The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m not going to attempt a diagnosis on someone I’ve never met. All I can tell you is he is intelligent, adaptable to circumstances and he’s playing a game.’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘There’s no doubt in my mind he’s enacting a fantasy or has what he sees as a mission.’ He picks up his pad and pen. ‘You seem very determined this killer deserves to die. Why does it bother you so much? Is it because of latent feelings for Kira?’

  I pick my words with care. ‘I believe no man should take another’s life without forfeiting his own right to live. That anyone who kills three people in such a cold manner should be removed from the face of the earth.’

  ‘So you believe in an eye for an eye rather than the justice system. Isn’t that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No. I’m saying he should be caught, tried and sentenced to death.’

  ‘What do you think you would do if you came face to face with this person?’

  ‘I’d take him down and then hand him over to the cops.’

  He makes a few notes on his pad. ‘You seem very confident of yourself.’

  I shrug. ‘One on one, I haven’t lost a fight for a very long time. So, you think this guy may have a mission or purpose driving him. What might this be?’

  ‘It could be anything. Revenge against people who’ve slighted him in some way. Not feeling respected or valued can often prey on a person’s mind until they snap. It could be someone they owe money to. Because they haven’t paid up or are disputing the amount, this guy has taken it into his head to get them back.’

  ‘Could it really be something that mundane?’ It doesn’t seem credible to me. ‘People don’t become serial killers because someone owes them a few bucks or hasn’t shown them enough respect.’

  ‘Don’t they? You’d be surprised how petty grievances can be blown out of proportion. I take it you’ve heard about how Chinese water torture works? By the slow incessant dripping onto a prisoner’s head.’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘What starts out as a negligible irritation grows through time and repetition into a major source of discomfort. The next drip – or slight in this case – becomes expected. Anticipated to the point where the person on the receiving end is already bitter about it. The resentment is built in before the slight is delivered. Paranoia is a very powerful driver.’

  ‘I see what you mean. It’s like having a permanent sense of defeatism. Even innocuous comments are taken as digs.’

  He smiles at my understanding. ‘Exactly. Now imagine this situation carrying on for months or years until you’re a ball of twisted resentment. Every word or gesture to you scrutinised for insults that may or may not be there. Any kindnesses towards you rejected due to the irrational fear you’re being lured into a humiliation-filled trap.’

  His words are painting a terrible picture. It’s hard not to imagine myself being in this position and fighting to retain sanity and decency. It would be too easy to lash out with verbal barbs or physical blows.

  I’m aware I have confidence in myself, that I’m unafraid to speak my mind and stand up for myself. If that self-confidence was eroded away, would I still voice my thoughts or raise my fists?

  The answer to my question is no. In such a situation the safe mentality would be to keep your head down. To go unnoticed and hope the insults aren’t too cutting and the slights can be passed off as insignificant.

  ‘So what happens? Does a switch just flick and the person in question turn into a maniac?’

  ‘It’s not as cut and dried as you suggest. There can be many different manifestations of a complete lack of self-confidence. Self-harming, a narcissistic side, a tendency to overspend and act out in an attempt to impress people into liking you. These are the better options for society.’

  ‘How so?’ I’m intrigued by what he’s saying but unsure of how any of it is better.

  Dr Edwards puts down his pad and looks right into my eyes. ‘The worst-case scenario is if, and I stress if, there is a serial killer lacking self-confidence, he’ll probably be a loner, an introvert who’s never quite fitted into any social circle. I suspect he may have fantasised about killing for years before actually doing it. Once he’s taken the first step, he will have felt a sense of empowerment.’

  ‘Empowerment?’ I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

  ‘Absolutely. Imagine, if you will, a constant sense of worthlessness, feeling inadequate at all times, as if everyone looks down on you. Then all of a sudden you have the power of life or death in your hands. You see fear in the eyes of your victim instead of contempt. You hear their pleas, their begging and it strengthens you. Gives you a sense of worth. It may even arouse you.’ His eyes shine as he talks.

  ‘The murders of Kira and Mrs Starr appear to have been premeditated and acted out to suit his purpose. I’m only guessing here, but perhaps he was trailing Mr Johnson in preparation for an attack when an opportunity presented itself. The seized chance would account for a difference in the method of the kill. Also, consider the fact this attack took place beside what is a fairly busy road. He wouldn’t have had time to fully enact his fantasies.’

  I figure Dr Edwards is enjoying this distraction from the usual complaints and worries. He hasn’t even tried asking me a question for a good ten minutes.

  ‘What you say makes sense, in a scary kind of way.’ I shift position, the frame of the couch squeaking at my movement. ‘I know it may constitute a breach of ethics, but do any of your patients fit into this category?’

  His fingers steeple. ‘First of all, I have a duty of care to the community, so it wouldn’t be a breach of ethics for me to warn the police of someone I felt was a dangerous individual. Second, I don’t have any patients who display such a lack of self-confidence. Third, anyone with these symptoms wouldn’t deem themselves worthy of therapy. They’d figure themselves a lost cause, a waste of the therapist’s valuable time.’

