Dying Truth

by Angela Marsons

  He pointed to the screen. ‘Do you have any clue how many people have died from hazing incidents due to their desperation to get into these clubs?’

  ‘“ Hazing”?’ she questioned.

  ‘Initiation rites to gain entry. It goes right back. Stuart Pierson in Igos, Cincinnati, was taken into the forest and was found hit by a train. No one was ever charged. A kid named Michael Davis in 1994 was beaten, kicked and punched repeatedly, taken back to his student apartment and died from massive internal injuries. A kid named Jack Ivey was involved in a drinking contest, stripped to his underwear, tied to the back of a truck, driven around and left for dead. The perpetrators got bloody community service,’ he snarled.

  ‘But what…’

  ‘There are hundreds of ’em, Stace. Hundreds of pointless deaths because of these exclusive clubs that people are desperate to join, and most of the time no one gets punished. It seems that what happens at school stays at school,’ he said with disgust. ‘There’s a code of silence that fucks me right off.’

  ‘And this involved Sadie Winters how?’ she asked, bringing him back, subtly, to the case at hand.

  ‘I don’t even know that it does,’ he said, honestly. ‘But there’s something going on at that school, and I want to know what it is.’

  Stacey sighed. ‘When you’re like this, Kev, there’s no reasoning with you, and this is as good a chance as you’re gonna get.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The boss told you to follow your nose for today, so it had better lead you somewhere good,’ she said, pulling the keyboard towards her, signalling the end of the conversation.

  Stacey had a point and he already knew where he wanted to go.

  Over the course of the last two years there were three student names not repeated on the term list. Meaning they had left the school, quickly, mid-term.

  And he wanted to know why.

  Forty-One

  Ted placed the mugs of coffee on the table that separated the two wooden seats of the companion set that overlooked the fish pond. Ted had insisted that such a conversation required caffeine.

  ‘Moby died,’ she observed, as he slowly took his seat beside her. She noted that his joints appeared to be giving him trouble and pushed away the pang of sadness.

  ‘Yes, my dear. Just a couple of weeks ago.’

  She said nothing but felt the loss of the gold carp she’d named many years earlier.

  ‘So, you think a child could be responsible for a murder you’re investigating?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered honestly. ‘But I can’t rule it out. Someone has to consider it.’

  ‘Your colleagues are less open to the possibility?’

  She nodded. ‘And yet somehow it seems easier for me. Why is that, Ted?’ she asked, quietly.

  Her dark mind always seemed able to explore a depth of depravity that was deeper than most normal people could go; her brain more able to accept the heinous level that humanity could produce.

  ‘Because the very idea of a child being able to kill, especially another child, challenges our belief in innate innocence, which is not something you have extensive experience of, my dear.’

  He sipped his coffee and continued. ‘Your eyes were opened to the evil that exists around us at a very early age. You never had that blissful ignorance of the horrors that should be a God-given right. There is no preconceived notion that needs to be destroyed before you can consider the possibilities, all possibilities, however dark or misguided they may be.’

  ‘And are they, misguided?’ she asked, hoping he would quote some kind of statistic that would assure her that they couldn’t possibly be.

  ‘Not necessarily, I’m afraid,’ he said, flexing fingers that were showing signs of arthritis. ‘Children do kill, and they do kill other children. Experts have categorised them into three types. You have the ones that kill for the thrill. They enjoy the hands-on kill, torture beforehand and sometimes mutilation afterwards. Our very own Jon Venables and Robert Thompson fell into that category when they abducted two-year-old Jamie Bulger from that shopping centre.’

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. ‘Those boys did unspeakable things to that child. There were forty-two injuries.’

  Kim held up her hand to stop him from continuing, she’d read the accounts of the torture and had been unable to remove the images from her mind for months.

  ‘Although before your time, I’m sure you’ve heard of Mary Bell. In 1968 she killed a four-year-old and a three-year-old when she was only eleven herself. Her own mother had tried to kill her on numerous occasions and forced her to perform sexual acts from the age of four.’

  ‘I know the case,’ Kim said. She’d researched it after the woman’s lifelong anonymity and that of her daughter had been threatened by the release of a new book.

  Ted continued. ‘There was a thirteen-year-old kid named Eric Smith who abducted a four-year-old boy. He strangled him, dropped rocks on his head and then used a tree branch to—’

  ‘Thanks, Ted. I get the picture. So are these kids evil, the ones that get a thrill from killing?’

  Ted’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my dear, that is a very big question and I’ll attempt to answer it as best I can.’

  He took another sip of coffee, and so did she.

  ‘It is generally felt that it is possible for kids to grow out of the behaviours that led them to kill in the first place, and there is evidence on both sides of this argument. The court-appointed psychiatrist for Mary Bell said she displayed classic signs of psychopathy but has never re-offended, and Eric Smith still has no ability to express emotion after twenty-four years, leading the courts to believe he will never be rehabilitated.’

  ‘You said there were three types,’ Kim said.

  He nodded. ‘The second type targets their prey for innocuous reasons – annoyance or anger.

