Psychomania: Killer Stories

by Stephen Jones

  “So I’ve taken up his work, do you see, John? I’ve carried on. And I will carry on until I do find him and ldll him with my own hands.

  “He took my mother’s life and the lives of hundreds more to keep his own hellish being alive. Like a vampire, he battens on blood. Like a ghoul, he is nourished by death. Like a fiend, he stalks the world to kill. He is cunning, devilishly cunning. But I’ll never rest until I find him, never!”

  I believed him then. He wouldn’t give up. He wasn’t just a drunken babbler any more. He was as fanatical, as determined, as relentless as the Ripper himself.

  Tomorrow he’d be sober. He’d continue the search. Perhaps he’d turn those papers over to the FBI. Sooner or later, with such persistence - and with his motive - he’d be successful. I’d always known he had a motive.

  “Let’s go,” I said, steering him down the alley.

  “Wait a minute,” said Sir Guy. “Give me back my gun.” He lurched a little. “I’d feel better with the gun on me.”

  He pressed me into the dark shadows of a little recess.

  I tried to shrug him off, but he was insistent.

  “Let me carry the gun now, John,” he mumbled.

  “All right,” I said.

  I reached into my coat, brought my hand out.

  “But that’s not a gun,” he protested. “That’s a knife.”

  “I know.”

  I bore down on him swiftly.

  “John!” he screamed.

  “Never mind the ‘John’,” I whispered, raising the knife. “Just call me ... Jack.”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  JOHN LLEWELLYN PROBERT

  Case Conference #3

  ANOTHER OF YOUR Ripper Psychosis cases?” Dr Lionel Parrish smiled but said nothing in reply as the tape recording came to an end. He ejected the cassette and returned it to the box he had taken it from.

  “Possibly,” he said eventually. “But as I have already explained, the Ripper Psychosis is rare. It’s possible that we have three examples of this fascinating condition upstairs, but it is also equally possible that we have only one, or even none at all. Do you think the confession you have just heard is that of a real case?”

  Robert Stanhope scratched at his left cheek in thought. “My first impression is that it’s nonsense,” he said.

  “I see,” said Parrish. “Your reasoning being?”

  “Well, for a start, the events being described took place decades ago,” said Stanhope. “If they were true, the voice on that cassette should be that of an old man.”

  “Not if the patient in question believes himself to be Jack the Ripper,” said Parrish. “If he was alive in 1888 and he is alive now, then of course he would have survived all the intervening years and would be bound to have had a few, shall we say, adventures, during that time?”

  Stanhope slumped back in the chair, a resigned look on his face. “Well, if you put it like that, I suppose this one could be true as well,” he said. “Especially as I also find it hard to believe that you would go to all the trouble of getting someone to make such a recording just for the purposes of deceit.”

  “Even though your type do that kind of thing all the time?”

  Stanhope shook his head. “That’s hardly fair, Dr Parrish,” he said. “In fact I would go so far as to say that I find that remark quite offensive.”

  Parrish steepled his fingers. “Oh. Do you?”

  That was evidently enough for Stanhope, who got to his feet.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “And I’m getting a bit tired of this little game. For all I know, every single case history you’ve presented me with today is rubbish, a collection of contrivances that you’ve spent years putting together to relieve the boredom of having to run an isolated godforsaken place like this. Or they might all be true. I have no way of knowing, but I think that’s probably all part of your little game as well.”

  He pointed to the cupboard near the door. “And as if that isn’t bad enough, you’ve also shown me a violin that you claimed might be cursed, but then almost straight afterward suggested that you might have made it all up.” His accusatory finger swivelled to the window. “Then you showed me something that might be a dead body in that field out there, and all you did was go on about the bloody birds that were dancing all over it.”

  He returned his gaze to the doctor, still calmly seated behind his desk. “Well, Dr Parrish, to be honest, I don’t care any more. I don’t care whether your stories are true - whether upstairs is filled with crazed photographers, or insane film stars, or immortal serial killers, or people who think they’re Humpty Dumpty. I have had enough of this, and frankly I have better things to do with my time.”

  With that Stanhope turned and strode purposefully to the door of Parrish’s office.

  Which was locked.

  “Can you open this door for me, please?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I suspected we might get to the point where you found all of this a little too much for comfort,” he said. “So a while ago I took the precaution of activating the electronic locking mechanism for that door. It’s actually there for my safety, in case the inmates should ever literally try to take over the asylum. To be honest, the chances of that are so infinitesimally small as to be negligible, so I’m pleased I’ve been able to find another use for it.”

  Stanhope tugged at the door handle, then turned around and glowered at the doctor. “I suggest you open this door,” he said, threateningly. “Now.”

  Parrish gestured helplessly. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr Stanhope,” he said. “Once activated the lock is on a timer. No one can get in or out until the time period entered into the device has elapsed.”