  I wasn’t expecting him to give me any possible suspects, but it’s still a blow to not get even one suggestion.

  ‘Considering the way this conversation has gone very much in your favour, I’d like to ask you one question and get an honest answer.’

  ‘Shoot.’ Answering one question is a small price to pay for all his answers.

  ‘Every time Kira’s name is mentioned your pupils narrow for a heartbeat. To a psychologist, it’s the equivalent of a distress flare. I want you to tell me why you are reacting this way.’

  I want to call him names or storm out rather than give him this information. However, a deal’s a deal. I owe him honest answers in return for his professional opinions.

  Ten minutes later he knows everything. His pen scratched all the way through my recital of the facts.

  I finish speaking and he lays down his pad and pen to steeple his fingers. I’m now familiar enough with his body language to recognise the gesture precedes one of his pronouncements.

  He makes me wait a minute or two before opening his mouth. ‘Stop me at any point where I’m wrong, but I think this has come as a great shock to you. The knowledge of this engenders a feeling of responsibility. You’re no longer after her killer because you’ve been hired. It’s now become personal. There are probably some feelings of inadequacy and self-chastisement for not being aware of her feelings. Knowing how she felt for you has transposed your normal morals with a burning need to bring this guy to justice. There will of course be anger. At Kira for not telling you how she felt, towards the killer for obvious reasons, although most of your anger will be channelled inwards at yourself for not being more aware.’

  I realise I’ve nodded agreement to each of his points. There’s no way he will have missed that so I give him a verbal confirmation. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I know.’ There isn’t any conceit in his voice, just a statement of fact. ‘You’re a proud man and I’d be surprised if you haven’t wondered how many people knew about her infatuation. If those same people have been laughing at you behind your back.�
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  I say nothing while making sure I don’t give him a nod of agreement.

  ‘What I suggest you do is focus on catching the killer or killers. It’s unlikely Kira has told anyone. If she did confide in someone, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  41

  I walk up the path and knock on the door of Mrs Halliburton’s house. She’s been top of my list of people to see since I saw her named as Johnson’s next of kin, but it’s only now I’ve had time to make the visit.

  I wonder if it’s the same Mrs Halliburton who taught me history. It will be good if it is; common ground always helps people to open up.

  The door opens to reveal a woman in her mid-fifties. I recognise an older version of the passionate teacher who’d worked so much harder than her peers to make her lessons interesting to bored teenagers.

  I extend my right hand. ‘Mrs Halliburton, I’m Jake Boulder. You used to be my teacher back in the day.’

  ‘How may I help you?’ She looks me up and down, her red-rimmed eyes registering little.

  ‘I’m working with Alfonse Devereaux and we’ve been asked to help the Casperton PD with your brother’s murder.’ I make a point of slipping Alfonse’s name into the conversation as he was always popular with the teachers.

  ‘Yeeess. I remember you both.’

  The way she draws out the yes makes me unsure she does remember us, but at least she’s being polite and not asking me to leave.

  ‘Sorry if this seems rude, but why are the police hiring civilians?’ She gives a dismissive wave. ‘Scratch that. One of their detectives was round earlier.’

  I gesture inside the house. ‘I won’t take much of your time.’

  ‘You can have the next year if it helps catch the swine who murdered Paul.’

  The underlying fury in her tone tells me she’s gone past denial and has landed in anger.

  I follow her into the house. Like her, it’s homely and lived in. Nothing is dirty except a coffee mug, but there’s enough untidiness to make it a comfortable, welcoming place.

  She points me to a seat and pets the Labrador puppy flopping its way around her ankles. There’s no offer of coffee or any other kind of drink.

  I sit as instructed before starting with my questions.

  ‘Can you tell me a little bit about Paul – where he worked, his family, his interests and hobbies, any enemies he may have had?’ I already know the answers to these questions, but I’ve read enough fictional interviews to know you should always start by establishing a baseline of emotions by getting the subject to recount known truths.

  She takes a deep swallow. ‘He worked up at the reservoir. His job had some fancy title like systems analyst when all he did was sit on his butt making sure the dials were all pointing the right way. He was separated from his wife, and his daughter is at college in Salt Lake.’

  A handkerchief is pulled from her sleeve and used to dab her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know this must be tough for you, but everything you tell me can help us catch the man who did this to your brother.’

  ‘I know.’ The handkerchief is lifted to her face again.

  I give a gentle prompt. ‘His interests and hobbies.’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t have a lot in his life. He worked every hour they’d let him so Leah could go to college.’

  ‘And when he wasn’t working?’

  ‘He’d do odd jobs to raise a few extra bucks. You know, mowing lawns, painting. That kind of thing. Virtually every penny he made went to his ex-wife or Leah.’ The amount of resentment in her voice makes me wonder just how acrimonious his divorce had been.

  ‘He didn’t go bowling or date or anything?’

  ‘Nothing. He had no life other than work.’

  ‘What about enemies?’

  She laughs in my face. ‘Paul wasn’t the type of man to have enemies. He went through life unnoticed. Nobody bothered with him beyond polite conversation. After the divorce he worked, slept and then worked some more.’

