The Rule Book

by Kitchin , Rob

  McEvoy sat, head tipped back, in the front passenger seat of a garda car, the seat pushed as far back as possible to give his long legs room and reclined a little from its normal position. There was a light tap at the window. He rolled his neck slightly, but didn’t open his eyes. The tap was repeated. He tipped his head to the left and opened his right eye. Michael Foster, the crime scene manager, gestured through the window. McEvoy wondered how long he’d been asleep. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

  He pulled himself forward, pushed open the door and looked up at Foster. It was raining now, a steady drizzle.

  Foster was wearing a luminous yellow jacket, his collar turned up, his short, grey hair wet with the rain. ‘We’ve processed the note,’ he said. ‘It’s a quote plus what looks like a grid reference.’ He held out a clear plastic evidence bag.

  McEvoy reached out and took the bag. He read through the plastic.

  The Rules

  Chapter Three I: Planning K

  “Serial killers who kill for years plan their every move. They are rarely impulsive and despite their internal conflicts, unstable emotions, and rage at the world, they can present themselves as an ordinary member of society. They construct ‘murder kits’ containing essential items such as their weapon of choice, duct tape, gloves, and a change of clothes. They select their site of attack and plan their routes to and from the scene. They enjoy the planning and they revel in the duplicity of killing an innocent victim and getting away with it.”

  53,21,41.72, 06,19,31.88

  ‘Jesus!’ McEvoy whispered sharply. He read it again. ‘He’s telling us that he thinks he knows himself; knows exactly what he’s doing. That he’s enjoying this whole sick episode – the planning, the killing, the chase. Everything. The guy’s a complete psycho.’

  McEvoy paused and read the note a third time. ‘We need to know where he’s getting these quotes from.’ He slapped the bag. ‘You got anything else?’ he asked, easing himself up and out of the car. He pulled up the collar on his suit jacket, realising his coat was in his car back at the start of Grainne Malone’s circuit. Off to his right he could see the murder site covered by a canvas gazebo trying to keep the rain off, though it was soaked in dew in any case. The whole area was lit by bright arc lights.

  ‘Seems it was the little toe of the left foot in the bag,’ Foster said. ‘We’ve got a few other bits and pieces – blood and hair samples. Maybe the victim’s, maybe not. A few good footprints.’

  ‘How about the numbers? Do we know where they refer to?’

  ‘We’re working on it. We think it’s latitude and longitude, rather than a grid reference. He’s pointing us to another site.’

  The business card had been found pinned to a lime tree near to Áras an Uachtaráin, the President’s palace. A clear, plastic sandwich bag was pinned to the tree, a severed toe nestled in a corner, the folds of a note resting on top.

  McEvoy read the note through an evidence bag.

  3a. Plan meticulously from start to finish.

  53,21,27.63, 06,19,23.92

  He pursed his lips and scratched at his scalp, thinking through its significance. ‘He’s trying to lead us on a merry dance, trying to waste our time by chasing after your one’s toes and his damn notes; giving himself more time to get on with planning and executing his next murder.’ He paused, staring off across the park, before focusing his gaze back on the note. ‘Well, I guess we haven’t got a choice, have we?’ he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. ‘For feck’s sake!’

  Jenny Flanagan headed towards McEvoy as he approached the murder scene. As they neared each other she started to talk. ‘We’ve found another toe and note. Over there by the outer wall of the ambassador’s house, pinned to a tree – right at the end of the walkway leading up to the papal cross.’

  ‘Another’s been found up by Áras an Uachtaráin,’ McEvoy answered. ‘He’s left us a trail to follow. Parcelling his feckin’ chapter out in bite-size chunks.’

  ‘Well, he certainly has balls, killing someone within a hundred metres or so of two of the most prestigious addresses in Ireland. Addresses with some of the best security arrangements.’

  ‘You sound like you admire him,’ McEvoy snapped. ‘He’s a cowardly bastard who kills innocent victims.’

  ‘I … I wasn’t,’ Flanagan stammered, a red blush rising from her collar. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Forget it,’ McEvoy said, annoyed at himself for lashing out at a colleague. ‘What did the note say?’

  ‘It says it’s a master rule. Something about analysing all mistakes, not repeating them or trying to correct them. It’s over with Michael Foster.’

  They walked to where the forensic officer stood, talking to a uniformed guard.

  ‘You’ve found a note?’ McEvoy asked, halting their conversation.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Foster answered. ‘One of the local guards did,’ he gestured his hand at his companion.

  McEvoy nodded in thanks and continued. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s in the van.’ Foster walked the few metres to a white Ford transit, opened the rear door and passed the note to McEvoy.

  McEvoy read through the clear plastic bag.

  Master rule: If you make a mistake, however small, do a full analysis and do not do it again. Do not try and correct it. Any attempt at correction is likely to lead to more problems than it solves.

  He stared at the sheet in silence, his mind a complete blank, reading the words but unable to give them meaning. Eventually he lifted his head and said to Foster, ‘You’d better let the others know you’ve found this in case they’re hunting for it later.’ He handed the note back. ‘I’m going to get a coffee,’ he said to no one in particular. He could do with a rest not caffeine; there was no question of sleep, however, the clock was already counting down to the next murder. He glanced at his watch – ten minutes past six – wondering whether it was too early to ring his daughter. He’d better leave it at least another hour.

