The 13th Black Candle

by Bob Goodwin

  They both pondered quietly for a moment. Charlie felt a hint of guilt for not being able to devote his thoughts completely to Simon’s cruel ordeal.

  ‘Deb, about before?’

  ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. I’m fine, really. Just got a little upset with all that talk. It’s so sad.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean that. I mean before that.’

  ‘Oh, that! I guess I was a little forward, wasn’t I!’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’ She laughed lightly at his remark. It helped dry up her tears.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get your attention for a while. I wasn’t just sitting on your lap at the night club the other night for the benefit of the photographer.’

  ‘I guess I’ve been a bit preoccupied,’ said Charlie, with a slight flush in his cheeks. ‘Sorry.’ Deb put her finger over his lips.

  ‘No more sorries. Just dinner. At your place.’

  ‘What about this evening?’ Charlie wasted no time with his response.

  ‘I’d love to, but I’ve promised to babysit three kids for friends. Worse still, I’ll be going to spend a couple of days with my parents. They live out of town and I’m driving up there tomorrow after work. I haven’t seen them for ages. Mum’s been a bit unwell. But I’m free on Monday evening.’

  ‘Monday, eh! Seems an awfully long time away. I’ll just check my diary.’ Charlie grabbed the book off the desk and opened it. ‘Yes, it looks like I have some room in my schedule.’

  ‘Best pencil me in then.’

  Chapter 8

  The Briefing

  The idle chatter quickly subsided as Cochran marched through the open door to the debriefing room and took up his position in front of the large whiteboard. He threw some notes and photographs on the table. The four men took up their pens and notebooks.

  ‘Close the door, Johnson!’ barked Cochran. The young woman was already standing in anticipation of the predictable instruction that drew a brief glance and smile from her four male colleagues.

  ‘I’m assuming that you’ve all read, and committed to memory, the reports already on file in this case.’ Cochran took hold of a fistful of papers. He raised a few clipped sheets in the air.

  ‘The autopsy reports on the fire victims.’ He dropped his arm, slapping the papers onto the desk, repeating the procedure with each document.

  ‘Autopsy report on one Edward Duncan; forensic investigation of house-fire — incomplete; ballistics report on bullet fired at unknown male, together with his autopsy; some brief notes of mine on Simon Stacey, as yet — most incomplete! Any of you not familiar with any aspect of these reports will be, before you leave this room this afternoon. Now, I’m looking for some inspiration. Come on, Johnson, inspire me.’

  ‘Sir, it seems that Stacey had a lot to gain financially from the fire. He has no alibi since Duncan is dead. I wonder at the possibility of the unknown male being his wife’s lover.’ Cathy Johnson tried to sound firm and confident while pressing her pen heavily into her notebook. It was only her second week with the Criminal Investigation Branch, although it seemed much longer. Cochran hadn’t given her a moment’s peace.

  ‘Shit, Johnson, I said I was looking for inspiration, not desperation! His alibi may yet be sound. What about neighbours? Telephone calls? What about passersby? What about other people at Duncan’s place that night? Someone else may well be able to place him at Duncan’s house at the time of the fire and the shooting. Don’t tell me he’s got no alibi, at least not yet. It seems you’re assuming that whoever lit the fire killed our John Doe and removed his tongue. Don’t assume anything, Johnson. Don’t even assume you’ll be a real cop one day!’

  Cochran’s harsh approach to Cathy Johnson was deliberate. He used the same manner with any new detective. It was his make ‘em or break ‘em style, and everybody knew it, even Johnson. Despite her knowledge of the fearless fat leader, it did little to lessen the impact of his blunt and often rude remarks. She hung her head for a moment and muttered under her breath.

  ‘Lard arse, son of a bitch.’

  ‘Something else to say, Johnson? Please share it with us all!’ roared Cochran. He spread his arms wide to the group, beckoning, almost daring the young constable to repeat herself. Cathy stood. She could feel her heart pounding in her mouth. It was obvious to everyone that she was deeply embarrassed. She had come to the CIB with a reputation of being confident, determined, and resourceful. When she started in the branch, Cochran had read those very words back to her from her file and then laughed in her face. She was convinced that she had qualified for special attention purely on the grounds of her gender. He had beaten her back at every turn, making her look like a bumbling fool. Now here she was again in a no-win situation. Perhaps it would be that her desired police career as a detective would be nothing more than a pipe dream, but the least she could do was salvage some of her dignity. She brought herself to attention and looked straight at Cochran.

