by CM Thompson
Chapter Fourteen
As a Happy New Year rings in, dark rumours are whispered out. Friends call to greet each other but are really checking, just in case. People are disappearing every day and the paranoia is growing. Some girls have taken to carrying razor blades, secreted in pockets. One drunken girl nearly sliced an artery as she demonstrated its power. Doors are still firmly locked and chained and locked again. New Year parties have people whispering angrily in corners about how little the police appear to be doing. No one feels safe any more. “It’s up to us to protect ourselves,” wobbly jowls proclaim. Amateur sleuths create elaborate theories about the significance of the date and manner in which the women were killed; some predict when new attacks are likely to occur and who is at risk. Enrolment at self-defence classes has never been higher but no one’s New Year resolution is to take up jogging or running.
He tries not to snap as his relatives yell “Happy New Year” in his ear. Tries not to punch his drunken lecherous Auntie as she gives him a little pinch. He really needs to get out now. Really needs to go out and do something to scare them back into misery. New Year, new kills. Bigger, bolder kills.
He could wait a little while longer. Has to wait a little while longer, the streets are too busy with New Year parties spilling everywhere. Too many drunks collapsing in awkward places, ready to awake at any scream. His wife seems to trust him again. Stupid woman has probably convinced herself that he had been having an affair. He really needs to get rid of her soon. She would grow suspicious again, and suspicious people snoop don’t they? Not that she would find much now. He has become a master at washing those annoying blood spots out of his clothing. Everything else has been locked away safely. He has made sure the others are completely hidden. No one will find them. Even if they did, they would find nothing but torched bones.
John Roberts is not having a Happy New Year. Reporters keep trying to get in touch; none of them are interested in how he had been unfairly fired either. John has stopped answering the house phone. He had unplugged it but his mother found out.
“What if there was an accident Johnny?”
How have so many people got his number? It was probably his ex-girlfriend. Fucking bitch.
His fucking mother insists on answering every call. “We have nothing to hide Johnny.” It had made him briefly laugh, listening to his mother deal with the prank callers. Briefly laugh and then cringe. Why couldn’t she just say, ‘Sorry, you have the wrong number.’ She is outside now, cleaning again. Last night someone papered the house with egg and toilet tissue.
“This can’t go on much longer Johnny.”
Chapter Fifteen
He has been out a few times since New Year, always with the same disappointing results. His favourite new spots are deserted. No females to be found wandering alone. Kim Donaghue’s death so close to home had hit hard.
It is challenging. He has less reason to be out alone as well. He has seen people surreptitiously taking photographs of anyone foolish enough to attempt jogging or running. Everyone is looking at their faces now. He wishes he had had the foresight to buy his wife a puppy for Christmas. Not only could he be out walking it but it would have attracted a number of women. Maybe for her birthday but, then, did he really want a slobbering mutt in his house? Also, dog hairs. The police would be drooling over any dog hairs on victim’s clothing and if the same dog hair would be found on more than one victim, they would start looking very closely at any male dog owners. No, no dogs. There are still other ways to pick up women, still some easy catches.
They would relax soon anyway. Their new security precautions would become suffocating. He needs them to relax soon, he is stuck otherwise. If he decides to move out of the city now (his wife keeps pointing out “cute” houses in other towns) then the police would just have to look at residents who have moved recently. His wife would notice that too – unless he moves without her. As a stranger in a new place, people would notice him more, he would be an outsider. He wouldn’t have the friends he has here. It would take ages to memorise routes in a new city, he doesn’t want to waste any more time. He has this city afraid, if he left the city then all his hard work will be over. He wants to see how far he can push the people, what he can make them do.
He will never be suspected in this city, his new activities make sure of that. No fingers will be pointed at him. No bricks will ever be thrown through his window. There is only one person in this city who might suspect him – his wife! How much had she told her brother anyway? He needs to look more at getting rid of them. It can’t look like a murder with those two, too much of a red flag. He has spent most of Christmas dwelling over this. A car accident or a fire would be best, but how to set one up without leaving any clues?
He is irritated. He really needs a release now, really needs just one woman to let her hair down, just one or two. He wouldn’t mind two. Two would be nice actually. He needs a new place to take them. He destroyed the old place when he feared his wife … stupid bitch would pay for that. Had to destroy it, it was too closely tied to him, but now he has nowhere to work quietly. If he gets rid of his wife then maybe, maybe he can take one or two back home but somewhere more secluded is more ideal. Could he really risk looking for a place like that? What sort of explanation would he give? Maybe he could with the right explanation, but if they found anything out there, he would be the first guy they would remember. He has to be careful now, right when he really wants to go crazy. One mistake will end everything, everyone is watching each other. It’s hard to believe how addictive this is, he never thought he would last this long or kill this many. It is beautiful how well he is doing. He is better than them, he always knew that, but now, he has proven himself. He is better than anyone else.
