O’Neill were watching hours of CCTV. It was mind-numbingly boring, but they hadn’t flinched from their tasks. He knew everyone was feeling the pressure, but they were sticking to their jobs like good police officers; everyone except for him.
Graham slammed the phone onto the cradle and rubbed his forehead.
‘Nothing stirring?’ Browne walked over to Graham’s desk.
‘If people are lonely, they should call the Samaritans. It’s always the same when we ask the public to respond. I should record the crazies and write a book about them. This last guy claims he knew for certain that Whyte’s wife was responsible for his disappearance. I told him Whyte didn’t have a wife, but he insisted he was a psychic and he’d had a message from her confessing. And he was a half-sensible one.’
‘Tea?’
‘Why not? The operator will take the calls while I’m away.’
Browne put two cups of tea on the cafeteria table and sat down. ‘It’s going nowhere fast.’
‘We’ll get a lead. It only needs someone to call about something strange that they saw, or maybe they heard a guy boasting about getting rid of Whyte.’ Graham put milk and sugar in his tea and sipped. ‘It’s like the old days when a ship was becalmed. A wind always springs up eventually and the ship sails again. When we get a lead, the boss will be after it like a ferret down a rabbit hole.’
‘Have you seen the report on the door-to-door at Carmody’s place?’
Graham nodded. ‘A big chunk of nothing.’
‘Was there any mention of a girl having asked Carmody to buy drugs for her a few weeks ago?’
Graham’s brow furrowed. ‘No, and if there had been I would have been surprised. Nobody would tell something like that to a uniform.’
He supposed Graham was right. If they had found her, perhaps she would have described a man who came looking for Carmody. Then he would be in the frame.
Wilson called the team together at five o’clock. He briefed them on the press conference. ‘It is now officially a murder inquiry. It would be helpful to have a body and a crime scene, but we have neither.’ The only change to the whiteboard was a photo of Whyte walking alone along Royal Avenue. ‘I know you’re all frustrated because so am I. But we can’t invent evidence. We must dig harder to get it. We don’t know whether we’re looking for a single killer or a group. The possibilities are endless and we have to exclude them one by one. There’s a hell of a lot of work ahead, so let’s all go home and hope that we’ll catch a break tomorrow.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Wilson and Reid watched the evening news, then dressed and went into town. He wasn’t in the humour for a dinner party, but it was a chance for Reid to get her glad rags on. She was returning to her old self. The change was barely perceptible, but it was there. The fact that she cut up dead people for a living hadn’t really helped the grieving process. They rolled up fifteen minutes after the appointed time to find Duane gesticulating at them from the body of a full restaurant. As a senior officer, Wilson was sometimes obliged to host visiting senior police officers. Since most of them were men and sports fans, the evening centred on his locker-room stories. Hosting a psychologist for four days would be his equivalent of eating broken glass. He sensed how Duane felt by the
frantic signals he was making to get their attention.
Duane jumped to his feet as they approached and threw his arms around Reid, planting wet kisses on both her cheeks.
Wilson smiled at Duane’s obvious relief. He’d been there.
Duane’s guest stood and proffered his hand to Wilson. ‘Tad Mezrich.’
Wilson shook. ‘Ian Wilson.’
Duane released Reid and introduced her to Mezrich, who Wilson noticed held her hand a little too long. Mezrich was in his forties and had a full head of blond hair. He would be considered attractive, with full lips, blue eyes and an oval face.
‘Well. Tad,’ Wilson said when they were seated. ‘How are you enjoying Ireland?’
‘It’s been great and Jack knows so many interesting people.’
I bet he does, Wilson thought. He examined his menu.
‘What do you do at Quantico?’ Reid asked.
‘I’m a clinical psychologist, so I work at the interface between the law and psychology. Most of the problems with building cases arise from assessing witness statements. I train police officers to interview properly and to elicit information.’
‘How interesting,’ Reid said. ‘I’ve always been interested in psychology.’
Mezrich beamed. An interest from Reid had that effect on men.
‘Tad is also an expert on serial killers,’ Duane said. ‘He’d keep you enthralled for hours with stories about Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy.’