  ‘I called you a lard arse son of a bitch, sir!’ She placed her pen and notebook in the breast pocket of her navy-blue jacket, turned, and made for the exit.

  ‘You leave this room and you’ll be sitting behind a desk for the rest of your working life. Now sit back down. After all, that’s the most thoughtful remark you’ve uttered in two weeks.’ Cochran paused momentarily. Cathy Johnson removed her hand from the doorknob and returned to her seat in disbelief.

  ‘Now, Briggs. Can you inspire me?’ The inspector continued as if nothing had happened. Detective Noel Briggs was caught a little by surprise. He um’ed and ah’ed momentarily before collecting his thoughts.

  ‘Sir, we need to gather more information about Stacey, and about Duncan. If Stacey wasn’t at the fire, and if he wasn’t at Duncan’s at the time of Duncan’s death, then where was he between the hours of midnight and four in the morning? What about possible enemies of the Stacey family? It seems more than coincidence that Duncan died on the same night and —’

  ‘Hang on, Briggs, hang on. What’s this coincidence crap? Duncan was murdered. Don’t you read reports? Sure, he died of alcohol poisoning, but he also had bruising to his lips and gums. And he had traces of scotch in his lungs. If he had been drinking from that bottle all night there would have been more than two sets of his prints on it, now wouldn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I hadn’t yet read the full report, sir,’ said Briggs.

  ‘What have you been doing for the last two hours, Briggs, playing pocket billiards?’ It was obvious the inspector was becoming irritated. His characteristic colouring was a sign that the raging bull, always lying just below the surface, was about to charge forth.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I had a dental appointment,’ replied Briggs, with little concern for his own welfare.

  ‘Ah yes. A dental appointment. I see.’ Cochran spoke softly at first. He twisted his fist hard into the palm of his other hand. ‘So, we’re gathered here for our first official briefing into a multiple homicide investigation while you’re reclining in a pneumatic chair, no doubt chatting up the dental nurse! I hope he drilled out all the crap between your ears and replaced it with something useful. With a head like yours, anaesthetic wouldn’t have been necessary, would it, Briggs?’ The raging bull had emerged.

  ‘It was not my regular dentist, sir. His name is Mr Morgan. Howard Morg —’

  ‘Shut up, Briggs, otherwise you’ll need to make a return visit!’ bellowed Cochran.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Howard Morgan is a friend of Stacey’s. He was playing cards with Stacey and Duncan last Tuesday night. On the night of the fire.’ Briggs sat back in his chair and brushed his nose with his hand. The room fell quiet.

  ‘Are you trying to make me look like an arsehole, Briggs?’ Cochran glared about the room. Only Cathy Johnson, now well primed with confidence and delighted to be a witness to a rare turn of events, made eye contact. ‘Well it seems from the expressions around this room that you’ve succeeded. As usual, Briggs, you’re treading a fine line. It would be beneficial to your
health and your future with CIB to exercise a little more caution in your approach. And if you or anyone else distracts us from our prime objective by stupid horseplay they’ll be out on their ear with my boot so far up their arse that they’ll need a shoehorn to clear their throat.’ The inspector stretched his fingers, interlocked them and cracked all his knuckles. The bull had been caged, at least for the moment. ‘Go on, tell us your dental story, and make it interesting.’

  ‘Morgan says that Adrian Devlin left early for some hot date. Everyone else apart from Stacey left at eleven. They had been playing poker, and Stacey had cleaned everyone out except Duncan. They had all been drinking beer, Duncan more than the rest. He was well-known for his drinking habits, hence his nickname — Drunken Duncan.’ The senior constable flicked over to the next page in his notebook and cheerfully continued. ‘Morgan claims Duncan had verbally abused Stacey several times because he kept winning, but this was nothing unusual. There was a single phone call that night. It was for Stacey, at ten o’clock. Morgan has no idea who from or what it was about.’

