Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  He checked the other two images, both similarly mutilated and posed for maximum effect.

  During his career helping the police solve numerous sadistic murders he had seen many victims of psychopathic crime — his area of expertise — often in the flesh. He had become hardened over the years, but each of these images was designed to shock, the impact made worse by their unexpected arrival in his inbox.

  He struggled to concentrate on the photographs, forcing himself to inspect the savagely devastated remains as dispassionately as he could. The technique was rusty, but he managed to compartmentalize his mind, part of his brain screaming in outrage while a murky corner of his consciousness became aroused, fascinated.

  He shrugged off the disgust he felt at his own callous reaction — another reason he had resigned from his role as forensic consultant for the police several years ago — and concentrated on the attachment, a letter, with no salutation, though the words were clearly aimed at Doc.

  Secrets.

  Those closeted skeletons, the unwashed linen hidden from prying eyes, the shadowed stains upon the soul.

  Everyone tries to smother them, the evil deeds and rancid thoughts they hug to themselves. Feeble cringing creatures, terrified of the response their revelations would garner, they hide them, buried deep within their anima, festering, denied even to their dearest friends and closest family members.

  I derive great joy from such secrets. I harvest them.

  But what does it take to pluck confessions of heinous deeds and sinful desires from their bosoms, to drag them into the light, to examine them, to share them?

  It is so simple. Just two things are required.

  Pain.

  And, of course, someone unique.

  Me.

  My craft is truly fascinating:

  I collect the most private treasures from the damaged souls I release while creating fantastic new secrets of my own. Such humble specimens, yet I get closer to my own immortality through my actions, through the enlightenment I gain from my chosen path. My criminal undertakings…

  Society’s petty laws mean nothing to me. Society means nothing to me.

  And I suspect, these things mean little to you too. But we do differ.

  I have embraced true evil and relish its ubiquitous nature.

  Does that make me insane?

  I don’t think so. But you, good doctor, may disagree…

  You claim to understand people like me. Is that because you are?

  Like me?

  I believe so, and as I watched your trashy TV series in which you claimed to unravel the knotted threads of unsolved crimes, I wondered why you had faltered when it came to my own. For many years I admired your work from afar, your uncanny insights, but now you seem adrift, as if your mental state has been weakened beyond repair.

  You appear to be such a lonely, desolate soul, as if merely going through the motions. Is it because of a love lost, never to be found again? I fear so…

  Well, here I am. Offering a gift. And with it, a challenge to drag you from your intellectual torpor.

  The three lost souls in these photographs have one commonality of significance.

  Me.

  And now, as you read this, another:

  You.

  So take a careful look at my gift, and perhaps you will finally make a step towards solving your unsolved mystery.

  But a word of caution: be careful, for I know you have many secrets, ones I would willingly hear.

  Memories you prefer to repress may well surface too. You see:

  The past is never truly passed, but ever present.

  Sometimes, it reaches out to destroy the future…

  Just ask Harding.

  Doc reread the document, scanning the vocabulary and syntax while trying to fathom the mind behind the words. He decided the writer suffered from a god complex and was likely a braggart, prone to exaggerating, detached from society’s mores, but not from reality. Definitely well educated and quite likely a high-achiever. Not your typical troll, he decided.

  Although he was no linguistic expert, the style was formal and somewhat affected. The average person would not write this way. In fact, it was stilted almost to the point of parody.

  Sent to confuse? Or just a prank?

  An uneasiness settled like sludge in the bottom of his stomach as his subconscious ruled out the latter. It was true that any of the photographs could have been manipulated, digitally altered to show what they purported to, but he was convinced the snapshot of the victim he recognised had been taken by the author of this letter. And that fact led him to conclude the other victims were also real.

  The ‘love lost’ comment was worrying too, as it was either a reference to his deceased wife, or possibly to his missing lover, Judy. Given Doc’s celebrity status, it would be easy enough for anyone to find out more about both, but the thought of this anonymous correspondent delving into his personal relationships sent a tremor of fear through him.

  Why send this letter now, though?

  It was several months since his series had aired on TV, so it seemed unlikely to be the trigger prompting this missive.

  What of Harding? What did he have to do with this?

  Why was the letter copied to the inmate even though it mentioned ‘good doctor’ and was clearly speaking to Doc directly? The author must surely have known such a provocative letter and lurid contents would never reach an inmate addressee — it would inevitably be intercepted by the hospital staff.

  As Doc pondered this conundrum, his phone vibrated and threw an image of Jack Carver on to his screen. It occurred to him that this was no coincidence. His detective friend would not normally call him on a Monday morning, holiday or not, their relationship these days being purely social and their contact usually limited to a beer on occasional weekends.

  Doc guessed that Carver had received a copy of the email too, his brain leaping to the conclusion that someone wanted them to reprise their role, to entice them to work together on a murder investigation again.

  The email was a grisly invitation, Doc decided.

  One he would refuse.

  ***

  Carver came to the conclusion that he was right. Bad things do indeed come in threes. As he dried his hair with a hospital hand towel, provided by a very attractive nurse who had taken pity on him, he eyed the junior doctor while the younger man uttered the words he dreaded.