  ‘We’ve just found the fifth toe and note,’ Diarmaid Savage said, ‘but there was no business card. I thought I should let you know. We’ve had a good scout around, but there’s no sign of it.’

  ‘Four makes sense,’ McEvoy said. ‘There’s four more murders to go. He’s counting down. I doubt you’re going to find any more. What do the notes say?’

  Savage read them out.

  3b. Scope out the victim as little as possible - enough to feel confident that things will work out as planned, but not enough that you get noticed.

  53,21,02.47, 06,18,57.60.

  3c. Do a full reconnaissance of place and escape routes. Make sure all options are tried and tested.

  53,21,05.07, 06,20,03.72.

  3d. Have contingency plans for all stages of the murder.

  53,20,51.21, 06,20,03.87

  3e. Do not confide in anybody. Ever. You might be able to trust your own mouth, but you can never trust anybody else’s. 53,21,03.04, 06,20,34.74.

  ‘That’s it. We’re going to head on to the next point. He seems to be leading us round the park. The third point was way off towards the Wellington Memorial, up on top of a small hill opposite the fort. We’re now down near the Chapelizod exit.’

  ‘Right, okay. Keep going,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  McEvoy ended the call. He leant back against the car’s bodywork and felt the clammy, cold sweat on his brow with his palm. There was a dull ache behind his eyes, the start of a headache forming higher up in his forehead. His suit was damp from the light drizzle, his shirt sticking to his back. They were going too slow. He was going to kill again soon. And what were they doing? Wasting time trying to locate toes hidden around the Phoenix Park! He needed to be doing something, but had no idea what.

  He moved his hand down and rubbed his eyes through their lids. All he wanted was the murders to stop and a couple of days’ sleep. That and a cigarette. Maybe he was going to have to try the patches. He pushed himself forward and moved off, h
unting for someone to talk to or something to do.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Caroline, it’s Colm.’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she snapped. ‘You could have called. We’ve been worried sick. So’s Mammy. You didn’t call her.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘I decided I’d drop in on the way home, but I got another phone call. I’ve been in the Phoenix Park all night. This time it was a jogger.’

  ‘God almighty,’ Caroline whispered, her anger re-directed away from McEvoy. ‘Are you any nearer to catching the bastard? He should be strung up in front of their families,’ she said with vigour. ‘Strung up,’ she repeated.

  ‘We’re still working on it,’ McEvoy answered neutrally. ‘He’s not leaving us much to go on and he’s moving too quickly. It’s difficult to keep up.’

  ‘And have you managed to get any sleep?’ Caroline asked, mothering him, knowing that he wouldn’t be looking after himself.

  ‘A quick doze here and there. Look, I haven’t got long, is Gemma there?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll get her. Take care of yourself, okay? You’re no use to anyone ill.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ McEvoy conceded, stifling a yawn.

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Has there been another murder?’ Gemma asked, already knowing why her father hadn’t contacted her.

  ‘At about nine last night. I’m still at the scene. Look, are you okay?’

  ‘I’m grand.’ She said it as if there was no reason why she shouldn’t be, that it was perfectly natural for her father to be out until the early hours investigating a serial killer. ‘I’m just getting ready for school. How about you? Have you been drinking and eating enough?’

  ‘Of course,’ McEvoy lied. ‘I’m going to need you to stay with Aunt Caroline again tonight. I’ll try and drop in so we can catch up.’

  ‘If you can, you can, and if you can’t, that’s fine,’ Gemma sang.

  ‘Right. Right, okay.’ He didn’t know what else to say. She was in the land of normal families; he was floundering in the sick world of homicide. He wasn’t able for her light heartedness after the events of the past couple of days. They were just on different wavelengths – his sombre, dark and hollow, unable to mix with her light. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Okay. Try and catch him today so you can be home for my birthday tomorrow. Though it doesn’t matter if you can’t, catching him is more important.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, pumpkin,’ McEvoy promised. ‘I love you, okay?’

  ‘I love you too. Look after yourself.’ She ended the call.

  He stared at the phone for a second, wanting to be at home, away from all the madness around him. His mind drifted to Maggie. Her smiling on a beach in Clew Bay, her hair windswept across her face; she was six months pregnant and in love with the world. Then fast forward to six months ago, a forced smile through the pain and drugs, her skin grey, her hair matted and greasy from cold sweats. He wished he could bring her back somehow, make her more than just a memory. He looked up at the trees and back down at the phone and checked the time. He started to walk back toward the zoo and garda headquarters.

  The woman was staring at the wall, her back to her partner. Her mind was a tangle of confusion; of suspicions and questions half-formed and desperate to be asked. Without turning she eventually found the courage to speak.

  ‘You knew the first two people,’ she half-whispered, half-spoke.

  ‘What?’ he muttered, backing into her, suddenly becoming alive inside, attuned to her coldness.