‘Is that so,’ Wilson said.
‘I spent several years as a profiler,’ Mezrich said.
‘I suspect Ian doesn’t believe in profilers,’ Duane said.
The waiter arrived and they ordered.
‘I prefer old-fashioned police work,’ Wilson said when the waiter departed.
‘Well then, let’s have some fun,’ Mezrich said. ‘Are you working on a murder case at the moment?’
‘Yes, several as it happens,’ Wilson said.
Mezrich looked at Reid. ‘I hope I won’t bore you?’
Reid smiled. ‘Not if it’s about living people.’
‘Let’s have the details of one.’ Mezrich took a pen from his jacket pocket and spread his serviette on the table.
Wilson went through the Whyte and Carmody disappearances and Mezrich took notes.
‘That’s one to baffle Sherlock Holmes,’ Mezrich said when Wilson finished.
The food had arrived during Wilson’s story and they were all eating. Wilson wished that Mezrich had been a rugby fan, going through his repertoire of rugby stories would have been easier.
‘I can see your problem,’ Mezrich said. He was ignoring the plate in front of him. ‘You have no hard evidence. The bodies haven’t turned up and probably won’t. There’s no forensic and you have no suspect, so where do you go with traditional police work? You’ve looked at possible motives and you’ve struck out. Do you think the two disappearances are connected?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘So, you think there’s a serial killer out there,’ Mezrich said. ‘Any connected cases in other cities?’
Wilson shook his head. ‘We’ve already checked with the National Crime Agency and there’s nothing at the moment. Are you ready to look into your crystal ball and tell us who the killer is?’
Mezrich laughed. ‘If I were able, that would be great. We can make some assumptions though. Let’s say someone has murdered both men. The only factor common to both men is their homosexuality. So, it’s safe to assume that’s the reason someone chose them. Whyte had no known enemies, so he’s a random victim, and let’s assume that Carmody is as well. This means the murderer is killing for killing’s sake. You’ve been looking into both men’s lives?’
Wilson nodded as the waiter came to clear away the dishes.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Mezrich said. ‘It’s my guess that both men were targets of opportunity.’
‘We’ve already been over this ground,’ Wilson said.
‘I’m sure you have. When Jack told me we were meeting you tonight, I looked you up and I know you’re no beginner. But your traditional approach won’t work this time.’
‘Tell me about the murderer,’ Wilson said.
Mezrich turned to Reid. ‘I looked you up too, only your photos don’t do you justice. It’s a terrible waste that we have spent the evening speaking about Ian’s case while ignoring a beautiful woman.’
‘What about Jack?’ Reid asked. ‘Doesn’t he count?’
‘I think Jack has probably had enough of me by now,’ Mezrich said. ‘I understand that you’re a professor as well as a practitioner. I bet when you get switched on to pathology, you can’t be stopped. That’s the way I am with the psychology of crime.’
‘I don’t feel at all left out,’ Reid said.
Duane ordered the coffees.
‘He’s most likely a homosexual himself,’ Mezrich said. ‘Probably one who was abused in puberty. There’s a psychological theory that suggests that people who rebel against a societal norm are pathologically predisposed to violence. That can include homosexuals, alcoholics and drug addicts. I’m not a great believer in this theory, although a number of serial killers are homosexuals and prey on homosexuals. One of the oldest questions in criminology, and for that fact in philosophy, law and theology, is whether criminals are born or made.’ Three faces stared at him. ‘Don’t look at me for an answer. It’s central to the human survival mechanism that we have this capacity to kill. Killers are holdovers whose primal instincts are not being moderated by the more intellectual parts of their brain.’
‘Where are we going with this?’ Wilson asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mezrich said. ‘I get carried away. What I suppose I’m trying to do is dance around your problem. I can’t point at him directly, but maybe I can help you recognise him when you meet him. Your murderer might well be an un-fully socialised person with the capacity to kill, and tacked on to that capacity is a sexually aggressive impulse most likely developed at puberty. Many people may exhibit these traits, but your murderer has acted on his feelings. He is a psychopath and will exhibit a lack of empathy. He needs to lie, is bored easily and is narcissistic.’
