The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  “Okay, let’s go find her, then. Stop worrying so much; she’ll be fine,” Fran said when he walked into the living room.

  The doorbell rang.

  “You see, nothing to worry about, I’m going back to bed,” he said as Kate rushed past him.

  She fought back the impulse to run but walked with such pace that she might as well have. Her arms longed to hold her daughter in a huge hug before reprimanding her for the worry she had caused all morning.

  Kate swung open the door. “Where have you—?”

  Two pairs of dark, well-polished shoes greeted Kate on the doorstep. It took enormous courage for her eyes to scale the length of the two messengers.

  “No, no, no, no, NO. . .!” The words echoed through the hall and landing and accelerated.

  Fran reached the hall in time to witness his wife crumple down the doorframe. Two uniformed officers of different genders stood at the doorway. Their melancholy faces told him the news was not good. Kate was right to have worried.

  The young male officer looked out of his depth and relied heavily on his female counterpart for leadership. It was clear that for all his training he was not prepared for this.

  The female officer approached Kate with attentive caution, and with Fran’s help they gently brought her back to her feet, aware that she may be going into shock. She introduced herself and her partner to Fran as Officer Harding and Boyle. The three of them took Kate back into the living room and sat her down on the sofa. All attention was focused on Kate.

  “Ms Dooley,” Officer Harding began when she hunched down in front of the couch and took Kate’s hands in hers, massaging the backs of them with her thumbs. She went on to explain that her daughter had been “confronted” by someone and had been hurt, but didn’t settle on the specifics, opting to say something positive. “Your daughter is alive, Ms Dooley, do you hear me? She has been taken to hospital.”

  Kate sat disorientated on the sofa and slowly raised her head, wet and swollen red eyes peeping out from below her brow. She sniffled and spoke to the room. “It’s her birthday today, you know. It is my baby’s birthday. “

  Officer Boyle quietly looked on, unsure what he should be doing. He wiped away a tear with two fingers before it spilled down his face. No amount of training could have prepared him for this.

  22:

  “What do we have here, then?”

  It had been a difficult decision for Tony O’Callaghan to leave the police force and pursue a career in psychology, but it was one that offered Tony the best chance to satisfy his own curiosity about human behaviour and help repair people’s lives.

  It was a decision that would reverse in time.

  Once he’d completed a Master’s Degree, Tony went on to finish his traineeship at Farnham Psychiatric Hospital, previously called the Farnham Lunatic Asylum, the name change an attempt to shed the image of madness. Tony dealt with and treated a broad range of patients over the next five years, people who suffered psychological problems, damaged by unfortunate events in their lives. These included recurring nightmares, sexual problems, dementia, acute anxiety, personality disorders, psychosomatic complaints and schizophrenia. At the end of those five years, the local health authority had appointed him as the senior clinical psychologist for the facility.

  At the heart of Tony’s clinical work was the assessment and treatment of people badly affected by what life threw at them, both victims and perpetrators. The consulting room was often filled with patients who had committed crimes or were on the verge of doing so and between them victims who could no longer leave the confines of their own homes, technically imprisoned by damaged minds because of serious crime.

  Doctors referred patients to Tony with cover letters that told of confessions to having had sexual thoughts against their friends or family members’ children. Others spoke of a head pressure so intense that it made them want to go out and hurt someone, or themselves. Further cases consisted of people who hurt themselves sexually or who had worrying urges and needed help before they acted upon them. Everyone had a story or a secret that needed coaxing to the fore, all disturbing and all took a turn chipping away at Tony’s own well-being.

  Tony recognised recurring characteristics among his most disturbed patients during his time at the psychiatric hospital. He began to differentiate between personalities under the guise of what he dubbed the “Thirteenth Zodiac,” a set of personality traits categorized under twelve new “signs” that depicted the dark side of human nature. His wife, Jacky, cottoned him to the idea when he realised she could guess a person’s star sign with some certainty by simply observing their behaviour or listening to them talk, after having just met them for the first time. She got it right more often than not. He couldn’t remember a time when she needed a third attempt, which led Tony to believe that there must be something to the zodiac thing. It was entertaining when they were out, impressive really. And now he was doing something similar at the clinic to provide an insight into the opposite qualities possessed by his most serious of patients and the capabilities of devious behaviour those qualities represented. It was a work in progress with no definitive ending.

  The turning point that led Tony back to the police force came with a single phone call.

  “Dr O’Callaghan?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “This is Detective Superintendent Clive Tabor, I’m calling from the police station across here in Duggan. Am I right in thinking that your work gives you an insight into what motivates people and how they become who they are?”

  “In broad terms, you could say that,” Tony said with an air of caution.

  “Would it then be possible, if I showed you the scene of a crime, largely unchanged since it happened, that you would be able to tell me things about the person responsible?” Clive sounded like the question might be a foolish one.

  “Depending on what you can show me, yes, it’s possible.” A shiver ran down Tony’s spine when he heard himself ask out loud: “Where is this going?”