  ‘Also before your time was Brenda Ann Spencer, a sixteen-year-old girl who used a rifle to shoot eight children in San Diego. The school was right opposite her house. When asked why she’d done it she claimed that she just didn’t like Mondays. She showed a complete lack of remorse and no serious explanation. She was annoyed. For her it was that simple.’

  Kim found it difficult to comprehend that eight children had lost their lives because a kid had got out of the wrong side of bed.

  ‘And the last group?’ she asked.

  ‘These are the ones that kill specific targets out of anger, hurt or wounded pride. Just in 2014 there were two girls, not named, who were dubbed the ‘Snapchat Killers’. They tortured and murdered a girl named Angela Wrightson and took photos while they were doing it. They even took selfies from inside the police van.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Kim said.

  ‘So, how many victims do you have?’ Ted asked.

  ‘I have two children dead, in a few days. One definitely murdered and made to look like a suicide and the other I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Are the two of them linked?’ he asked.

  ‘Not obviously,’ she said, as her thoughts returned to something he’d said.

  ‘You mentioned Mary Bell being potentially labelled psychopathic or showing tendencies. Even as a child?’

  ‘Oh, we’re getting into dodgy ground now, my dear,’ he said, draining his mug. ‘No mental health professional will be bold enough in this day and age to fix such a label to a child while there is still the possibility they will grow out of psychopathic behaviours.’

  ‘So, does it exist, Ted?’ she asked, pinning him for a straight answer.

  ‘It’s not something I can—’

  ‘Ted, can a child be a psychopath, sociopath or whatever it is you want to call them?’

  ‘Kim, it’s not as cut and dried as that.’

  ‘Come on, Ted. You’ve treated enough kids in your time. Did any of them fulfil these criteria? Were any of these children evil?’

  ‘I’ve never treated an evil child,’ he said.

  ‘But they do exist?’

&
nbsp; Ted looked at her long and hard. ‘Kim, I’m really not qualified to say.’

  Kim knew there was no point pushing him any further.

  On the subject of evil in children he might not be qualified to say.

  But she certainly knew someone who was.

  Forty-Two

  Dawson sat outside the address of Carrie Phifer and wondered if he’d made some kind of mistake.

  Heathcrest Academy charged more than thirty thousand a year. Not a fee that seemed accessible for the three-bed semi with a box porch in Hasbury. He checked the details he’d logged into his phone. Yep, he was in the right place.

  He walked around a Skoda Fabia before knocking on the door.

  A tidy woman dressed in jeans and a shirt opened the inner door. A casual smile on her lips turned to a frown. She did not open the porch door before asking who he was.

  Finally, a woman with the sense to keep a closed door between her and a stranger.

  He held up his identification while saying his name.

  Her expression turned to alarm as she reached for the key and opened the door.

  ‘Is anything… has something…’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he assured her quickly. ‘Mrs Phifer?’ he added, as a question.

  She nodded and although some of the anxiety had left her face it was still etched with concern.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked, although he was beginning to suspect he knew the answer to his question.

  ‘Is your daughter home, Mrs Phifer?’

  She shook her head, as she guided him into a tastefully furnished lounge.

  ‘No officer, she’s at school,’ she answered. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Your daughter is fine, I’m sure,’ he reassured.

  ‘So what…’

  ‘Carrie attended Heathcrest Academy until a couple of years ago,’ he said.

  The tension that filled her jaw was immediate.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, warily, as she took a seat and motioned for him to do the same.

  ‘She left mid-year?’ he asked.

  Mrs Phifer simply nodded.

  ‘May I ask why?’ he urged, although the answer was pretty obvious. If the family had been able to afford the fees once they certainly couldn’t now.

  ‘I removed her from the school,’ she said.

  ‘Would you mind telling me why?’ he asked. He didn’t wish to humiliate the woman by pressing her to discuss finances, but he just had to be sure.

  ‘Of course, if you’ll tell me why you want to know.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t really—’

  ‘You’re here for a reason, officer. What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t help but wonder why your daughter was removed part way through the year,’ he admitted. He looked around and then stood. ‘I think I understand,’ he said. ‘And it must have been very difficult for you.’

  He had no wish to force this woman into an uncomfortable position of admitting she had been unable to continue her daughter’s education at Heathcrest because she couldn’t afford it.

  ‘Oh, you’re wrong, officer,’ she said. ‘Removing Carrie from Heathcrest was the easy part. Losing my beautiful home and lifestyle, along with my marriage not so much, but I don’t regret it for a minute.’

  Dawson faltered. He’d read the situation and he’d read it wrong. He sat back down.

  ‘My husband tried to insist that Carrie return to Heathcrest, but I wouldn’t budge and that was the end of my marriage.’

  ‘Your marriage broke up because of your daughter’s education?’ he asked, incredulously. Surely there could have been a compromise?

  ‘No, our marriage failed because only one of us cared about the safety of our daughter.’

  Dawson sat forward. ‘Please go on, Mrs Phifer.’