  ‘You can’t talk to him, Detective. Not now. Not ever.’

  The stress was etched across the medic’s face, deep frown lines in his forehead, his eyes sunken dark hollows beneath, making Jack wonder how many hours the man had been working. Before he could confirm why he would never be able to question the victim, already convinced the dismembered man had succumbed to his grievous injuries and died — and that this was now an active murder inquiry — more words tumbled from the harried tongue.

  ‘Follow me. I’ll take you to him and you’ll see what I mean.’ He marched away and Jack did as he was bid. ‘I — I’ve never seen anything like this before… It’s like the most dreadful sort of horror film come to life. I — I just don’t know. You’re probably used to this sort of thing, but even with the worst cases I’ve handled in Accident and Emergency, I have never come across such a… a… monstrous thing. God knows how any human being could do this to another. And a doctor, too…’

  They had reached a private room and the houseman stopped outside the door, then spun to face him, voice quivering, either with anger or fear, but Jack could not decide which.

  ‘It is the most evil thing. Worse than death itself.’

  ‘Would you please stop talking in riddles and tell me what the hell happened to this guy!’ Jack allowed some harshness in his tone as he realised the victim must still be alive, but then saw tears welling in the medic’s eyes a moment before he turned away to swing open the door.

  ‘Come in and meet Mister Mutilated. That’s what that bloody reporter from the Crusader said he would call him. Vile
parasite.’

  ‘Cooper? That sick tabloid twat hardly qualifies as a reporter. He was here? Earlier?’

  The bastard was always monitoring late night and early morning police radio chatter to get ahead of the pack, and no doubt the Crusader headlines would already be screaming the nickname on their website in advance of the print edition due in the shops tomorrow morning.

  The doctor ushered him into the room, went to pull the curtain from around the bed, then looked over his shoulder at the policeman as he replied.

  ‘Yes. I caught him in here taking snapshots with his bloody iPhone! Had him escorted off the premises of course, but I could do nothing about the pictures. I have no idea how he found out or how he got in here but I think you should put a copper on the door asap. This man needs protection. Even if it is a bit late.’ He swished the green material aside and beckoned Carver to come forward. ‘Here he is.’ His voice was softer now, tremulous again. He reached a hand out to the bald forehead, but there was no response. ‘I have no idea if he can feel anything. We will give him an MRI scan to see what brain activity there is. I hope, for his sake, there’s none.’

  ‘What?’

  Jack was shocked at the comment but was even more taken aback at the sight of the man’s face. Or rather his lack of one. Despite having seen the crime scene photos he had not fully taken on board the state the victim was in. Now he noted the weird marbling, created by lines of pink tissue, scars from the look of them, tracking a pattern over his pale death mask. For that was what it looked like to Jack. Hideous. Barely recognisable as human.

  More dead than alive.

  ‘Why would you hope that?’ The sharpness had reappeared in his voice and it elicited a scowl from the doctor.

  ‘Well, I guess you have no medical training Detective, but even so I would think it’s pretty obvious this man cannot see, hear or speak. His eyes were removed and fleshy tissue transplanted over the hollow sockets. You can see the scars here.’ His fingers traced the marbling as he went on. ‘The nose has also been smoothed away in a similar fashion, amputated then skin grafted to leave these breathing holes, enough of an airway to keep the man alive… If you consider the state he’s in as being alive.’

  Carver grunted, his brain finally catching up with the sentiment being expressed.

  ‘You see how the chin appears too close to the nasal cavity.’ The medic glanced up as Carver nodded in understanding, then continued. ‘The teeth have been removed and the jaw somehow disabled before the lips were amputated and the mouth was sealed with stitched flesh. The poor chap must’ve been kept alive with nasal or intravenous feeding — just as we are having to do right now.’ He gestured to the bag of nutrients dangling from a hook above the bed, a transparent tube from there leading through a cannula into a vein in the patient’s neck.

  ‘Christ!’ Carver’s head was shaking in disbelief at what he was seeing and hearing, the full implications of the man’s state finally sinking in. What he had initially thought was a straightforward case of dismemberment and disfigurement, something he had encountered before, was actually much worse. ‘You mentioned a doctor did this to him. Are you certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. And he’d have to be a senior surgeon to do this…’ His hand hovered over the forehead again, then settled back there, his own face quizzical. ‘But I can’t believe anyone who trained to do this job could inflict this on another human being…’ His words seemed to melt away as his face contorted with confusion, then he added, more determined now, ‘I’d imagine that’ll make your job easier. The range of suspects can only be a few thousand or so.’ His cheeks darkened and his mouth twisted as he added, ‘You need to catch this sick fucker before he does this to anyone else.’

  Jack pondered on that before asking, ‘Does he have any movement, control over his body? He seems as still as a statue.’

  The doctor tugged back the bed covers and the man’s appearance immediately reminded Carver of museum exhibits. He thought of the figures of Roman gods, similarly created with just head and torso, marbled too, but with faint blue lines rather than these welt-like scars. He shrugged the images from his mind and peered at the dark cavity of the man’s right ear-hole.