  ‘You knew that young girl that died and you knew David Hennessey.’

  ‘We both knew David,’ he said neutrally, fighting to suppress his rising anger. ‘And I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest, but I never knew the girl.’

  ‘Laura,’ the woman said. ‘Her name was Laura. I saw you with her once. You were talking to her near to the hospital.’

  ‘I think you must have her or me confused with someone else,’ he said calmly, keeping his inner rage from his voice, rolling over onto his back. ‘I’ve never met her. You think I’m The Raven?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘I don’t know what I think,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You really think I could have killed those people in cold blood,’ he said, unable to keep his voice neutral. ‘I mean, why would I? How could I?’ He placed a hand on her hip. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got this crazy idea from, but I’m not The Raven. I don’t know who is, but it isn’t me.’

  She stayed silent regretting having said anything. If her suspicions were right she was potentially lying next to a serial killer; a deranged lunatic who thought he could kill with impunity. She was fairly confident that he knew the first two victims. She’d barely seen him in the past few days, and he’d arrived at her apartment at gone one o’clock last night, ever so slightly hyper. Through the thin cotton of her nightdress she could feel him bristle with irritation at her silence.

  After a few moments she swung her bare legs out of the bed, his hand sliding onto the sheets, and headed for the bathroom. The main thing was to get away from him, find somewhere to think things through, get her thoughts into some kind of order; somewhere where she didn’t feel under threat. She’d get ready for work as normal; tell him that she was sorry, that she was just being paranoid. She pushed the bathroom door shut and stared at her tired face in the mirror before bending to scoop up handfuls of lukewarm water, splashing them on her face trying to calm her inner panic.

  He waited until the door closed and then followed, carefully rolling his feet to keep silent. He shut his eyes, gathering himself, trying to centre his anger, sucked air in through his nose and burst through the door.

  She was bent over the sink. In one motion he grabbed hold of her hair, yanked up her head and violently shoved her face into the mirror. His anger crimsoned his vision, threatening to blossom into blind rage. He tugged her head back and slammed it forward again, the mirror cracking in a jagged pattern of concentric circles centred on the point of impact. He felt her go limp in his grasp and he managed to rein in his fury, letting her slide unconscious to the floor, blood tricking from her nostrils. Her once beautiful face a bloody mess.

  He left her there and headed to the kitchen, now feeling strangely calm, his anger dissipating as quickly as it flamed. He retrieved some packing tape from a drawer and returned to the bathroom. He slipped the cotton nightdress over her head and levered her dead weight into the bath. Using the tape he bound her wrists to the handles of the bath and her feet to the taps. He then placed the tape across her mouth and wrapped it round her bloody head several times leaving her nose free.

  Trust her to see through him. He’d accounted for everything except her. He didn’t think he’d need to. He’d been confident that he’d left no clues to his alter-ego and his project. She would now inevitably have to die and with her disappearance he would ultimately be exposed. But that was okay; he’d just need to re-think his exit strategy. He wouldn’t be able to blend back in to society; instead he’d need to disappear into the shadows. He’d planned for such a possibility; after all he was writing the rules not following them. He was even leaving a trail of clues that would lead right to him if the guards had enough brains to follow them; or perhaps they would follow his false trails instead.

  He sat on the closed toilet seat and traced a finger over her alabaster skin, a red trace of pressure left in its wake. This would be a death he could savour.

  Tony Bishop stared out the window and across the park. He was trying to convince himself that he was calm and collected, in control of things; that the butterflies in his stomach and the jitteriness in his blood were not real; that he could handle the bombardment of questions from the world’s media. And it was going to be global coverage. Three murders by a self-proclaimed serial killer in three days, with the promise of more until his sick, little book was written. The table behind him was covered with the day’s newspapers. The mu
rders were on the front page of every one. There was little hope of keeping the cards and chapters under wraps now. One of the foreign papers would publish them and then they’d be all over the Internet.

  He sucked in air slowly and let it out gently. He was dressed in a pristine uniform and subconsciously he played with the cuffs.

  There was a knock at the door and he could hear it opening. He swung round, his manner turning immediately to one of irritation, his nervousness surfacing and escaping. ‘For God’s sake, Colm! Look at the state of you!’ He gestured angrily, a flood of red rising from his collar into his face. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  McEvoy stared back impassively, then down at his attire, and back up again. His shoes were covered in blades of grass, the lower part of his suit trousers wet and dirty, his shirt and loosely knotted tie stained by coffee. He caught his reflection in the window, his face pale, skin tight to the bones and dark with stubble, crescents under his eyes.

  ‘You look like shit and you’re dressed like a scarecrow!’ Bishop berated him. ‘We have a press conference in an hour and you look a hurricane survivor.’

  ‘I’ve come straight from the murder site,’ McEvoy said as way of explanation.

  ‘You spent the whole night there?’ Bishop asked, incredulity in his tone. ‘Why the hell did you do that? It’s called delegating, Colm. You’re a manager for God’s sake. You should have handed it over to Jenny Flanagan when she arrived and gone home and tried to get some sleep. Jesus! How the hell are you going to catch him if you can’t think straight because you’re knackered?’