The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “Me, too.”

  Back at the station Hogarth told Higgins about his interview with Andrew Johns.

  “So what do you say we ride up to Chelmsford?” he said.

  Higgins smiled. “You kidding? That’s the best proposal I’ve had all day!”

  After checking in with the Chief, Hogarth and Higgins got into the car and headed east toward the A11.

  “So what are your thoughts, Clive? Do you think we could be on to something?”

  “Possibly. If it was truly our suspect the janitor saw, we at least have a decent chance of knowing where he lives. It isn’t everybody who drives all the way to Chelmsford to purchase art supplies so it’s doubtful this fellow lives in the city. The more important question is whether this is our man or not. Mr. Johns seemed quite certain the man he saw looked just like the sketch. He was at the same hotel where Iris Matthews was assaulted. And he was American—again, Johns was pretty certain of that as well. So if we can trust Mr. Johns isn’t pulling our leg and has a good eye for detail, we may be in luck.”

  “How do you propose we begin our search?”

  “First we’ll canvas every art supply store in Chelmsford. Show the sketch to the employees and see if they recognize him. No doubt they will have already seen the sketch in the media but we both know that doesn’t necessarily mean they would report it. Maybe refreshing somebody’s memory a bit will produce something.

  “If that falls flat, we simply start asking the locals if they know of any residents in the area that resemble the sketch. My thoughts are that if our suspect indeed lives in the Chelmsford area somebody should bloody well be able to ID him from this sketch.”

  “Unless the killer’s luck continues as it has.”

  “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  They made the thirty-minute drive in relative silence as Higgins Googled Chelmsford and bookmarked all of the art supply stores in the area. There was at least a half dozen but could be more that hadn’t shown up in the search. At least they had a start.

  Hogarth and his partner spent nearly two hours canvassing the town and surrounding area, showing the sketch to everybody they approached. After their last inquiry Hogarth looked at Molly Higgins, face drawn, his eyes tired and listless.

  “Let’s go back to the station. This has been a total bust and a complete waste of time. I cannot believe that not a single solitary person in this town recognizes this character! I am so bloody tired and frustrated right now that I’m seriously considering having a stiff drink. And I don’t even care if my mother turns in her grave.”

  “I hear you, Clive.” Higgins sighed.

  Neither of them said a single word during the drive back to London.

  Chapter 25

  Trent Mason stared down at Olivia Cavesh’s nude body sprawled out on the floor and smiled to himself. Unlike the majority of other times he’d murdered women—nearly always during a fit of anger—this one was different. He didn’t feel the least bit resentful or paranoid of his actions. No pressing need to dispose of the body or leave Dodge City like a bat out of Hell. In fact, he would remain right here in jolly old England and savor this moment for years to come—no pun intended.

  He leaned over and carefully placed the black costume mask over her pale face. Positioning it until it looked just right, he gave her still warm breast one more quick squeeze and stood up. He reached over and took out his DSLR from the bag and carefully composed a shot. He then proceeded to take a dozen more shots at varying angles—from the side, the back, at floor level (an engaging worm’s eye view) and from above as he stood on a chair. The light emitting from a single halogen floor lamp provided a wonderful modeling of Olivia’s fine features, the shadows playing delicately upon the curves of her body. Mason could hardly wait to transpose the images on to canvas.

  It was almost four in the morning and you could hear a pin drop in the tiny flat. His pursuit of Olivia that night had been a stroke of genius, from the beginning to its beautiful climax. What had surprised him was how forward the rather shy, proper-looking woman had been prior to their arrival at her apartment. Here was an unwed woman with a small son her ex-boyfriend refused to support and had left for her to fend for herself. Her mother, who barely had a pot to piss in herself according to Olivia, babysat the child while Olivia worked her ass off at some low-paying dead-end job.