  ‘And what about Stacey’s state of mind before and after the call?’

  ‘Calm and relaxed the whole time, as always.’

  ‘Briggs, can tell me why they were playing cards on a Tuesday night?’

  ‘Yes, I can, sir,’ said the detective, with a smile. ‘It was Howard Morgan’s fortieth birthday. There was to be a small celebration, but as was often the case when these guys get together, someone brought out the cards.’

  ‘Hmm. Anything else?’

  ‘Just one thing, sir. Will the department cover my dental bill?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, detective. And seeing as you’ve started the ball rolling, you can pay a visit to Stacey’s fitness club and talk to some more of his friends there. Let’s be clear, Briggs. Everything is to be by the book. And by the way, use your head to think, and not any other part of your anatomy. Am I being heard?

  ‘Yes, sir. By the book, sir,’ nodded Briggs.

  ‘Dempsey and Hogan, you’ll both be —’

  There was a sharp rap on the door. The desk sergeant immediately entered, delivered a piece of typed paper to Cochran, and left without saying a word.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Cochran slowly, after the door had already shut. He paced slowly back and forth across the wooden floor, head down, reading the double-spaced type.

  ‘An update from forensics on the incendiary devices used,’ said Cochran. ‘It seems that there were at least six light bulb incendiaries. Marshall, you’ve been in the bomb squad. Tell us all about these devices.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the detective sitting in the back row. ‘Usually a high wattage light bulb is used. A small hole is drilled in the metal base and a volatile flammable liquid is introduced via a syringe or eyedropper. The light bulb is then placed in a suitable socket. The liquid sits in the bulb until the light is turned on, and a fiery explosion usually follows. The main problems with this type of device are, firstly, it is quite time consuming to prepare, and secondly, the perpetrator needs access to the targeted premises to install the light bulb.’

  ‘Thank you, Marshall.’

  ‘Just one thing, sir,’ asked Johnson. ‘Why install so many? Why not target one or two key switches?’

  ‘A fair point, constable. A timer switch was set in the main fuse box.’ Cochran tapped the piece of paper with his index finger. ‘Switch the power off. Install the bulbs. Turn all appropriate light switches to the on position. Pour flammable fluid over the floor and furnishings. Place the timing device in the fuse box. Power comes on and bingo, all bulbs explode, house burns down in minutes. No one gets out. And I’m sure that’s why there were so many explosive bulbs used. No one was going to escape, and the house, with any evidence it may contain, would be totally destroyed.’

  ‘Ingeniously deadly,’ added Marshall. ‘Sounds professional. Six simultaneous explosions. Six balls of instant fire; burning glass razors flying in all directions; spot fires throughout the house, but only for a second. Then the soaked floor and furniture erupts. The air explodes, and the interior of the house becomes a furnace. You would think that Stacey’s wife would be disturbed if someone was changing six light bulbs and lacing the place with petrol, unless —’ Marshall hesitated as he collected his thoughts. ‘Unless it was someone she knew. Someone who had ready access to the house. Someone like…her husband. Why would she get out of bed at midnight to check up on her own husband?’

  ‘Or her lover?’ said Cathy Johnson excitedly, thinking back to her earlier remarks, and deciding they were worth some consideration after all.

  ‘It is also possible that she couldn’t wake up,’ added Cochran. ‘While forensics have excluded all common type drugs, they may yet come up with something. At this stage, however, Simon Stacey knows more than he is revealing. He needs to come forth with some answers pretty smartly. Now, as I was about to say before, Dempsey and Hogan, you two are going to tail Stacey, starting tonight. He will not fart without one of you knowing about it. Briggs, you can extend your enquiries to friends, family, neighbours, and contacts of Edward Duncan. Marshall, you’re going to do some research on Stacey. Parents, schooling, employment, the lot. I want his life history, and I especially want to know about his wife. I want to know how he made his fortune, and who he stepped on to get there. I’ll be interviewing Stacey again. Johnson, you’ll be coming with me for the time being. All tasks are effective immediately.’

