by CM Thompson
Chapter Five
Four hundred people take the train into the city every weekday. Most of them sleepwalk in, their eyes half closed in the last throes of slumber. Some use the morning to catch up on paperwork, hurrying through unimportant documents. Some flirt. No one really looks out the window any more, the view never changes. The first train passes within seconds, a chug chug blowing dust over frozen eyes.
The second train passes ten minutes later. One person sees something but isn’t quite sure. It is just a trick of light, the train is going too fast to really see … but it looks like … but it isn’t … definitely not. No one else is reacting, was just a trick of light.
It takes five trains before someone alerts the guard, who doesn’t really take the teenager seriously, despite the wide-eyed pleading, the I-know-what-I-saw, it was a dead woman! The defiant teenager is met with reassurances and eye rolls from the guard who has heard it all before. The teenager sits back in his seat, arms crossed, angrily glaring at the other passengers, protesting that he knows what he saw. No one believes him.
Sixth train, people are more awake now. When one woman screams, the rest of the carriage pay attention. Several people catch the glimpse of flesh and blood as it speeds past their window. Some people say that it is just a prank, a really nasty prank. Others babble incoherently, arriving at work on edge, shaking and babbling until their boss finally sends them home. The nearest station is radioed and a police car is dispatched. At this point no one is really taking the call seriously. It isn’t until the order comes through for trains to be diverted, until several cars speed past, their sirens blazing that the realisation hits.
She had been dumped in front of the tunnel, her bloodied head resting against the mossy bricks. Her bruised, clothed body resting at a slant, her cut hand hidden behind her back as if to hide her shame from the cameras, her walkie-talkie still giving off a dying bleep. A female that most of the assembled knew. A female some of them had spent the night searching the forest for, wanting to believe that she had become lost, tripped. 133 – Special Constable Shannon Leona.
Shannon Leona had volunteered to become a Special Constable seven years ago. It was how she met her husband Robert Leona, Robbie Bobbie, one of the full-time officers. She worked part-time as a nursery assistant, and then volunteered part-time with the police force. She did it because she wanted to help the world. She did it because it felt good, the police force felt a little like family. There had been resentment when she first signed up, the ritual hazing but slowly she was accepted. Her relationship with Robert helped. Shannon would take the Friday night shifts, volunteer to talk down drunk teenagers, never cared when her shoes were vomited on, never scared when someone tried to take a swing. She had a reputation in the force for being able to calm down almost anyone, no matter what the situation.
She would have been horrified to be remembered this way, that her friends had to see her like this. She prided herself on being a strong woman, never allowing herself, even at school, to submit to any humiliation. She had been dragged and beaten but she fought as long as she could. Smashing against the cold confines, screaming through a bloody gag, kicking as hard as she could.
In the end, she only amused him. He enjoys reliving that moment when her eyes widened with … recognition.
Robbie Bobbie was given his nick-name by his colleagues, and took it in good part. He took most things with a wide grin. The class clown at school, the class clown at work. Now his eyes are cold and hollow as his partner takes him aside and begins to tell him the news. It takes six colleagues to hold him back, to stop him from running over to the crime scene. He just won’t stop struggling and screaming and scratching, half pulling the others across the floor before he finally breaks against the human wall, collapsing into his partner with tears in his eyes.
Robert Leona would never return to work after that day, couldn’t stand to see his wife being slowly replaced. Couldn’t stand to see the pictures pinned to the board. Couldn’t stand to see the colleagues who failed to protect her. Couldn’t stand to be a suspect.
They had to bring in another pair of detectives from a different district, detectives who had no connection to Shannon or Robert Leona. Despite the link to the other victims, this case had to be worked separately. Once the detectives had cleared Bullface and Fletcher, then they could begin interviewing every officer, every volunteer who had helped with the search, had to dredge through every work place conflict involving the Leonas, the old rivalries and misunderstandings. Poke through any case involving either of the Leonas to try and find any resentful party. They would be there for a long unwelcomed time.