  Clive’s voice relaxed on the other end of the line. “Well, I am involved in a rather difficult murder investigation and I hoped you could spare some time to come see me first thing tomorrow morning. I know it’s short notice but we could really use the help.” It sounded more like a plea than a request.

  “Of course,” Tony said, intrigued, “I will see you at nine.”

  “Have a good breakfast before you come, Doctor; you’re not going to want any lunch.”

  His time at the hospital had not prepared him for the images that would forever embed themselves into his consciousness and for the emotions that would accompany them. From that point on, Tony saw first-hand the handiwork of what some of his own patients were capable. It reinforced that his work at the hospital was not only repairing lives but saving them, too. Sadly, it also reinforced that others were escaping the system, slipping through a very large and open net. These people were not getting the help they badly needed. These people acted out their fantasies and innocent people paid with their lives.

  The work Tony undertook from that first call changed his life and sent him into the depths of dark places he would rather not have ventured, but if it meant catching a killer, rapist, or other such violent offenders and prevent another death or damage another mind, how could he refuse?

  Along with his clinical obligations, requests from other police districts steadily increased and Tony found himself involved in some of the country’s worst cases. His contribution began to get high recognition and word of his talent spread.

  Tony had the ability to put himself in the minds of both the offender and the victim. Study a scene and tell with some certainty if the perpetrator was likely to be male or female, if they came from the local area, if he or she was a repeat offender or a first-timer, and even the probable occupation and estimated age of the perpetrator.


  It was vital information for the police and helped them understand a person’s motivation for the crimes they committed and about the person responsible. This in turn helped narrow the search for the perpetrator and eliminate suspects.

  When police did have a credible suspect, Tony took on another role and coached the interviewing officers to guide them in their questioning. The structure and strategy of the interview was a vital component to getting a confession. Tony advised the interviewing officers to know everything there was to know about the offence, the victim, and the suspect. They could not be judgmental, confrontational, or show repugnance toward the suspect, as was so often depicted on the television and mirrored by many.

  “There is no good cop/bad cop in these situations,” Tony told them. “In order to get the suspect to talk, the interviewees must treat the suspects as though they genuinely wanted to talk and tell what happened, but found it emotionally difficult. Get the suspect used to talking in detail about their childhood, friends, family, and work so later when they talk about the incident there will be no change of pace. As this happens a rapport is building and they begin to feel good about you. They feel safe that you want to understand what happened and how it all came about.”

  The two separate workloads began to mount. Tony worked weekends and well into the early hours just to catch up on his clinical obligations. It began to take its toll on his marriage. When the opportunity arose to move back to the force, Tony made the difficult decision after several discussions with his wife, Jacky. Realising he could not carry on with the extensive workload, he re-joined the force.

  The deciding factor was that other psychologists could give the same assessments and treatments that he had provided. But few had the ability to read a crime scene in the way that he could. Tony’s job was now about prevention rather than cure, preventing a killer or rapist from striking again rather than curing a person with the potential to kill or rape.

  After much debate with senior officers from around the country, a new task force based around Tony’s skill set was established. Tony now headed up a special unit looking into cases of the country’s worst unsolved crimes. It was the unit’s job to identify how many serial offenders were currently active in the country. They would be looking for links between murders and rapes and composing profiles of possible suspects. They also worked on current murderous events taking place in their jurisdiction, and sometimes outside of it, if suspected to be the work of a serial killer. Over a one-year trial period, the unit’s involvement led to a number of arrests and convictions and importantly for Tony, prevented further deaths. The decision to keep the unit active was unanimous.

  What Tony didn’t know then was that after he agreed to stay on, the embodiment of the Thirteenth Zodiac was about to make his presence known, right on his very own doorstep. The Thirteenth Zodiac was indeed a work in progress.

  On mid-Sunday afternoon, Tony O’Callaghan stood in the kitchen stuffing a chicken with breadcrumbs and mixed herbs in preparation for the Sunday roast. Cooking was Tony’s favourite pastime, a way to relax and brush away the images and emotions that his position presented on an almost daily basis.

  A half-glass of red wine sat beside him on the countertop, breathing teasingly, when Jacky entered the kitchen with the phone in her hand. From the look on her face, he could tell that another Sunday afternoon was about to be snatched away. He braced as he took the phone from her.

  “Hello, Tony speaking.”

  “Doctor O’Callaghan, this is Detective Superintendent Marcus Hunt, head of Farnham CID. Sorry to do this to you on a Sunday.”

  “Please, Tony will do just fine. Go on, what can I do for you?” he asked, edging toward the patio doors. He looked across the lawn, aware that Jacky bore a hole in his back.

  “We have a real situation right here on our own doorstep and I need you down here as soon as possible. Whatever you’ve got going on up there, you need to put it on the back burner. Have you seen the papers today?”

  “No, afraid not.”

  Tony wasn’t ashamed to say he hadn’t. He didn’t go out of his way to avoid the news, he could take it or leave it, but he didn’t go out and buy it. There were enough disturbances in his life without adding to the wretchedness.

