by Graham Smith
The chief has done a good job rounding up all of the Oberton family. For the sake of their comfort, he’s even managed to get them into a hotel on the east side of town.
I don’t know what security arrangements he’s made, but it’s a fair guess a number of detectives and patrolmen will catch a shift or two on sentry duty.
Hearing the gruff tone of his voice accompanied by rapid footsteps, I stick my head out of the office door. ‘We’re in here, Chief.’
‘I’ll be there in five.’
Leaving him to do whatever he needs to, I throw a questioning glance towards Alfonse.
He doesn’t see it despite looking right at me. Or to be more accurate, right through me.
‘What you got?’
‘Uh?’
I repeat the question without ire, aware his attention is focused on the computer and the information he’s extracting from it.
‘I’m sorry to say you’re right. I’ve found three before Kira and there are a number of deaths that have been ruled as suicide or accidents which may also prove to have been his doing.’
I keep quiet as he reaches for the mouse again. Being right has never seemed so wrong.
I feel the determination compelling me to catch this killer being replaced by a cold anger. I no longer want the killer to pay for his crimes. I want him to suffer for them.
My fury isn’t the religious eye-for-an-eye type. It’s the rage of the aggrieved, the empathetic person who’s seen too much suffering and needs to nullify the cause.
I’ve no doubt the chief feels a similar way. Yet if I’m confronted by the killer I would not want to end his life myself. I’d rather he receives his retribution at the hands of the state than stoop to his level myself.
Barring an insanity plea, he’ll be an odds-on favourite to spend a few years on Death Row before being strapped down and given a lethal injection.
The idea of him having years of false dawns as appeals fail is one which pleases me.
I’ve read how studies have proven Death Row inmates suffer in a way no other prisoners can begin to comprehend. After preparing themselves for death, they are given a stay of execution for one reason or another. Full reprieves are rare, but there are many reasons why the carrying out of their sentence may be delayed.
By the time they make the final walk to the execution chamber they are so mentally weary of the torturous process they are looking forward to the escape death brings.
I recognise this is a cruel thought, but I believe it’s no less than this monster deserves.
‘Well?’ The chief strides into the room. ‘Was Kira his first victim or not?’
‘She wasn’t the first. Without looking at coroner’s reports I can’t be sure, but I’ve traced four other deaths before hers which have the same connection between the person who finds a body and the next victim.’
Four? How many deaths is this guy responsible for?
‘The son of a goddamn bitch. Are you telling me there’s been a serial killer at large and we’ve only found out after he’s killed nine people?’
Alfonse fails to meet the chief’s eye. ‘Like I say, I need to verify the details, but that’s what it’s looking like.’
A thought occurs to me. ‘What’s the time frame on these deaths – and were they recognised as murder victims?’
‘They span over the last three months give or take a week. Two were classed as suicides, one was misadventure and the other was a hit and run that was never solved.’
‘How far apart did they occur?’
Alfonse checks the notes he’s made. ‘Working back from Kira, they were ten days, fifteen days, four weeks and three months.’
The chief and I exchange a knowing look. The killer has escalated in the last few days, going from sporadic unconnected dates to regular daily attacks. It is classic serial killer behaviour right out of the big book of clichés and stereotypes.
‘At least he’s broken cover now.’
The chief’s words stand at odds with his position within the community, but I know what he means. Until Kira Niemeyer was discovered as an obvious victim of a violent attack, nobody had thought to consider that a killer was preying on the residents of Casperton.
By changing his methods, he’s alerted us to his existence. There’s no telling how long he could have stayed under the radar if he’d stuck to his earlier routines and kept passing the murders off as something else.
Now we are aware of him we have a chance of ending his spree. Or at least of getting some help from the FBI. When all is said and done, one police chief, a squad of inept detectives and a pair of amateurs is nobody’s first choice to go after a serial killer.
I look to the chief. ‘Surely the FBI will step in now.’
‘Once I have proof of this guy’s count I may be able to bring them in. Until then I can’t expect to, and I quote, “call the FBI for help every time one of my detectives comes up with a half-assed theory”.’
His words leave a bad taste in my mouth. Their abandonment of him in his hour of need is typical of beaurocratic organisations. Always quick to protect their own careers, they’ll be only too happy to demand proof from the chief before allocating any of their precious resources.
All possible future blame for a false call will lie at his door, while they’ll be safeguarded.
A devil’s advocate may suggest they can’t come running every time someone cries ‘wolf’. While that position may be understandable, this is a case of life and death.
I try another tack. ‘What about the commissioner in Salt Lake City? The mayor? Can’t they get you some help?’
‘The commissioner’s office told me I should contact the FBI as they have no spare bodies. And as for the mayor.’ He gives a snort of disgust. ‘He’s only helpful if you want something opened or have a camera to point at him. The rest of the time he makes his son look like a picture of efficient ability.’
‘You’re joking.’ I know Farrage is little more than a waste of space, but to hear his father is worse comes as a shock.