Still, tonight is a cold dark night, no one is around. It would be perfect if he could just find someone on their own. Anyone. Does it really matter any more if they are female? How fun would that be? The men would be easy pickings now, wouldn’t they? They won’t have their guard up, they won’t be scared of a stranger. Sure it would be harder, men tend to be strong, but then isn’t he stronger? He usually gets them by surprise anyway. Sure, some idiots would be eager to brand him as a fucking fag but fuck them. It would send the city spinning into crazy overload, wouldn’t it? Everyone would be so fucking scared they wouldn’t leave their house. It would have everyone in the city shivering and checking over their shoulder. It would send out the message that no one is safe.
He likes that idea. He needs to find someone now. His fucking wife will start worrying soon, wondering what is taking him so long, and though he has a new lie to tell her he can’t face the idea of returning home without a release, having to return home to watch another boring show whilst she gibbers about nonsense. She is only bearable now when she is afraid.
No one is out. Where the fuck is everyone? Where are the stupid ones who laugh in the face of danger? Maybe he should drop into a pub. No, that is a stupid idea. The sober ones will remember him dropping in late, only sipping a small drink. No, everyone is looking after the drunk ones now, making sure they get home safe. One last lap around his circuit and then he will have to go home and pound his frustrations into his wife, while thinking of his previous victims.
Happy New Year, Happy Old You! Nothing has changed? Brandi’s life is still boring. Only one thing is keeping her entertained now, how can she catch a killer? How does anyone catch a killer? How do they trap him? How do they lure him out of the dark and cage him? Brandi could lure him out, couldn’t she? She has studied the victims carefully, just like every other amateur detective. She has spent almost as much time as the police at memorising the victims’ faces, trying to look for the link between them. He didn’t have a type, she decided. There is no reason that he wouldn’t pick her, despite her nose. She is better looking than some of the hookers anyway, even if she isn’t as pretty as her sister. She has a chance. How to find him though? Should she go out jogging, walking or clubbing? She hates clubbing alone so that
is out, she doesn’t want to fight whilst all sweaty, how bad would that look? How to find a man, who is out looking for a woman though … maybe jogging or walking out in the streets.
How will she trap him? A man strong enough to kill thirty-eight women must be very strong physically. She would have to strike first. She would have no chance if he overpowers her. Oh to live in a country where tazers and pepper spray are legal! How easy would that be? Zap, out like a light, tagged and bagged. “Hello there, Mister Policeman, I caught your man!” “Oh yes, I am free for a drink later.” “What’s that Mother? You are proud of me? Not now Mother …” No! it is not time to fantasise. She needs to plan. How can she bring him down? By herself? How will she know him from a random creep? She will just know, won’t she? Women’s intuition … intuition that had not worked so well for those other women. Had they known? Had they even been given a chance to fight back?
But what other chance does she have? She can stay in this boring life, be subjected to those degrading calls from that woman who claims to be her mother, who claims to love her if she’d only change. Well this will be changing, won’t it, Mother? Everyone loves a hero don’t they? Life will finally be exciting and fun! She will be seen on the cover of magazines, she will be interviewed and maybe even get to meet some famous celebrities. People would notice her!
If she can figure out how to lure him, without getting hurt then she can catch him. No it is too stupid, too risky … too dangerous … but then at least it will not be boring.
She really fucking disgusts him but he has no choice. It is her or nothing. She is nothing anyway. He has seen her before, sleeping on a pile of newspapers. He will have to be careful with this one, she might have fleas.
How should he approach her? He does a little walk in a circle around her, still out of her sight. Carefully checking no one else is around. She looks like the mistrusting type, life has dealt her too many blows. She doesn’t look like she will accept a good Samaritan’s offer but she does look desperate. The skies are threatening snow again and she seems to be burrowing into herself for warmth. Should he risk this one? If she says no, then she will probably remember his face; but then if she says no, he could just kill her anyway. The minute “No” crosses her lips, slash. It is a little open here, yes, but not as public as he has done before. He could risk this one. This filthy creature is his. He likes the message that killing her would send. It would reinforce that no one is safe. Not the mothers, not the police, not the prostitutes, no one.
One more lap, make sure the coast is absolutely clear and then he approaches.
Her eyes track him warily.
“Give you twenty for a blow job.”
Usually she would refuse and run, but it is very cold. Twenty will get her somewhere to stay, a hot meal. She swallows her pride, and he points to the toilet block. She reluctantly follows him and gets to her knees.
Finally a release.
She bled a lot, but it doesn’t matter. It is dark and his wife won’t know he is home until after he cleans up. Slipped in the mud if she asks. He will put his clothes straight into the wash, carefully applying the stain remover. He has a little longer with this one and feels happy. He hates to lower himself like this but he has to take what he can get sometimes.
It takes a few days for this one to be found. The cold has preserved her nicely. He waits eagerly each day for the news report. He enjoys this almost as much as the killings now. Seeing the outbreak of fear and hatred is fun. Wondering what these pathetic people are going to do next is fun. He nearly reports her location himself, growing more and more impatient. A little longer, he keeps telling himself. They will find her soon.
They find her on January 12th. The cleaner had come round to clean the toilets, had waited for whoever was in the disabled toilet to come out, had knocked and called out, “Are you done yet?” They thought it was another damn homeless wreck and used the universal key to slam the door open, fully intending to teach them a lesson. The anger stuck in their throat as they inhaled the coppery decay.