Fletcher and Bullface have been relieved of all other open cases. Their sole occupation centres on the Numbers murders. Both can feel the pressure mounting, Shannon’s murder means that the entire district is watching them, making sure no one slips up, nothing slips away. There is an anger buzzing in the air, the station is a thunderstorm of anger at not protecting one of their own. Anger at Fletcher and Bullface for not catching this guy yet, anger at each other, anger at other people’s anger. The station is now motivated, powered and fuelled by anger. Anger which is always a catalyst for catastrophe.
Bullface tries to escape from the station as much as possible, taking any opportunity to leave. She feels like the station is smothering her. Just like her first marriage had smothered her in blame and anger. The accusing eyes are haunting her again and she wants out, wants this to be over. Fletcher tries to soothe, he tries to be everyone’s friend. He knows that people need to see him working, need a punchbag, need to be reassured that they are actually doing something, but so far the results are disappointing and no one will forgive him for that. Even though they see he is working hard and even though they know it is not his fault. The assailant has managed to pull an entire station apart with one single well-planned murder.
The other detectives are not helping. Interviews by Dalbiac and Vogel have ended with officers storming out, swearing, launching a formal complaint or all three. No one so far had come out smiling. To Fletcher, they seem to be making a bad situation even worse. He was one of the first to be interviewed and had been grilled almost abusively about the lack of progress on the case. While those detectives are there, everyone in the station suspects everyone else, hating and resenting the implication that one of their own could have done that, that to Shannon Leona.
It’s funeral week, Stella McQam is cremated with little ceremony. No family attend, just three of her friends. Unknowingly, as they sob, they are watched by waiting cameras. Adelina’s funeral is next, closed casket. Adelina’s funeral is crowded, the sobbers gathered in close, the chorus of cries echoes from grave stone to grave stone. Jack Sasha stands protectively close to his wife’s casket. The fierce anger has faded, his face is a chiselled blank. Jack is accepting the, “I am sorry - if there is anything I can do.” The handshakes with small nods. He barely notices who is talking to him. This is fortunate for the mousey woman. She approaches Jack with her head fixed on the ground. She has deliberately worn the same dress that she had worn to her daughter’s funeral. She has caught a few of the mourners staring at her, trying to figure out who she is. She waits on the outsides of the throes, waiting to catch Jack on his own. She knows, from her own sad experience, that being alone at the funeral is a rarely given reprieve.
She whispers in his ear, “May I talk to you, Mr Sasha?”
The response is an immediate scowl, “Leave me alone.”
“Please, Mr Sasha.”
Jack Sasha growls at her.
“I am not a reporter.”
“Then who the fuck are you?” Jack glares at the mousey woman.
“My name is Jennifer Taylor.”
He doesn’t recognise her, why would he? Her daughter’s death had not attracted the same amount of attention. She had not appeared on the news threatening revenge. “I am Fran Lizzie Taylor’s mother.” She says with a hushed whisper.
Anna Stevenson is also at the f
uneral. She wears carefully selected black strappy heels, ones that Adelina would have approved of. Ones that say, I can be sexy but still sorrowful. Also she wears a skimpy black dress, carefully designed to minimise her flabby gut. Her make-up has been carefully chosen for its waterproof elements and has been slightly reapplied. She is going for it – well she would be, had Jack not walked off with the strange timid women who had approached him moments before. She and Jack disappear behind another gravestone, much to the astonishment of the other bereaved. Anna is not impressed. Adelina’s mother has started wailing again, unhappy that her daughter’s husband is already cavorting with another. Anna stares at the red rose and white lily arrangements that surround the cut in the earth. A stone sinks deep within her stomach, it is finally hitting just whose funeral she is attending. For the first time Anna Stevenson feels ashamed of herself, slowly backing away, alone to her car, to collapse in a gooey pile of tears.
Shannon Leona’s funeral will be on Friday. Her autopsied body has finally been released. Officers who had attended the search are still under suspicion. Some have even been warned that perhaps they should not attend Shannon’s funeral, particularly those who were members of Shannon’s search group and the unfortunate officers who had arrived back late.