  Cochran turned, removed some transparent tape from his pocket, and began securing several gruesome photographs to the whiteboard. The first two showed two bodies burned beyond recognition. One of a child with arms outstretched as if beckoning for help at that last desperate moment. The other of a woman was barely recognisable. All that could be made out was the rough shape of a head and a torso. A large cracked charcoal beam lay across where her legs once were. The next two pictures were of the unknown naked man, whose body was pale, with mottled blue patches over all areas. The entry site of the bullet in his forehead was a small, perfectly round hole. The exit point, shown in the next photo, showed the true extent of the damage — a large, pulpy red cavity the size of a golf ball. Cochran tore off another piece of tape and placed the fourth victim beneath the rest. Edward Duncan’s body was also pale, with obvious swelling and bruising to the lips. His cheeks, chin, and chest were decorated with a greenish-yellow sludge; the half-digested remains of the evening’s meal.

  Cochran gestured to the whiteboard with his meaty fist.

  ‘This gives you some idea of the animals we’re dealing with. We’ve already got four murders, so take care. Whoever did this will kill again without a second thought. So, no heroics. Call for backup. Everyone will keep Desk Sergeant Carter informed of their whereabouts at all times. If there are no further questions, let’s get amongst it.’ The stern-faced inspector waited a few moments. The room was in silence.

  Chapter 9

  Surveillance

  ‘What makes you think Stacey will be at Devlin’s flat, sir?’ asked Cathy. Her words broke the prolonged silence. Both had been deep in thought since driving away from the police station. Cathy was spending equal time thinking about both Cochran’s attitude problem and the investigation.

  ‘You know, Johnson, I was really looking forward to my wife’s roast and Yorkshire pudding tonight. I haven’t eaten since lunch. Lashings of rich, brown gravy. More than enough for the main meal so you can mop up the remainder with a few slices of bread and butter. Beautiful. Then the lemon delicious, with ice cream and caramel sauce,’ said Cochran, licking his lips.

  ‘Caramel sauce with lemon delicious? Sounds sickly, sir.’ Cathy looked the inspector up and down. No wonder you’re such a fat turd, she thought.

  ‘It’s the gravy and the sauce that make the meal, Johnson, and I don’t know if Stacey will be home or not. I’m presuming that someone will be there. If not Stacey, then Devlin. If neither, we wait. There’s no need to look at me like that, either. You should
watch the road when I’m driving. Good food not only feeds the body, Johnson, it feeds the brain. And I think you’re undernourished.’

  Cathy Johnson’s gaze was still fixed on Cochran. It was the second time today he’d left her feeling dumbfounded. The rude remark, while somewhat irritating, was par for the course, but the baffling thing was that not only did he have an acute sense of hearing, but he seemed to have ESP as well.

  Big John continued to drive at his usual leisurely speed. A few minutes later they turned into Main Street and pulled up behind Stacey’s vehicle as the sun disappeared behind the distant D’Aguilar Range.

  ‘Guess the man’s home, Johnson. Let’s go and have a chat, eh?’

  Cathy felt unsure of herself. While she’d had some partial involvement in a couple of other homicide investigations, there had been nothing of this magnitude. This would be the first case she hoped to see through from beginning to end.

  As Cochran alighted, the soft vinyl seat sucked in air, as if breathing a sigh of relief.

  ‘Move it, Johnson. You didn’t just come for the drive, or the pleasure of my company, as enjoyable as I know that must be.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cathy promptly. The inspector’s words jolted her into action. Quickly out of the car, she glanced to her coat pocket and nervously reached for her notebook. In her haste to appear enthusiastic, she overlooked the cement curbing. Her feet failed to maintain momentum with her body, and she fell face first on the damp, grassy footpath. Her first reaction was to look up to see if Cochran had noticed. He was walking towards the flats. From her position, an image of the back end of Jabba the Hutt flicked into her mind. She shook her head, found her footing, and scrambled to her feet, then set off in pursuit of her leader. She felt like an embarrassed young schoolgirl tagging along behind the headmaster.

  Cochran slapped on the door with an open hand. After a few seconds the fluorescent tube above the door flickered into life. The thin white curtains behind a glass panel in the middle of the door shifted slightly to one side, sufficiently enough for the inspector to make out Stacey’s profile.