  “And how long was the time you entered?” Stanhope was clearly seething now, his fists clenched so tight that they were shaking.

  Dr Parrish, as relaxed as ever, extended his left wrist and looked lazily at his watch. “Oh, I should say about another two hours,” he said.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Stanhope cried. He turned around and pounded on the heavy oak. “Let me out of this bloody office!”

  “Anyone who might hear your cries was instructed to ignore them before you came in here,” said Parrish. “As you so rightly intimated earlier, I have spent rather a long time preparing all of this for you. So why don’t you be a good boy and come and sit back down? There are quite a few cases I haven’t told you about yet.”

  Whether or not Stanhope was paying any attention it was difficult to say as he continued to pound on the door and demanded to be let out.

  “Oh, dear,” said the doctor. “It would seem we have a slight case of claustrophobia here.” He opened his uppermost right-hand desk-drawer, took out a disposable syringe, and fitted it with a thick white aspiration needle. From the next drawer down he removed a vial of an unmarked solution, punctured its rubber cap with the needle, and proceeded to draw up twenty millilitres of colourless fluid.

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but I can see I was right to take the precaution of keeping a sedative in here with me,” he said, flicking the syringe to remove any air bubbles and changing the needle for a slightly smaller one to perform the injection.

  Parrish got to his feet, holding the syringe with the needle pointed towards the ceiling. “I’ll ask you once more, Mr Stanhope. Will you sit down and behave yourself?”

  Either Stanhope was deliberately ignoring the doctor, or he was lost in the throes of his own mounting panic. Oblivious to Parrish’s actions, Stanhope was still hammering on the door as Parrish came up behind him, smartly tapped the external jugular vein on the right of Stanhope’s neck twice, and then plunged the needle downwards into the prominent vessel.

  With the skill of years of practice, Parrish pulled back on the plunger. A flashback of blood into the syringe confirmed he was in the right place, and he pressed down on the plunger, delivering the sedating medication directly into Stanhope’s blo
odstream.

  Then the doctor stood back, wary that if he had miscalculated the dose the reporter might just fall over, on top of him.

  Stanhope staggered a little and took a step back, rubbing at the puncture mark. When his fingers came away red he began to hyperventilate.

  “Scared of the sight of our own blood as well, are we?” Parrish tutted. “My, what a bundle of neuroses you’re turning out to be, you poor fellow.” He helped Stanhope back to his chair, where the journalist sat panting and rubbing at his throat.

  “Now give it a minute or so, and you’ll be feeling much better,” said Parrish, returning to his side of the desk and resuming his seat. He timed sixty seconds on his wristwatch, and then looked up.

  “Feeling better now?” he asked.

  Stanhope nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice just a little slurred. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Oh, just a little claustrophobia, mixed with quite a bit of fear, anxiety and, dare I say it, suspicion,” said Parrish. “The human mind is a complex, wonderful and remarkable thing. But tip the balance of the mental processes just slightly in the wrong direction and the results can be, well, disturbing. I hope you have now had the opportunity to see that for yourself.”

  The doctor reached under his desk and pressed a button. From behind Stanhope there was a hum and a click.

  “The door’s open now,” said Parrish.

  Stanhope tried to turn and look, but was a little too dizzy to do so. Instead he looked at Parrish.

  “You’re a bastard, you know that?” he said.

  Parrish grinned. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I hope that I have at last convinced you that you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, not even from such a figure of authority as my good self.”

  “Your evil self, you mean,” said Stanhope, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in the chair.

  “However you prefer to think of me,” said Parrish. “But I promise you that what I am about to say is true. If you feel you have had enough and would like to leave, then by all means you may. The sedation I gave you was a very short-acting benzodiazepine. By the time you make it back to your car it will have worn off.”

  It was obvious from Stanhope’s posture that it was already beginning to. He made to get to his feet, and then shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “No way.”

  Parrish gave him an encouraging look. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve come this far,” said Stanhope. “There is no way I am not staying until the end, now. If this is the game you want to play, then I’ll play it, but by God I will have my interview by the end of it.”

  “You shouldn’t use double negatives, Mr Stanhope,” said the doctor with a smile. “You are a writer, after all.”

  “A writer who has been assaulted by you, both mentally and physically.” Stanhope rubbed his neck again only to find the bleeding had now stopped. “I’ll be putting all of this in my story, you know.”

  “I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Parrish replied. “Now, may I take it from what you have just said that you are ready to continue?” Stanhope nodded. “Good. After all that, I think you’re probably ready for something really horrible, especially as you’ve now had first-hand experience of just how suggestible some people can be.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t seem enthused by that,” Stanhope replied with a shiver.