  For one reason or another it became clear that Olivia was drawn to Mason and he had at one point actually debated whether or not to spike her drink—just to see what would transpire without the addition of his concealed wonder pill to the mix. But common sense had prevailed. Simple fact was, what he had in store for the evening would require a lot more willingness on Olivia’s part than she would be able to provide otherwise.

  After she succumbed to the drug, he had taken his sweet time doing his thing. Having her body literally at his fingertips had been fulfilling, but her slow, steady breathing had eventually become an annoyance. He suddenly acknowledged what he’d been thinking all along: he wanted the bitch dead. And the sooner the better.

  So he grabbed the lamp cord he’d brought along (never leave home without it, he had thought wistfully), sat down behind her with his legs straddling her head and heaved her torso up off the floor. He let her back rest against his chest, her head cradled between his neck and shoulder. He stared down at her heaving chest a few moments then commenced to make the heaving go away. He lifted her head off his shoulder and wrapped the lamp cord firmly around her neck. She didn’t resist. Then he tightened the cord until it started cutting off her air. He held her like that, watching her body convulse in spite of her disassociated state. Several kicks and a few futile gasps later she ceased moving altogether. The silence was a blessing.

  He had then lowered her head to the floor, keeping the lamp cord in place around her neck. This would add some serious drama to the photos, he thought. Then he resumed what he’d been doing before she was deceased, thoroughly enjoying the complete stillness of her compliant body. What had transpired was the ultimate joy ride—the best date he’d had in a long time—perhaps even in his entire life.

  Life is good. As is death.

  Satisfied that he’d thoroughly captured the essence of the occasion on his camera, Mason took one final look at Olivia Cavesh, gathered up all of the incriminating evidence and left her flat under a cloak of darkness.

  Forty-five minutes later he was back in his country home. He went directly over to the antique vanity he’d picked up in town, sat down and switched on the makeup lights surrounding a large mirror. He removed the thinning human hair wig from his head and placed it on a Styrofoam stand. Then he took hold of the latex mask between his thumbs and fingers and carefully peeled it away from his face. He noticed that the mask was beginning to show some wear so he would have to make some repairs before using it again. After removing the mask, he set it on a stand and began combing out his real hair. He had slicked it straight back to provide an even, smooth surface for the balding latex head. His hair was still damp so he grabbed a towel to dry it. He noticed bits of goo on his face so he took a cotton ball and swabbed it all off with cleansing cream.

  And voila: Mister Hyde had become Doctor Jekyll once again.

  He stood up and went over to pour himself a glass of wine. Making a silent toast to himself for a job well done he removed the memory card from his camera, plugged it into his computer and prepared to upload the photos. He created a new folder for the series of shots he’d taken of Olivia and named it accordingly. While the photos loaded he sat back in his chair. He’d made it at last. After a life of strife, he had finally reached a point of contentment he’d never dreamed possible. He had the mask to thank for that.

  Using videos on YouTube as his sources, he’d researched what was needed to create a full face latex mask of his own design. After purchasing the necessary materials, he practiced honing his craft until finally succeeding in creating a human face mask that was virtually undetectable to the casual observer. In
the process he had discovered yet another latent art skill he possessed in addition to painting: sculpting. Utilizing both skills in tandem he had chosen a random headshot of a middle-aged man with handsome features from the Internet, added a few modifications here and there and produced a perfect likeness of the final composite in the form of a mask custom-fitted to his own face.

  And when the time came to retire this mask, he would simply create a totally different Mr. Hyde, who would in turn take over where this one had left off.

  But alas, nobody is perfect. He’d made one little mistake since his Mr. Hyde character had entered the scene and it was ironic now that he thought about it. After spending all that time to create this awesome alter-ego of himself he had failed to take care of something that would only have taken only a moment to fix. The scar on his hand. That oversight could end up costing him dearly.