‘Believe me, I’m neither joking nor exaggerating. The mayor is brilliant at civic functions, but as a politician he’d be outclassed by a stuffed bear. The people in his office run this town while he swans about playing golf and posing for the camera.’
‘Never mind the mayor, you two.’ Alfonse’s voice is raised to attract our attention. ‘I’ve got another here. A Miss Ganderson was found dead on the college campus with a needle sticking out of her arm. The cause of death was a heroin overdose, but the coroner’s report says there were no signs of a history of drug abuse. Her death was passed off as someone who’d experimented and gotten it wrong. She was found by the sister of the next victim.’
The chief’s face turns from puce to ashen and back to puce as anger and shock compete for control of his arteries.
I make a slight change to the subject before the chief has a coronary.
‘This is all useful information, but it’s not going to help us catch this killer.’ I point to Alfonse but keep my eyes on the chief. ‘If he gets all the information and the necessary proof, have you a spare body who can write it down in cop-speak so you can present it to the FBI?’
He nods. ‘Darla could do it.’
‘Then let them do that while we try and figure out a way to catch this guy.’
The chief lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, relief of a shared burden in his eyes. ‘Thank you, Boulder. You make good sense.’
We move to his office to give Alfonse peace to work. On our way, the chief stops Darla and informs her of what he wants done.
‘Sure thing, honey.’ Her tone is rich with her native Caribbean patois, but it’s the way she calls the chief honey which grabs my attention. From anyone else the word would be met with a scowl at best. On her lips it sounds like a natural term to use when referring to a boss.
The chief and I stare at each other for a moment when we reach his office. I’m waiting for him to speak first but a wave of his hand in
dicates he wants me to lead.
‘I’m not convinced about the safety of the Oberton guy. I think you should bring him in. By force if necessary.’
‘I would agree if it weren’t for one fact.’
‘Which is?’
‘He’s a vet. Spent time in ’Nam. Our killer goes after him – he may just bite off more than he can chew.’
‘It’s still a hell of a risk with a civilian.’
‘He’s under surveillance, remember?’
I get what the chief is saying and I can see why he’s prepared to use Oberton as a tethered goat, but the Vietnam war happened a long time ago. Once-sharp fighting skills have had many years to dull.
Age weakens the body far more than the mind accepts. I guess the chief is much the same age as Oberton and still believes his generation capable of putting up a good fight against a younger, fitter opponent.
‘Supposing your man does spot this killer stalking Oberton. What then? One man can’t be expected to take down a serial killer.’
‘He’s to call for backup and protect Oberton. If possible he’s to make an arrest.’ The chief’s voice is strong but lacks conviction. His eyes are landing on everything except mine.
‘Seems like a lot for one man to do, doesn’t it?’ I keep my tone conversational but I can tell he doesn’t like what I’m saying.
A hand slaps down onto the desk. ‘Have you a better idea? I’ve got no spare manpower and cannot guard every damn fool who refuses to heed my advice.’
‘We’re repeating ourselves. We went over all this earlier. I’ve been thinking about it and while I know you’re doing the best you can, I feel there’s more that can be done to protect him.’
‘You got a squad of detectives I don’t know about? Or perhaps a few trained bodyguards?’
I pay no heed to his sarcasm. In his shoes I’d be way more caustic.
‘I’ve got me.’ I fix him with a determined stare. ‘Until something else happens, there’s nothing I can do but sit and think. I don’t believe the coroner’s report is going to contradict anything we’ve already worked out about the last two victims. If I’m going to be sat motionless, I may as well do it where I can be of some other use.’
His head shakes left to right in a slow deliberate motion. ‘Thank you for offering, but there’s no way I can let you put yourself at risk like this.’
I stand up. ‘Is there a way you can legally stop me from going where I want provided I don’t break any laws?’
‘No.’ He doesn’t move from his seat, but a hand snakes across the desk and lifts the telephone. A button is pressed on the console before he puts the receiver to his ear. ‘When did you last hear from Steve?’
He listens with an inscrutable expression on his face then fixes me with a stare. ‘Last we heard from Steve was an hour and a half back. Everything was okay then.’
‘When’s he due to check-in next?’
The chief’s face takes on a sheepish expression. ‘There’s no fixed schedule.’
‘Then at least get someone to message him that I’m going to be in the area too.’ The last thing I want is for some overeager cop to put a bullet in my back by mistake.
He nods. ‘Is there nothing I can say to stop you going out there?’
The click of the door latch is my answer.
By the time I’ve reached my car, I have a growing feeling that I’ve just been played.
Chapter 56
I pull into the parking lot of the Nature Reserve where Oberton works and head towards the main building. Behind me the Mustang’s engine is ticking. If it was human it’d be gasping for breath.
Entering the long, low building, I find the ticket kiosk and push to the head of the queue, ignoring the loud protests of a Canadian-sounding woman with more than her fair share of dewlaps. The woman issuing tickets is a regular at the Tree and recognises I’m not being rude for the hell of it.
I memorise her instructions on how to get to where Angus Oberton will be working. As I thank her and make for the door she’s pointing at, the Canadian woman steps in front of me to share her indignation. And halitosis.