  I can tell by her body language she disapproved of his empty lifestyle but won’t put a voice to her criticism in front of me.

  Once I’ve exhausted all my questions, I thank her and leave.

  Next on my list of people to visit are Evie Starr’s family.

  42

  I step out of the shower and reach for a towel. After invading the lives of two grieving families, I was left with the need to wash. To cleanse myself of their misery and the dirty feeling I got from causing further hurt.

  After dressing I make a sandwich with some cold meats from my fridge and the last slices of bread. The bread is harder and drier than I care for, but with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had time to collect any fresh groceries. The glass of milk I pour myself is a day past its use-by date, but smells okay, so I risk it.

  I take a seat and begin a mental recap of everything I’ve seen or heard today. There’s a lot to chew over, but I work my way through it until some ideas have formed.

  One idea I can’t shake, despite knowing there’s no way it can be correct, is Paul Johnson is almost a perfect fit for Dr Edwards’ suggested psyche of our possible serial killer. He has the loneliness factor and after the way his ex-wife discarded him, he was sure to be harbouring more than a little resentment.

  Every fibre of my body tells me associating a victim with a killer in this way is wrong. While I’m not going so far as to speak ill of the dead, the uncharitable thoughts are still coming.

  What I can’t get my head round is how we’re meant to identify the killer. Everything I’ve learned about each of the victims is unique and individual to them. Other than being lifelong residents of Casperton, there is no common thread. No shared interests, hangouts or friends.

  Even their ages are disparate, with there being at least half a generation between any two of them.

  I make a note to look deeper into the financial side of their lives. If they share a tradesman or professional of some kind, there may be a connecting link to give the investigation a focal point.

  This is the type of work Alfonse excels at. It’ll become his task while I busy myself with something more people orientated.

  Looking at my scribbled notes, I wonder if either Johnson or Evie Starr kept a diary. It’s a question I never asked and its omission nags at me.

  With a half hour to go before I’m due to meet the chief, I call Alfonse asking him to join me there. Having everyone in the same room will save any repeated conversations.

  To kill time, I pick up the last pages of Kira’s diary in the hope of finding a clue of some kind. I don’t expect to, but a part of me knows I need to read them just in case.

  43

  Upon entering the station I’m waved right through to Chief Watson’s office where I find him on the telephone.

  I’m not sure who he’s talking to, although it’s a fair bet they’re not enjoying the chief’s words as much as I am.

  The handset rattles when he thumps it into the cradle. ‘Sit down, Boulder, and wipe that smirk off your face.’

  I obey the first half of the command. ‘That was a great use of language. Most people would have just sworn at him.’

  ‘I don’t believe in using curse words with my men.’

  I get the smirk off my face but can’t remove it from my voice. ‘Sorry, but it’s the first time I’ve heard a detective being described as less use than a syphilitic camel’s rotting carcass.’

  He kneads his temples, a grimace turning down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘He deserved it. I’ve just had Evie Starr’s son in running his mouth about insensitivity. The son said you’d been there too. Said you’d shown way more tact and understanding.’

  I give a shrug and a nod of thanks in one movement.

  The visit to her family hadn’t been pleasant for anyone, but all through it, I’d known they were suffering way more than I was. It was written on their faces and translatable from their body language.

  Interpreting t
he way he looked at me over the top of his mug as an invitation to speak, I hold up two fingers and pull out my cell.

  ‘You’re late and the chief’s waiting, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here.’ I hear Alfonse’s voice in my ear as his head pokes round the chief’s open door.

  I scowl my disapproval at his poor timekeeping, but as usual he ignores me.

  ‘What have you got then?’

  The chief’s question is aimed at both of us, but it’s Alfonse who speaks first. ‘I’ve spent most of my day looking at the wives of Kira’s clients in case it was one of them seeking revenge. None of them seemed likely to have gone that far and unless they have secret accounts in false names, none of them have withdrawn large amounts of cash.’

  ‘I’m guessing you mean to pay a hitman rather than do it themselves.’ The chief’s words are a statement not a question.

  ‘Yep. There was nothing I could find to suggest any of them had dropped out long enough to travel here. These women have little to do and are constantly updating their Twitter or Facebook feed.’ He gives a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Once I’d identified them, it didn’t take long to rule them out.’

  ‘Is it possible they have offshore accounts that didn’t show on your searches?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not likely. I tapped into their email servers and checked their historical emails to locate their bank statements. Once I’d done that, it was just a case of having a look at their income and expenditure.’

  ‘I see what you meant about inadmissible.’ The chief shoots me a look then turns back to Alfonse. ‘How do you know their offshore accounts are linked to that particular email and they don’t send their statements in the mail?’

  ‘Nobody who has a secret offshore account wants their statement put in the mail. Some of them had more than one email, but the software I used to get into their PCs or tablets scans for historical searches on any browser. One of the things it flags up is sign-up pages for email accounts. Therefore, I’m ninety-nine per cent confident I’ve got all their email accounts covered.’