  When he’d heard that Iris Matthews was able to recall the scar on the back of her attacker’s hand he’d nearly had a panic attack. What luck! He had since covered the scar up with latex before his “date” with Olivia but he now wondered if it was too little too late. He doubted it, quite frankly. After all, Trent Mason looked absolutely nothing like the serial rapist anyway. That was the bottom line. And how many blokes in Britain had scars on the back of their hands?

  The cops had virtually nothing to go on and he knew it.

  No worries.

  Chapter 26

  Sam had been a self-confessed Anglophile ever since hearing his first Beatles record. Like every other American teenager at the time, he’d been in awe of their music, their looks and their “English-ness.” Their accent was so cool that many were the times he and his friends would pretend they were British and speak in their best faux-English accent, which always sounded incredibly lame.

  At the very top of his London must-do list was to go to the crosswalk the Beatles traversed on the cover of the Abbey Road album and if possible, get a shot of himself crossing the road just as the Liverpool lads had done nearly fifty years ago. Referring to the map app on his iPhone to check his current location, he realized he was getting very close to the famous landmark as he approached Hall Road and headed east. The closer he got, the more excited he became. He already couldn’t wait to tell Maisy about it and he wasn’t even there yet.

  The call from Maisy the night before had culminated in yet another unusual conversation. It began with her being tentative at first, no doubt curious how he would react after her confession of love the night before. Sam played it close to the vest, acting as though everything was just fine, when in fact he was still rather freaked out. He felt obligated to say something in some sort of response but was at a loss for words. So he simply let Maisy control the climate.

  Then suddenly she cranked up the heat. She confessed that she missed him horribly and couldn’t wait to feel his warm body against hers. If he were with her now she would prove her love for him in ways he couldn’t even imagine. After hearing this, Sam was numb. As tantalizing as this imaginary scenario sounded, he found it difficult to respond in a way that was positive while at the same time non-committal with regard to the whole love concept she had presented him with. So he pleaded the Fifth.

  “Do you miss me?” she finally asked after what seemed like an eternity of silence.

  “I do,” he replied promptly, and that was the truth.

  “That’s all I need to know.”

  Maisy’s way of defusing awkward situations was remarkable and for that Sam was grateful. She was a true diplomat, for here was a woman who loved him yet knew he wasn’t sure he loved her so she managed to make that seem okay. She was in essence saying she’d be content waiting to see what happened in their relationship and not force his hand. This quality of hers was endearing and made him feel even closer to her than he had before. As he flashed back to that first day at his house and those wonderful nights with her since, he could almost believe he was in love with Maisy Fleming.

  Although he’d been walking non-stop for nearly an hour he felt invigorated. The fact that he’d slept most of the day before hadn’t hurt any. His unplanned nap after returning from the sightseeing adventure with Nicole had lasted until late afternoon. He’d dined at the same Italian restaurant again and then stayed in the rest of the night drinking a few beers and watching the tube, trying his best to put Stanley Jenkins and the serial rapist out of his mind.

  At one point he’d nearly called Roger, if for no other reason than to see if the detective had heard any more about Stanley Jenkins’ whereabouts. But he’d decided against it, certain that he’d end up telling him about the serial rapist in London. Sam wasn’t in the mood to hear his friend chide him for considering the culprit could be Jenkins, which he undoubtedly would. Plus, calling Roger would only prolong his obsession with Jenkins and make it that much harder to put the son of a bitch out of his mind before he went mad.

  In the distance he saw the intersection of Abbey Road and sped up his pace. As he rounded the corner and headed north, he peeled his eyes, aware that he was little more than a block from his destination. He drew closer and saw the famous crosswalk and a throng of people lining the corner of the street. Beyond that he noticed several more people congregating along a white wall.

  He slowed down as he approached the crosswalk, observing the scene that was playing out. People of all ages were waiting for the traffic to clear long enough to run out to the center of the crosswalk and have their picture taken. Sam was shocked when he realized that there was nothing stopping the traffic—no traffic light or even a stop sign! He looked on as eager tourists risked their lives to get their picture taken while angry motorists honked their horns, having been forced to slow down to avoid running over somebody. It was comical in a way in spite of the potential danger. All Sam could think was how often this scenario had played out over the last fifty years. He tried to imagine how many millions of Beatles fans had been at the very same spot he was now standing.