  “Probably just as well, this is fucking bad, excuse the French,” Hunt said down the phone. “And in more ways than one. If what our only eyewitness tells us is true, we have a real fiasco on our hands, the likes of which I have never come across in all my years. It’s caused a media storm down here and many people are scared shitless. I need answers right away. We’re already stretched to the limit with this. Can you get to me today?”

  Any option Tony had to refuse, the new position revoked. Tony looked back at his wife as he spoke to Hunt on the other end of the line. “I know where that is. I can be there in less than two.”

  “Good, I’ll be here,” Hunt said before the line went dead.

  Tony picked up the glass of red wine, sniffed the glass, and handed it to Jacky, who already had both hands open, the other to receive the phone. “Sorry, honey, have to go. Tell the kids when they get in I’ll make it up to them,” he said, and slipped past her.

  “Sure. Go get ’em, Superman.” She drank back the red wine in two mouthfuls and looked at the half-stuffed chicken on the counter. “Oh, well.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Tony had showered, changed, and was on his way to see Marcus Hunt. With each passing mile, he felt his uneasiness grow and wondered how much more of the horror and depravity he could stomach. The impact of looking at crime-scene photographs and walking through crime scenes was enormous. Equally disturbing was staring into the eyes of a person recalling their darkest deeds and fantasies and seeing how much joy and pleasure this gave them. All of this was taking its toll. Jacky told him she could see the subtle changes, the shell hardening through the years. They had not had a family holiday in three years.

  Tony hardly recalled the drive when he realised he was already pulling into Farnham’s CID headquarters. A large congregation of media had gathered outside on the front steps, waiting for any new developments to publish in tomorrow’s papers. The sheer size of the gathering demonstrated the seriousness of the crime committed. He was relieved when he got through the front doors unnoticed and made his way to the front desk.

  “Hi, I am here to see Detective Superintendent Marcus Hunt,” Tony said when he finally caught the attention of the sergeant behind the front desk.

  “And you are?” the Sargent asked with a cautious look that smelled reporter. Tony sensed the tension from the young sergeant, who probably had little to do with the case.

  Tension was everywhere.

  “Tony O’Callaghan. He’s expecting me.”

  “Just a minute. You can take a seat and wait over there, please.” He pointed to the single wooden bench pressed against a yellow wall in need of fresh paint.

  Tony remained standing while he waited for Hunt. He did not want the chalky surface of the wall to press against his back and stain his brown blazer. The building, considered grand from the outside looked and smelt outdated within.

  “Tony,” Hunt said as he approached from down the corridor and extended his hand. He was holding a file in the other. His hands were big, the grip strong, as if he had worked the land before joining the force. “Marcus Hunt, pleased to meet you, thanks for coming down on such short notice.”

  “How could I refuse?” Tony replied, shaking his hand.

  “It was to be modernised before the cutbacks,” Hunt said, noticing Tony’s interest in the décor. “God only knows how long we’ll have to put up with this place now.”

  With the introductions and polite chat out of the way, Hunt absently flicked the pages of what was a progress report. “Nothing. We have diddly-fucking squat,” he said, his frustration clear. “I’ll take you to the incident r
oom and let you know where we’re at.”

  Tony and Marcus were approximately the same age, both in their early forties. Unlike Tony, Hunt was a tall, heavyset man, about six-three, a good six inches taller than Tony. Although his belly pressed tightly against his shirt, his broad shoulders and shovelled hands suggested a man few would want to mess with. He had short brown hair and a mottled beard that did its best to hide a double chin. Contrary to the outspoken voice Tony had heard over the phone, face-to-face his voice was far softer, but the sense of urgency remained. His persona came across as firm but fair, not one to mince his words. He judged him to be a well-respected man among his subordinates when he noticed them sit up and take notice of their entrance into the incident room. Tony instantly warmed to Marcus and thought the feeling was mutual.

  Marcus introduced Tony to some of the team, who explained the situation and the actions initiated. The Helen Dooley / Kitty Crawford inquiry was top priority, everything else seemed to be on hold. A public appeal was underway and the incident room already had dozens of reported sightings. Some of the team searched through decades of local records, looking for past offenders who might be linked. Others were out doing house-to-house enquires and others were still digging through hospital records, trying to trace likely out-patients and day-patients that had passed through during the past five years. Those sent to the family tried their best to console them. They also gathered names of friends, boyfriends, co-workers, enemies, ex-bosses, anybody who knew Helen and might have been responsible. As the list grew, the request was simple: Please come down to the police department and provide us with fingerprints and samples of saliva.

  “We are seriously throwing everything we have at this and nothing makes any sense. All we have are more questions,” Hunt explained. “Okay, let’s talk some more in my office. I want to go over the details and show you something. I have to warn you, like every other aspect of this case, it’s disturbing,” Hunt gave Tony a solemn glance and opened the door for him to follow. “I doubt even you’ve come across what I’m about to show you.”