“Thomas?”
She felt for the light switch, illuminating the dark kitchen, recoiling in shock. The vandals had been everywhere. The walls, cupboards, everything, were daubed with obscene slogans. Piles of broken crockery had been swept into the corners, awaiting final clearance. She felt pangs of guilt that he'd been living like this for the past week.
“Thomas, are you there?”
Uneasy, she made her way through to the living room, putting on the lights as she went. The television lay smashed on the floor. The sofa and armchair had been slashed, the kitchen knife still in the material. The fish tank lay shattered on the floor, the water long since evaporated. The debris had been swept to the corners in a half-hearted attempt at clearing up.
The stairway fared little better, graffiti sprayed up both walls, paint spilt over the carpet. She took one step at a time.
Anxious.
Cautious.
The bathroom was a mess, the basin and toilet pan broken, the bath covered in paint, the walls daubed with obscenities.
“Thomas, are you okay?”
There was only the one bedroom. Myriad images crossed her mind.
“Thomas, it's Claire.”
She hesitated outside the door. “Thomas?”
She knocked gingerly, praying he would call out feebly, bed-ridden. The flu. Anything.
No answer.
She pushed the door open and gasped as the stench of excreta assaulted her nostrils. She clicked the switch but nothing happened. The curtains were drawn, but a flickering computer monitor provided enough light to make out the figure on the bed.
She stepped in, fearing the worst, ready for almost anything.
Almost anything.
But not this.
For a full minute she just stared, unable to take it in. Her legs weakened and she felt herself slide faint against the wall. She steadied herself and reached for her inhaler. Her first reaction was to reach for her cell phone.
Ambulance.
Police.
Anyone.
She'd never seen a dead body before, except on TV. This was the real thing.
The unsanitized version.
He lay sideways across the bed, his head hanging down one side, his legs down the other, the body naked but for brown, nylon socks. A polythene bag clung tight around his head, tracing every contour. What looked like a small orange protruded from his mouth. The blood had drained to the feet and head, lower than the rest of the body, causing purple blotching of the skin. With death the anal sphincter muscle had relaxed, accounting for the stench.
The face stared out at her from beneath the taut polythene. The distorted features and the blue hue stood out as much as the bulging eyes, the polythene giving the skin an eerie sheen in the dim, flickering light.
Poor Thomas. Poor, poor Thomas.
To go through all what he'd suffered, only to end it all in this horrible fashion just when there was a chance for a new start.
The monitor caught her eye. The classic Windows screen-saver. Cautiously she moved closer. She was wary of the naked body before her, but curiosity was stronger. She gingerly nudged the mouse. The screen leapt into life.
The title said it all.
Lover Boys.
It was unlike anything she'd ever imagined.
She felt sick just from the single glance, but morbid fascination made her stare until her stomach heaved and she managed somehow to close her eyes.
She turned on Bristow's dead body angrily, wanting to spit, to shout, to scream.
The betrayal stung.
She'd believed him.
Believed what he'd said about loving, caring relationships.
About not harming the child.
“You bastard! You fucking bastard!”
She flung the mouse at Bristow's corpse and ran from the house in tears, quaking with anger, locking herself in the car until the police arrived.
87
He was following the Saranac River through the village when he saw her, and he was hooked immediately.
He studied the colorful, loose fitting top and figure-hugging pink nylon leggings to mid-shin as she headed towards him. The ribbon in her hair matched the leggings. There was something about the way she walked, the way she held herself, that set him salivating. He licked his lips, deep in thought, checking the date on his watch. Three times.
She was alone, and heading towards Broadway. When she stopped at a candy store on Main Street he took the opportunity to forge ahead, to the parking lot, hoping she would continue in that direction.
This was his lucky day.
He rummaged through his shopping bags and retrieved the roll of duct tape, tucking it into his pocket. As she came closer he slipped his belt off and dropped it just inside the trunk of the car, ready. There was no-one else in sight.
A final, hesitant, glance at the date on his watch.
It was over in seconds.
He grabbed her from behind as she walked past, hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. The other hand brought the tape up while she was still too surprised to struggle, slapping it across her face.
There was no time for neatness. He wound the length of tape around her head, back across her mouth and around her head again. She struggled valiantly, but with both hands free he quickly pulled her arms behind her back, using his belt to strap the wrists and ankles together, and threw the child into the trunk, among the grocery bags.
88
He took the Tupper Lake Highway out of Saranac and made for Tupper Lake, back to the cheap motel overlooking Raquette Pond he’d booked into the previous day. He parked alongside the van at the far end of the lot, out of sight of the main building.
It was too risky to move the girl by daylight. He looked around, making sure no-one was watching, then opened the rental vehicle’s trunk and leaned in. The traumatized child struggled futilely against her bonds. He thoughtfully loosened the tape across her nose, shifting the child's body, laying her head against the car blanket, determined she should be comfortable.
He passed the evening casually, dining lightly, with two cups of hot herbal tea, then retired to the motel room to watch TV. He needed to relax. He washed his hands a half-dozen times, pacing the floor, anxious, sweating. He told himself a day early didn't matter.