Fletcher lies in bed, listening to his wife’s slightly congested breathing. His eyes are burning, red raw from too many late nights, his whole body throbs in the throes of exhaustion yet he cannot sleep. His mind runs over every single event, trying to find that single elusive clue that he knows they have missed. Should he go out now? Begin a random search alone, the guy could be killing right now, what is he doing lying in bed? If someone died tonight it would be his fault.
But then that’s why they employed night staff, who are all vaguely competent, he is only human after all and humans need sleep. Even the killer needs sleep.
Shannon’s death hurts, their biggest failure yet. Robert Leona was a good friend; they had been on the same rugby team for eight years. He had attended Robbie’s stag night, Robbie laughing his way through the night. It could have been Claire. Playing little juvenile tricks on his fellow officers, forcing them all to dress up as super heroes. His mind plays their wedding over and over. Could have been Claire. The smiling Shannon looking up at Robbie. Could have been Claire. Now Robert won’t even talk to him, won’t answer the phone, won’t return his calls. Robert’s message is clear, leave me alone.
Were there more out there? Had he killed Shannon to stop them from getting too close? Her death had brought chaos to the station, no one was willing to revisit the site. Had she stumbled across something? There were victims out there, there had to be. But trying to get another search organised was met with open hostility and anger. Fletcher was not respecting the dead. But then he knew what number that had been embedded in Shannon’s hand. They didn’t. They had found number 2, Jane Doe 217; number 22, Fran Lizzie Taylor; number 28, Stella McQam; unknown number, Adelina Sasha and now, the left hand of Shannon Leona had revealed the number 30.
Sometimes Aaron Fletcher wishes he had chosen a different career, one which allows him to sleep at night without feeling guilty.
Shannon’s death had made the news more dramatically than Adelina’s. Someone had reminded them of Fran Lizzie’s death and hinted that maybe all three deaths were connected. Not to be outdone, someone else also reminded them of the death that hadn’t even made the news yet – the prostitute Stella McQam. Rumour-mongers were plagued with questions, had Shannon, Adelina and Fran also been posing as working girls? Not to darken the honourable Leona’s name, but maybe she had been working undercover? Or over the covers? Had the girls known each other? A secret government connection? The hidden Charlie’s angels? These questions were usually met with anger, even from Fran Lizzie’s father, who used to be a mild tempered man. Jack Sasha had stopped answering his phone. Steve, Fran’s boyfriend, left the city, and Robert Leona filed harassment charges against anyone who dared to knock on his door, even against those who used to be his co-workers. The shocking aspect of a Special Constable being brutally struck down in the line of duty made even national news. The police station was swamped with calls from the indignant, demanding to know more.
The news coverage means that Shannon Leona cannot be buried peacefully. Her family are torn between honouring her, with a large open funeral that anyone she had known or helped could attend. But this also meant that He could attend, He could be picking out someone else, there at her funeral. The press and police force would also be there, trying to find a good story, keep the peace, most people would be there to gape, not to care. Or maybe a quiet little cremation which only close family could attend. But then Shannon may be forgotten this way, her death losing its meaning. Shannon’s mother drank a bottle of gin a day during the decision-making battle. Robert Leona started smoking again. No one was coping well. Robert felt conflicted between leaving his wife to suffocate in the dirt or to burn. He had seen her, insisted on seeing her. Didn’t want her to spend a minute longer in the Morgue, wants her to come home, to be safe. He has heard of cases, of tombstone vandalism, of killers returning to graves and can’t face it, can’t face him taunting her again. He is torn between tears and anger until finally they decide that she should come home. She will be safer at home. Shannon hated fuss, had always hated fuss, even their wedding was simple. Her dress had been brought on sale, nothing could be flamboyant. Robert knew his wife well, she had never wanted to be a victim and he could not stand her being remembered as one. Finally, they agreed on a small ceremony, allowing the police force to honour the fallen, no cameras, no press, no well-wishers.