Bullface arrives while officers are still photographing the scene. They have a lot to photograph. Blood has splattered across the stall. She had been pushed back onto the toilet. Her body had slipped into an uncomfortable angle and stiffened, slowly freezing. Rigor mortis then livor mortis, as what remained of her blood began to settle. Spinal and brain fluid had begun to leak from the orifices. Had this been the weather for bugs, she would have been crawling with them.
They photograph every splatter, every position, every angle of her broken body before they even think of moving her. Already it doesn’t looking promising in terms of DNA and evidence. Maybe they would find a strand or two of clothing again but this killer goes for the cheap, mass produced clothing. Maybe they will get lucky and find a trace of spit. This looks like a frenzied attack, he would have sweated. Maybe the cold has preserved something along with this girl.
Fletcher arrives as they are loading her up.
“She has been here for several days now. It’s going to be hard to estimate a time of death because of the cold. We haven’t got an ID on her yet.”
“Her name is Rosie.” Fletcher mumbles. “We have offered her help before.
Bullface has never known her partner to be so solemn. She is the one with a face like a bulldog, whilst he is the sensitive but joking one. He hasn’t been sleeping well, she didn’t have to be a detective to see that (but then who had been sleeping well?) Fletcher is as deflated as the Christmas balloons. He does little as she orders a sweep of the area, radios the station, asks Michaels to search for information on Rosie.
Fletcher had said she had been homeless for a least a year, maybe more. She was somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty. Fletcher had never noticed her dealing before or soliciting. She had laughed at him when he had offered to take her to a shelter. They found some meagre belongings close by, she had probably been sleeping in the toilet block late at night and hiding in the bushes during the day.
Bullface looks around the woods, they have been here before with Adelina Sasha. It is possible he lives near here. Somewhere within walking distance. That could be a new start to their search, checking out any possible CCTV footage around this area, seeing if any joggers come frequently. It will take a lot of watching but it could be worth it. She would get the warrant later, get one of the juniors to start watching, warning them to pay very close attention. Yes, this could be a good direction to go in. Two bodies have been found in these woods, Shannon had been taken from the woods and yet no evidence of the killer’s car. But then, if he is walking, how did he get Shannon away from here? Ah damn it. How close was that railway tunnel to here? Maybe he could have carried her, not many people would have been in this area at night.
She walks back to her car. Fletcher has the telephone to his ear. He hangs up without saying anything.
“Why don’t we talk in here?” She motions to her car. Glumly he climbs in.
“What is going on Fletcher?”
“I am going to quit.”
Oh man the fuck up!
They have finished taking swabs and samples from Rosie. The autopsy has begun. Bruises indicate she had been pulled forcibly by her wrists. First she had been deeply stabbed in the chest area and it was unlikely she had felt the five stabs that followed. She definitely hadn’t felt the number 40 being cut in to her right hand. It is the deepest and most defined number he has ever cut.
“And why are you going to quit?”
Fletcher thinks about telling her about the angry looks, the feeling that everyone in the station is out to get him, that he can’t face the failure anymore. Fletcher briefly thinks about slapping her for her sardonic tone but then this is Bullface, not a source of sympathy. Instead he tells her the simplest explanation.
“Claire has left me. She is pregnant and wants to be with the father.”
“That’s not a reason to leave.” She is sorry to hear this but also wants to talk her partner out of making a stupid de
cision.
“She wouldn’t have been sleeping around if I wasn’t working all the time.”
“From what I have seen, yes she would.” Bullface is never anything but blunt.
Again, Fletcher feels like slapping her.
“You two were fighting long before this case. If it wasn’t this case, it would be something else.”
Hurt silence.
“You have always loved her more than she loved you.”
Low blow you bitch. He turns away, ready to get out of the car.
Bulldog knows it is time to change tactics. “It’s not just Claire either. I am not blind, I can see what’s going on at the station.” She is a detective after all. “You are struggling to deal with people blaming you.”
He isn’t going to deny it, isn’t going to agree with her either. She already thought of him as being a pansy.
“Yes, people are blaming us for not catching him already, because they think this shit is easy. They can blame who they like but we are not guilty. We did not kill these women, we are not guilty of their murders. We have done nothing wrong. There is nothing any other officer could have done differently.” She meets his glare again, to let him know how serious she is. “What good is quitting going to do? How is it going to help anyone? Quitting won’t stop you from being a cop. Quitting won’t make this be over. All quitting will mean is that we will just be one more man down.” She is on a roll. She hates the tough love speech but will never hesitate to use it. “You have not done anything wrong. I have not done anything wrong. We have followed every single procedure, followed every single lead. We have done everything we can. Do you think you would still be on this case if Dalbiac and Vogel had seen you as incapable? Do you think Morkam would even be paying your wages if he didn’t think you were doing a good job? Who knew Rosie’s name? You did, why? Because you are good at talking to people. Good at seeing people who others don’t want to see. You are good at what you do. Sherlock fucking Holmes could be on this case and he would be struggling.”