But he knew it did.
He cursed his lack of self control.
He lay down on the bed and tried to get interested in the film, to take his mind off the girl a while. The evening was warm, the air conditioning poor, his body tired.
Slowly his eyes closed.
89
Jeff had been stealing cars since he was twelve.
It seemed the older he got, the more difficult it became. Or maybe it was just that vehicle security systems were getting better.
Either way, the saloon was a last resort. His mates would fall about laughing. But after twenty minutes sauntering in the parking lots, time was short. There was a poor choice tonight and the best ones were in unhelpful places. Well-lit areas, near the main concourse.
He was in the vehicle and driving away in less than fifteen seconds, taking it casual, not wanting to draw attention.
They sat together on the roof, drinking cheap beer, laughing and joking into the early hours. The gas tank was showing empty. They took it for a final trial on the deserted Route 56 north past Carry Falls Reservoir. Teggs had it up to a screaming ninety-five when it began to splutter. It came to a halt near the junction with Stark Road.
Jeff was careful as always, wiping the interior clean. His prints weren't on file, but he didn't care to take chances. A gas can was retrieved from the follow-up car and the saloon was liberally doused inside and out, just to make sure.
They were joy-riders, not car-thieves.
It just never occurred to them to look in the trunk.
The girl felt the heat before she smelt the smoke.
Suffocation took her out just before the flames reached her.
90
He woke up with a
start, leapt out of bed and ran to the window.
Dawn.
He cursed his indiscipline. There'd be no chance of moving her again before nightfall. He booked the room for a further night as he went to breakfast.
Only when he came to back-up the van did he notice the saloon had gone. The turmoil in his mind barely registered on his face as he drove away.
He tuned in to the local radio station as he reached Route 56, heading for Potsdam to pick up Route 11.
Police in Saranac were still searching for the missing girl, nine year old Madison Morgan, last seen on Main Street late the previous afternoon. Fears were growing for her safety.
His face looked ahead as he drove slowly past the police cordon just past the Carry Falls Reservoir, but his eyes were on the burned out vehicle. A police car stood idle nearby.
He smiled to himself and accelerated away. He took Route 56 past South Colton then Route 60 to Canton, then doubled-back south, cursing the mountain roads.
The image of her trussed body lingered in his mind.
The pink leggings.
The exposed naval.
He needed her.
Anyone.
But going back to Tupper Lake was not a option. The decision was made.
Troy.
91
There was no obvious connection as yet between Madison and the Uncle Tom murders, but by now the thought was uppermost in everyone's mind and reporters on the scene were anxious to exploit it.
When no link looked like materializing they made the most of speculation and the fear of local parents to enliven their midday bulletins. He was right to opt for a bigger venue. But even in Troy news was spreading fast.
There were plenty of kids on the way to school. He was enjoying the view, but they were bunched together, chaperoned, or in busy areas.
Then he saw her, coming out of the candy store on 5th Ave near Knickerbocker Park.
Alone.
Did her parents not watch the news?
Seven. Eight maybe. Dressed in a pastel green tunic, with knee-high white socks.
He shadowed her in the van, checking for CCTV, then pulled up by the bus stop. There was no-one else in sight.
He drove west across Green Island Bridge towards the I-87, the child's pitiful screams inaudible outside the transit's soundproofed walls.
92
The lunch time radio news led with the gruesome find of the body in the boot.
Police confirmed it was the missing school girl Madison Morgan, who had vanished from the village center the previous day. A spokesman said they had no reason to connect this with the Uncle Tom child murders.
The one o’clock news led with reports that another girl, eight year old Hannah Whiteman, had failed to return from a Troy candy store that morning. As the nation's media descended upon the town, parents everywhere were told to exercise extreme caution.
He pulled into Jamestown and made a reservation for the night, paying cash in advance, parking near the car he'd arrived in a few days previously. He'd be back to collect it later.
He caught a movie before driving on Celoron, where he found a quiet spot and joined Hannah in the back of the van.
It was nice to have a name to put to the face.
An appetite worked up, he made his way to Guppy’s and dined on their celebrated haddock while he considered the problem of where to dump the body.
The consummate professional, he'd finished his meal and had started on the desert before he made a final decision.
93
Professor Gavin Large poured himself another scotch, leaned back in his comfortable armchair and browsed the paper again. He had before him the homework of one of his pupils.
He felt like the law professor in The Pelican Brief, given the all important thesis by the star student he’s secretly bedding, that gets the bad guy and solves the mystery.
Except she wasn't his star student.
The report wasn't a thesis.
It didn't solve the mystery, and didn't name the bad guy.
And he wasn't knocking her off on the side.
Chance would be a fine thing.
Despite such reservations he ran to a third scotch and perused the document once more.
Ceri Jones was no Julia Roberts. She had little chance of scraping through on even the lowest grade, let alone becoming his star student. She rarely finished her assignments on time, was always late for class, and talked too much.