I don’t bother to hide the involuntary recoil my body gives as she gets into my face. ‘Excuse me, young man, but it’s about time you learned to show some manners and not barge your way to the front of a queue like that.’
Contenting myself with the knowledge that if she’d been male I’d have knocked her unconscious by now, I put my right hand on her right shoulder and start walking forward.
The move is designed to either force her backwards or spin her enough to allow me past.
Something in my eyes must tell her I’m not going to take her nonsense as she yields before I’ve taken a second step.
I can hear her shifting her aim onto the girl in the kiosk and offer thanks she hasn’t tried to follow me.
It only takes me a few seconds to make my way through the back rooms of the centre. I find the exit door and turn the handle with care.
I wonder if I should don one of the ranger uniforms hanging from a peg before going outside. Deciding against it, I go outside and find myself on a worn trail through dense bushes.
There’s a vibration in my pocket. When I retrieve my cell, I see I have a new message.
ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I KNOW I’M ONLY YOUR MOTHER BUT IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF SUCH DETAILS.
As usual when reading her messages, I’m not sure whether to smile or to launch the cell into orbit.
I settle for sending back the happy emoticon. I don’t like using them, but I know she despises them with a hatred she normally reserves for politicians and rap musicians.
As I advance forward, I assess my options. If the killer is already stalking Oberton, seeing me approaching his target will scare him off. In a similar vein, if I try to find a good vantage point to watch over him, I could either warn the killer of my presence or stumble across him.
I’ve no problem with an encounter, but I’m realistic enough to know the killer is too clever an opponent to be found by chance. The likelihood is he’ll be aware of me coming and will set an ambush.
There’s no point in cursing myself for not having thought about this on the journey here. That can wait. I follow the trail until I reach the end of the cover afforded by the bushes and shrubs.
The trail winds through the scrubland but I can follow it with my eyes. It goes towards a low valley between two hillocks. According to the kiosk girl, Oberton should be working in a cleft a few hundred yards into the valley.
I look over the terrain hoping I’ll see something to inspire my next move. I see plenty of sage brush amid the sparse rocky ground but not a lot of cover.
Decision time beckons me. Waves me forward into making a choice.
Covert or blatant?
As I take a half step to my right with the intention of trying to sneak into a good vantage point, I hear a scream.
It’s not one of excitement or laughter. It’s a scream of pure terror.
Instinct takes over my body. Legs and arms pump as I race towards the scream. My eyes are scanning the public areas I’m racing towards. Rapidly they assess the body language of everyone I see. I ignore the turned heads of people looking to identify the screamer. It’s the rigid stance of the horrified I’m looking for.
My heart sinks when I find her. A girl of about twelve is wrapped in what I assume are her mother’s arms. Her mouth is wide open as more screams pour forth, while her eyes are screwed tight in case they again see whatever made her scream.
I hear soft words of comfort. Gentle questions about what’s wrong but I don’t hear anything from the girl except screams.
I can guess what has caused her distress. It’s what I steel myself to look for now. Angus Oberton. The latest victim.
The mother takes steps backwards rather than letting go of her daughter. I approach them – my intention is to guide the mother so she doesn’t trip. A man sprints around the corner.
My fist is clenched a
nd travelling back ready to surge forward, when I see the concern on his face.
He sees the cocked arm and lifts his own hands.
I drop my fists but his stay raised as he advances towards me.
This is the last thing I want. Right now I’m more concerned about finding whatever made the girl scream than fighting anyone.
‘Olly. It’s okay. He’s helping us.’
The hands go down as Olly embraces the woman and girl.
‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ He bends his lanky frame so he’s on a level with the girl who has her face buried into the woman’s neck. ‘What’s up, Harriet?’
She doesn’t answer him. Her head saws back and forth. Another scream escapes her lips, this one longer and more piercing now her brain has had time to process and embellish whatever caused her screams.
I catch the mother’s eye. ‘Where was Harriet when she first screamed?’
She points at a seat cut from a tree stump.
‘Wait here, please.’ I walk over to the seat, conscious of the fact that if Oberton has been killed, this family is next in the killer’s sights.
Standing by the lump of rough-hewn wood, I rotate through three sixty degrees but find nothing. I stoop until my head is at much the same height as Harriet’s would have been. I repeat my sweep.
Still I see no cause for her terror.
Thinking like a pre-teen, I climb onto the seat and stand on its highest part.
Before gaining enough balance to straighten up, I see the cause of her terror. The sight of Angus Oberton’s mutilated body elicits a sharp gasp from me, despite the fact I’m expecting to find something horrible.
It’s bad, as savage as Kira’s death, with none of the finesse shown to Evie Starr.
Oberton is in a kneeling position. His head is three quarters severed from his body. A flap of skin holds it upside down with his nose pressed against his breastbone.
Below the white stubble on his head a large gash has opened his stomach. Blood covered hands appear to have tried and failed to hold in the slippery coils of intestine.
The wooden handle of a long knife sticks out from a belly swollen by years of unhealthy eating.