‘I’m no nearer to catching him,’ Wilson said.
‘But you are closer to seeing who he might be,’ Mezrich said. ‘Has there ever been a gay serial killer in Northern Ireland before?’
‘No. But we’ve had plenty of killers who have displayed the traits you’ve outlined,’ Wilson said. ‘But when questioned they gave the preservation of some outdated ideology as their motive. I didn’t buy it.’
‘There have been dozens of gay serial killers in the States,’ Mezrich said. ‘Mainly in the 1960s and 70s, when there was a stigma attached to being gay. In repressive societies, gay serial killers are more effective because they and their victims are living secret double lives. They are already acclimatised to clandestine behaviour and covering up what they are.’
‘It’s an unfortunate fact that the LGBT community is still stigmatised here,’ Reid said. ‘Religion may have caused that stigma.’
The waiter arrived with the bill and Duane paid.
‘It’s been an interesting evening.’ Wilson stood.
‘You ever been to Quantico, Ian?’ Mezrich said.
‘No. Quantico is for people like Jack.’
‘I’ll send you some details of our courses. And you can bring Stephanie along.’
They shook and Wilson and Reid left. He put his arm around her shoulder as they walked down Howard Street.
‘Feeling possessive?’ she said. ‘I never considered you the jealous type.’
‘He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
‘Afraid I’ll run away with him?’
He stopped and held her. ‘No, just afraid you’ll run away.’
She kissed him. ‘One thing I’ve learned about fear is that it’s pointless to be afraid about something that might happen. You get afraid when it’s happening.’
&n
bsp; ‘I fancy a nightcap.’ They started walking again.
‘Funny, so do I.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Less than a mile away from Wilson, the man who had murdered Roger Whyte and Vincent Carmody was drinking a Bloody Mary and watching a drag act in the Maverick Bar. He scanned the crowd searching for a likely candidate. Most of the men were accompanied. He was feeling apprehensive. The Whyte and Carmody killings were perfectly executed. He had studied forensics and was sure he hadn’t left a trace. He could be putting everything in jeopardy by reacting viscerally to not receiving the credit he was due. He had beaten the police and he wanted them to admit it. He was smarter than them. Smarter than the macho rugby-playing detective they had put in charge of the case. He had watched his recording of the police press conference repeatedly and hated that there was no mention of Carmody. He scanned the crowd again. They were laughing their heads off at a man dressed like a woman telling smutty jokes, pathetic cretins.
Browne had met one of the first friends he’d made in the gay community and they were drinking and enjoying the Maverick’s drag show. He almost forgot that he was supposed to be looking for a killer. There were over sixty men in the small bar. Any of them might be the man who had spirited Whyte and Carmody away. He was realising the futility of his decision to play the Lone Ranger. He burst out laughing off cue and was conscious he was getting drunk. He cast an eye over the faces in the room. None of them had been kind enough to have ‘Murderer’ tattooed on their forehead. He felt his hand being covered and when he looked up his friend was smiling. The evening would end with them in bed together. It was the life they led. But it was no way to search for a killer.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Wilson looked at his bedside clock. It was five minutes to three. He’d read a statistic somewhere that said a disproportionate number of people die at three o’clock in the morning. One of his former colleagues had suffered a stroke in bed at three o’clock and had been paralysed and unable to wake his wife. Wilson slipped out of bed, put on his bathrobe and made his way to the living room. The sky outside was dark, but the streetlights cast an orange glow that lit up the room. He sat at his desk and switched on the banker’s lamp. He took out a notepad and pen from the drawer and laid them in front of him. The population of Belfast city is around 300,000. Assuming an even split of men and women, there are about 150,000 men in the city. He turned on his phone and found the website of the Office for National Statistics. For the UK as a whole, 1.5 per cent of the male population self-identified as homosexual. So, if he accepted Mezrich’s primary theory that the killer was homosexual, the investigation’s focus should be on the roughly 2,250 men in Belfast who are gay.