Yet Large had just finished reading her assignment for the third time, and was now reading it a fourth.
The task had been simple enough. Select a convicted killer of choice, analyze the profiles produced during the hunt and compare with the known facts revealed after conviction. Standard second year stuff. Invariably they picked the tabloid favorites. Nilsen, Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy and Sutcliffe were always in the running.
For Ceri Jones he'd anticipated one of the more obscure characters. Pedro Lopez or Robert Hansen. Maybe Leonard Lake. Albert Fish was a front runner.
He should have known better.
She'd elected to profile a killer not on the list, which was bad news for her. It was outside the remit of the assignment. He had no choice but to award an F.
But the profile was good.
Wild.
Daring.
Brash.
Presumptive.
By far the best piece any student of his had turned in over the years. It was a shame he had to fail it.
But quite apart from ignoring the assignment's objectives, Ceri had completed a profile which it was impossible for him to mark. Impossible because the killer she'd selected had yet to be caught.
94
It was Matt's choice of venue and for once Starbucks was not on the list. They found a spare table in Pane Vino on N. Water Street, Rochester, settling down to a feast of light pasta dishes washed down with a cheap but exhilarating Chianti.
“She's a what?” After Bristow, Claire was not in the mood for this at all. “A sophomore?”
“In applied psychology,” Matt stressed. “Gavin says it’s worth a look.”
“And this... This student... I suppose she had a couple of free periods so she popped down the refectory and ran it off between lectures?”
“Claire, I know how you're feeling just now. But forget Bristow. Think about Rebecca. Remember what you told me the other day, about playing Miss Marple?”
“That was then. I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else.” She stared out over the Genesee River.
“Claire, this girl's family live in Red Hook.. Her sister attends the same school as one of the victims.”
Claire pushed her plate aside and reluctantly took the folder, casting a tentative glance over the first few pages, just to keep Matt happy.
He was making the effort for her.
The least she could do was feign interest.
She was on the road to New Hampshire the next morning.
95
“It's a bit like fortune telling,” Professor Large explained through mouthfuls of biscuits and gravy. “You know, horoscopes? If you keep the information broad enough it will fit any number of scenarios. It's once you get down to the nitty-gritty that things start getting difficult.”
In the refectory at Manchester’s Southern New Hampshire University Dining Center Claire listened intently while Large multi-tasked food and conversation .
“Don't get me wrong. There have been some spectacular successes, but also spectacular failures. You remember the Waco siege? Some religious lunatic, thinks he's the Messiah. The profilers said, Fine, go ahead. He's not the suicidal type. The whole place went up in flames. He didn't just commit suicide himself. He took eighty innocent people with him. So yes, it can work. Just don't put too much trust in it.”
“I'll try not to.” Claire pushed a small potato around the plate with a fork. Any appetite she might have had was lost watching Large eat.
“Even the Old Man himself, James Brussel, got it wrong sometimes. His big success
was the Mad Bomber of New York in the fifties. Some demented idiot led the Big Apple's finest on a wild goose chase for sixteen years. Then Brussel came along. He listed the Mad Bomber's traits with spectacular accuracy. Middle-aged, paranoiac, immigrant male living with his sister. He even described the way he'd dress. In a double-breasted jacket, worn buttoned. He was spot on!”
Claire nodded politely. The history lesson was mildly interesting, providing you didn't have to watch him speak.
“Of course, profiling has come a long way since then. Have you see Silence Of The Lambs? I just love that film. I'd give my right arm to visit the FBI Academy in Quantico. There's nothing comparable anywhere in the world.”
“That I can believe.”
Large took it as is cue to continue. “You see, sex crime is a relatively recent phenomenon. I mean, sure, there's been rape and pillage throughout history. But serial sex attackers, pedophiles, all that nonsense? It’s a modern phenomena. And no, it's not just because of improved detection and recording methods. Ever heard of Abraham Maslow?”
He paused to shovel more food. Claire acknowledged her ignorance with a shake of her head.
“A genius. Back in the forties Maslow put forward the concept of the hierarchy of needs. That human motivation is driven not by greed, but by need. He argued need comes in four stages: food, shelter, emotional stability and respectability. You can see it in any social class or group. When man just existed in the wilderness his sole concern was sustenance. Food. Early man.”
The reference to food reminded Large to start shoveling again. “When food is less of a problem, shelter becomes important. Look at any group of animals. The more highly evolved they are the more they rate shelter, a home, alongside food as part of their normal life cycle. What separates man from animals is the need for emotional stability. The need for relationships. Again, some of the higher mammals show similar traits. Dolphins, chimpanzees, dogs.”
Large stopped chewing long enough to drain his mug of coffee. “Last of all comes the need for respectability. Self esteem. It's what drives your traditional working class bozo to take the first thing that comes along so he can have the dignity of employment, even if it's just shoveling shit from one place to another. It doesn't matter. It's work, and that means self-esteem. Of course, if he doesn't have somewhere to live or food to eat then the dignity of work isn't a consideration. Nor is his relationship with other people.”
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 18