  “This one’s a court case,” said Parrish, taking down a set of documents the size of a telephone directory and held together with numerous rubber bands. Some of them were so old they crumbled when the doctor tried to remove them. “It’s a most fascinating example of why some people really should stay away from the darker corners that exist in this world.”

  “Is this one going to be all about the conviction of another serial killer, then?” said Stanhope, eyeing the now-collapsing pile of papers,

  “Only partly,” said Parrish, leafing through to find the relevant pages. “What was even more interesting was what happened after the trial...”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  RAMSEY CAMPBELL

  See How They Run

  THROUGH THE READING of the charges Foulsham felt as if the man in the dock was watching him. December sunshine like ice transmuted into illumination slanted through the high windows of the courtroom, spotlighting the murderer. With his round slightly pouting face and large dark moist eyes Fishwick resembled a schoolboy caught red-handed, Foulsham thought, except that surely no schoolboy would have confronted the prospect of retribution with such a look of imperfectly concealed amusement mingled with impatience.

  The indictment was completed. “How do you plead?” “Not guilty,” Fishwick said in a high clear voice with just a hint of mischievous emphasis on the first word. Foulsham had the impression that he was tempted to take a bow, but instead Fishwick folded his arms and glanced from the prosecuting counsel to the defence, cueing their speeches so deftly that Foulsham felt his own lips twitch.

  “... a series of atrocities so cold-blooded that the jury may find it almost impossible to believe that any human being could be capable of them ...”“... evidence that a brilliant mind was tragically damaged by a lifetime of abuse ...” Fishwick met both submissions with precisely the same attitude, eyebrows slightly raised, a forefinger drumming on his upper arm as though he were commenting in code on the proceedings. His look of lofty patience didn’t change as one of the policemen who had arrested him gave evidence, and Foulsham sensed that Fishwick was eager to get to the meat of the case. But the judge adjourned the trial for the day, and Fishwick contented himself with a faint anticipatory smirk.

  The jurors were escorted past the horde of reporters and through the business district to their hotel. Rather to Foulsham’s surprise, none of his fellow jurors mentioned Fishwick, neither over dinner nor afterwards, when the jury congregated in the cavernous lounge as if they were reluctant to be alone. Few of the jurors showed much enthusiasm for breakfast, so that Foulsham felt slightly guilty for clearing his plate. He was the last to leave the table and the first to reach the door of the hotel, telling himself that he wanted to be done with the day’s ordeal. Even the sight of a newsvendor’s placard which proclaimed FISHWICK JURY SEE HORROR PICTURES TODAY failed to deter him.

  Several of the jurors emitted sounds of distress as the pictures were passed along the front row. A tobacconist shook his head over them, a gesture which seemed on the point of growing uncontrollable. Some of Foulsham’s companions on the back row craned forwards for a preview, but Foulsham restrained himself; they were here to be dispassionate, after all. As the pictures came towards him, their progress marked by growls of outrage and murmurs of dismay, he began to feel unprepared, in danger of performing clumsily in front of the massed audience. When at last the pictures reached him he gazed at them for some time without looking up.

  They weren’t as bad as he had secretly feared. Indeed, what struck him most was their economy and skill. With just a few strokes of a black felt-tipped pen, and the occasional embellishment of red, Fishwick had captured everything he wanted to convey about his subjects: the grotesqueness which had overtaken their gait as they attempted to escape once he’d severed a muscle; the way the crippled dance of each victim gradually turned into a crawl - into less than that once Fishwick had dealt with both arms. No doubt he’d been as skilful with the blade as he was with the pen. Foulsham was re-examining the pictures when the optician next to him nudged him. “The rest of us have to look too, you know.”

  Foulsham waited several seconds before looking up. Everyone in the courtroom was watching the optician now - everyone but Fishwick. This time there was no question that the man in the dock was gazing straight at Foulsham, whose face stiffened into a mask he wanted to believe was expressionless. He was struggling to look away when the last juror gave an appalled cry and began to crumple the pictures. The judge hammered an admonition, the usher rushed to reclaim the evidence, and F
ishwick stared at Foulsham as if they were sharing a joke. The flurry of activity let Foulsham look away, and he did his best to copy the judge’s expression of rebuke tempered with sympathy for the distressed woman.

  That night he couldn’t get to sleep for hours. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the sketches Fishwick had made. The trial wouldn’t last forever, he reminded himself; soon his life would return to normal. Every so often, as he lay in the dark which smelled of bath soap and disinfectant and carpet shampoo, the taps in the bathroom released a gout of water with a choking sound. Each time that happened, the pictures in his head lurched closer, and he felt as if he was being watched. Would he feel like that over Christmas if, as seemed likely, the trial were to continue into the new year? But it lacked almost a week to Christmas when Fishwick was called to the witness box, and Fishwick chose that moment, much to the discomfiture of his lawyer, to plead guilty after all.