  ‘Can he hear us? I can see the ear has been lopped off and the skin smoothed like the nose, but what about inside?’ He glanced up and was not surprised to see the tears welling again. Perhaps the man’s idealism, the humanitarianism that drove him to study hard to help the sick and wounded, had been dealt a deadly blow by the enormity of such a heinous act so clearly performed by one of his Hippocratic brethren.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. His eardrums are gone, and there’s scar tissue inside the aural canal suggestive of burning.’

  ‘What the hell? His eardrums were burnt out? Jesus wept!’

  ‘Probably acid.’ A juddering sigh slipped out, then the houseman turned to leave but Jack laid a hand on his elbow, stopping him.

  He waited until the man’s eyes met his.

  ‘Please wait. This is important.’ As the doctor nodded, tears now flowing freely, Jack asked, his excitement mounting, ‘Is there any way we can communicate with him? You must know how. Surely you have colleagues who deal with the deaf, dumb and blind. And he wasn’t born like this. If his brain is working we have to find a way to reach him. And some way for him to tell us what happened. Who he is… Why this was done to him… Maybe even who did it to him.’

  A hopeless expression greeted his flurry of enthusiasm, immediately quashing the thoughts that were cascading on to Jack’s tongue.

  ‘From my initial examination I can tell you the man is immobile and appears to have no control over what’s left of his body. I guess some nerves have been severed or paralyzed —’

  ‘What? Is that why what’s left of his face looks like someone overdid the Botox?’

  It was true, the smoothed features reminded Jack of the worst examples of overenthusiastic plastic surgery inflicted on Hollywood celebrities, but his coarse question drew a disapproving glance.

  ‘Rather more than that. Without detailed tests and a thorough examination by a neurologist it’s difficult to say, but from the overall state of him I’d suggest the evil person who did this deliberately shut him inside his body. And threw away any keys that could help him escape…’

  It made sense.

  Finally, the rationale started to form in Jack’s mind, his detective’s instincts leading him to the conclusion the doctor had reached before him.

  ‘It’s punishment. He’s been locked in… It’s an extreme form of solitary confinement.’

  ‘That’s what I meant earlier. He would be better off dead. And since he’s not, and by law we have to do all we can to keep him alive, I just hope for his sake that inside that cranium there’s nothing more sentient than a garden vegetable… If not, we can be absolutely certain this poor chap is suffering in the most unimaginable way.’

  A crash alarm sounded and the houseman made his apologies as he dashed off, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. It was not long before his optimism resurfaced as he considered the cold case his boss was convinced was related to this one, an investigation he had revisited as a consultant for a TV series on serial killers. Perhaps the host, his old friend Doc Powers, similarly baffled by the unsolved mystery, would be sufficiently intrigued to lend a hand now there was a second victim.

  ***

  ‘Doc, I need your help.’

  DI Carver’s voice rasped in Doc Powers’ ear, the telephone echoing the words as if the policeman was calling from a car phone on hands free.

  ‘Jack! It’s been a while. I’ve been planning to call you about appearing in my upcoming TV series — just haven’t got round to it.’

  Doc and the detective had both experienced their five minutes of fame, although Doc’s celebrity was rather more enduring as he was the star and driving force behind the series Cold Case Killers. Some years prior to their brief foray into the world of media and the small screen, they had worked together on many h
igh profile murder investigations, but that was before Doc retired from his role as consulting Forensic Psychiatrist with the Metropolitan Police, a role he had come to despise.

  He shuddered as he remembered their last investigation, one he had been forced to undertake, and one that had left him physically and mentally scarred.

  It seemed likely that Jack was calling about the Broadmoor letters after being notified by his Berkshire colleagues, maybe even hoping Doc would automatically want to pursue the case. Well, the detective was out of luck — Doc was determined not to get dragged into another investigation, despite the emailed teaser, and regardless of Jack’s pleas.

  ‘Sorry for calling early like this.’ Carver sucked hard on a cigarette, the sound unmistakable to Powers, the detective’s stress signalled by the sharp exhale that followed. ‘I’m caught up in a really difficult and unusual case —’

  ‘Jack, images of severely mutilated victims sent by a self-professed killer with a poetic bent are not enough to drag me into another investigation. Seriously, I am not interested. Full stop.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. How did you know about the mutilated — ?’

  ‘I’m really not interested.’ Doc’s jovial tone turned acid as the urge to hang up wrestled his naturally courteous nature. ‘I received Celene’s email. I can tell you what I think. It’ll take less than a minute. Then I’m out of it. Fair enough? Find yourself another profiler, Jack. I’ve got the second series to prepare and the accompanying book to finish.’

  For a moment, the line was silent, then Carver’s voice boomed at him, full of confusion, impatience and not a little ire.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you on about, Doc? What email? And what images? And how did you hear about Mister Mutilated so quickly? Don’t tell me it’s all over the internet already! Jesus! And Celene who?’