  He decided to see what the big attraction was up ahead along the wall. He stopped dead when he discovered that the wall fronted EMI Abbey Road Studios—where the Beatles had recorded virtually every record they’d ever made. Sam had never realized the famous studio was literally a stone’s throw from the famous crosswalk. He had assumed it would be much further up the road. Suddenly it all made sense why the Beatles had chosen this particular crosswalk for their album cover.

  He stared at the studio for a moment, imagining the lads in there recording all of those wonderful songs. Knowing that this was where it all happened and that they had passed by where he was now standing countless times for ciggy breaks or to go out for a bite to eat was surreal. He read some of the graffiti covering the wall and saw everything from lines of Beatle songs to tributes to John Lennon and George Harrison to a plethora of fan’s signatures. He took out a pen and signed his name along with today’s date. He wondered if the thousands of scrawlings had ever been painted over through the years. It was evident that whoever was in charge of the studio property was sympathetic to the constant throng of fans hanging out front virtually non-stop, pulling out their pens and cell phones for photos of themselves.

  He returned to the crosswalk, debating whether or not to have his photo taken. There was a young man standing near a hand drawn sign that read “Free Photos.” A couple of tourists approached him and one of them handed him her phone. The young man walked out to the curb and waited for a break in the traffic then motioned for the couple to cross the street. As they walked awkwardly within the crosswalk he snapped a couple of quick photos before a speeding car suddenly approached, forcing them to scamper back to the sidewalk. The tourists reviewed the photos together, nodded their heads in approval and tipped the guy.

  Sam went over and handed the enterprising photographer his iPhone. He told Sam to wait for a clearing on the crosswalk—people were literally running out for quick photo ops nearly every thirty seconds as the traffic whizzed by. When there was finally a break Sam ran out and tried his best
to look straight ahead with a leg extended and his arms moving at his side as the Beatles had done on the album cover. He suddenly saw a cab approach out of the corner of this eye but his photographer made a halting motion to the driver and managed to get a couple of shots before waving the cab on through the intersection.

  When Sam saw the shots he was thrilled. He pulled out a five-pound note, handed it over to the guy and thanked him enthusiastically. He’d done it!

  Sam decided to simply walk around St. John’s Wood for a while, checking out the gift shops featuring Beatles memorabilia and coffee shops claiming to have served the Fab Four on countless occasions. By the time he headed back toward the hotel, his head was swimming from the whole exhilarating experience.

  Wait until Maisy hears about this—and sees this photo!

  Sam retraced his steps along Hall Road, recalling that he still hadn’t bought a gift for Nicole Heaton. He had no idea what would be suitable and decided he would give Norman a call to see if he could suggest something. Nicole suggested that they get together again before his return to the States and he was to give her a call to line up a date.

  He walked along at a leisurely pace, absorbing the sights and sounds. The weather had been perfect since arriving in London and he wondered if all that rain and nasty weather the city supposedly had was exaggerated. He would ask Nicole about that when he saw her. Sam couldn’t believe how content he felt at that moment. Not only had he succeeded in fulfilling two of his all-time dreams—traveling to England and seeing Abbey Road—he had actually stood before a crowd of people that had read his books and paid good money just to meet him and have him sign their books. How freaking awesome was that?

  Suddenly he had a flashback: the guy who had asked him to sign a copy of The Foxburg Murders on behalf of his ailing sister—

  “Could you please dedicate this to my sister? Her name is Ann. She wanted so much to meet you but suddenly fell ill and asked me to come here in her place. She would be so delighted!” Sam had of course complied with his request and had for a fleeting moment acknowledged that the man’s sister and his departed wife shared the same first name. Mere coincidence—