  ‘Carrie did not wish to return to the school, but Douglas was insistent. It was his old school and he believed heartily in their ability to educate. I hated boarding schools but went along with it as long as Carrie was happy, but she didn’t want to return. She was terrified, and Douglas was unused to not getting his way. His lawyer was much better than mine,’ she said, looking around the room. ‘What broke our marriage was his insistence she go back even though she became hysterical at the very mention of it.’

  ‘Mrs Phifer, what happened at Heathcrest to make your daughter so frightened?’

  ‘She received a card. The ace of diamonds. They have exclusive clubs there that—’

  ‘I know about the clubs,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’ll know that most kids will do anything to join these groups?’

  He nodded, remembering his conversation with Stacey.

  ‘She was tasked to perform an initiation rite of doing continual star jumps until she was told to stop.’ Mrs Phifer closed her eyes. ‘Nine minutes she managed. When she slowed down her calves were hit with a garden cane. She tried to explain, she tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t let her stop.’

  ‘Tell them what, Mrs Phifer?’ he asked.

  ‘That she was asthmatic, officer. Eventually she collapsed and almost died. She was on a ventilator for two and a half weeks.’

  Damn it, Dawson thought. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of.

  ‘And the school’s response?’ he asked, fearing the worst.

  A look of total disgust shaped her attractive features.

  ‘As far as they were concerned the incident never happened.’

  Forty-Three

  An overwhelming sadness stole over Kim as her eyes rested on the sheet that smothered the small form on the metal tray.

  She glanced at the back of Keats who fiddled with something over at his desk. Yeah, he gave her shit, and plenty of it. But this week his career of choice had dictated that he cut open and dissect the bodies of two children.

  She had the sudden urge to tell him that she understood. That she knew that neither the job description nor the training could ever prepare you for the reality. That they had both signed up to represent the dead and neither of them got to choose. She wanted him to know that she got it.

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘There is no doubt this boy died of anaphylactic shock,’ Keats said, beating her to it.

  Yes, probably better that way.

  He peeled back the sheet to reveal Shaun Coffee-Todd’s face, and pointed to the mouth.

  ‘His lips and tongue are blue, indicating respiratory collapse. As he couldn’t get air into the lungs the blood couldn’t be oxygenated. The heart muscle needs oxygen to pump the blood around the body.

  ‘Once one major organ of the body starts to falter, in turn others become strained until they are unable to function. Death is the result of such a catastrophic systems failure. Low blood pressure occurs then eventual circulatory collapse are the final events.’

  ‘How long did it take him to die?’ Kim asked, quietly.

  ‘If the shock only affects the respiratory system it may cause respiratory depression and later brain damage in three minutes and death a few minutes later; but death comes quicker if the shock leads to arrhythmia, which it did in this case.’

  ‘So, how long?’ she asked again.

  ‘No more than a couple of minutes,’ he said, staring down at the body. ‘But they would have been the most horrific and frightening couple of minutes you could imagine.’

  And Keats had lived every second of them with this poor child, she thought, as the tip of her fingers found the boy’s soft cheek. There was an instinct inside her that wanted to offer this child comfort for the fear and pain he had suffered.

  During her last major case, she had been held down and choked almost to unconsciousness. She swallowed, still able to recall the feeling of panic that had screamed throughout her body and mind as she’d struggled to get air into her lungs.

  And this was a fourteen-year-old boy.

  She shook away the memory.

  ‘Keats, how lo
ng would this have happened after ingesting the nuts?’

  Keats shrugged. ‘Most food-related symptoms occur within two hours of ingestion, but severe cases start within minutes. Given this boy’s history and the circumstances the onset would have been almost immediate.’

  Kim frowned. ‘What circumstances? This happened at the end of his gym lesson. It would have been at least an hour before that he could have accidentally eaten—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Inspector, but this was no accidental ingestion from a trace of nut products.’

  ‘But the kid knew of his condition. His epinephrine was in his gym bag.’

  ‘Exactly my point,’ Keats said, placing an X-ray on the light board.

  ‘This is the boy’s throat,’ he said, pointing. ‘And those two objects are whole peanuts.’

  Kim glanced at Bryant as she made sense of the pathologist’s words.

  Someone had force-fed nuts into this poor kid’s mouth.

  Forty-Four

  28 February 2018

  Hey Diary,

  I got back to school just two hours ago and half of that time I’ve spent hidden in the toilets.

  Always the same cubicle. The one furthest away from the door. I’m silent when I’m in there despite the tears that fall from my eyes.

  My hand trembled as I used the razor blade to make the first cut. It’s simple, perfect beauty sliced through the skin. The calmness hit me instantly. I wondered if it was how a heroin addict felt when taking a hit. The relief, the release. The feeling of inner peace.

  I sat back against the cistern with my eyes closed, my mind blank and calm, my breathing deep and even, totally relaxed.

  Two more and I was ready to face the world.

  As I walked back to my dorm, I could feel the fresh cuts rubbing deliciously against the skin of my inner thigh despite the sterile plaster.

  But the peace inside was fleeting.

  All too soon the memories of home returned; the hushed conversations that stopped completely when I walked into the room. The three of them looking away unable to face me. My feelings of being a stranger in my own home. My mother spending hours in Saffie’s room. My father making secret phone calls that he claimed were for work.