Then just as quickly it is over. The phone keeps ringing. Little notes and cards are still pushed through his door. Robert knows they will stop after a while, they will give up and circle the next tragedy. The ashes of his wife are now safe, hidden away from the scavengers. He sits alone in his empty house, his hands clutching a carefully worded note from one Mrs Jennifer Taylor.
Chapter Six
The rumours have twirled into the air, and they are everywhere, twisted into every conversation, every thought. Everyone has a theory on who the murderer might be. Everyone has a theory on what he has done to his victims. Although no official police statements have been released, the public are aware that the police are appealing for information on several different murders – murders, the rumours insist, that are definitely linked. The numbers slashed into hands has so far remained a secret, but everyone knows that the bodies have been mutilated in some way. Some insist that their hearts have been taken, some argue that it was their fingers, others say that’s absurd, the murderer was definitely taking pieces of their hair. Everyone seems quietly confident that this murderer is definitely a male, perhaps between the ages of twenty to thirty. They speculate that he is a man of a broken home, his wife has probably cheated on him and bled him dry in a bitter divorce. Now, as a result, he is an inferno of rage towards women in general. Others scoff at these theories. He is a drug addict, killing for jewellery and purses, most surely. Some are still convinced that all four women were secret prostitutes and their pimp was wiping them all out.
Outright accusations so far have been silent, but the bookies do have a few favourites. The Krill is still the biggest contender, leaving his house in the middle of the night, unseen. The surveillance on his house has been increased, more and more people are trying to see the evil behind the black-out curtains. There are other rumours, of course. Some think the school’s headmaster may be a dark horse. Some parents never quite got the right impression of him, something just not quite right about him, there is something sinister about the smile that hides behind his owlish glasses and that cold clammy handshake. Fat Crack is the two to one shot, since most of the theories involve drugs in some way. And where there is a drug, there is Fat Crack. But then how can that mass of disorganised blubber even convince a woman to say hello to him let alone meet him in an abandoned warehouse, field or alleyway? Sometimes those who are point
ing fingers rarely consider logic or reason. The main problem though is that people are scared. They are extremely scared. They know for sure there have been at least four women, at least four, there could be more. Every female could be in danger, every male could be a suspect.
The police station has set up special hotlines, one for each of the fallen women, broadcasting appeals for information. Has anyone seen anything suspicious? Anyone with blood-stained clothes? The phones ring and ring, hundreds of calls pounding through the lines, demanding information and attention.
“This is ridiculous, I have kids who want to play in that park!”
“Madam.” The patient officer begins wearily.
“Just tell me this! Why haven’t you arrested the The Krill yet?”
“Please stop wasting police time.”
“You don’t understand, The Krill is just a nickname the local kids gave him, I don’t know his real name, he lives at …”
“She tasted so good … I think you would taste good too, Officer.” The officer is momentarily stunned as the prank caller gives a wild giggle then hangs up the phone.
No one really has any useful information. Fletcher and Bullface have had more people added to their team, useless people as far as Bullface is concerned. They are looking into every little piece of detail. The search for Adelina’s elusive jogger friend continues. Fran Lizzie had not complained of anyone stalking or threatening her. Fran’s case is hardest, no one suspicious had been acting strangely nearby. No one had seen her leave with anyone, and she had not complained of any enemies or any stalkers. Jane Doe 217 was also pretty hard, the bones belonging to victim number two could not even yield a name. Not enough teeth for dental records, no DNA match, no family concerned. The only chilling evidence that this case provides is that this killer has been operating, undetected, for anything up to five years. This, in Bullface’s eyes made the idea that there could be more victims, twenty-five other victims, still hidden out there more definite. But no one was willing to search. Stella’s friends had provided little information, Stella saw a lot of different men, yes, some rough ones, yes, but it was all eyes down, no questions asked. The friends have promised to report any threatening men to them, but Bullface somehow doubts they will, they can’t afford to hurt their custom. Most of the police force has been cleared now, but the air of suspicion and anger is still deep at the station. It will be a long, long time before officers start trusting each other again.
