The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  Hunt rubbed the palms of his hands on his trousers, visibly uncomfortable as he recalled what happened next.

  “She saw more blood on the floor of the hall and went through into the kitchen, bypassing the living room, and called out Tanya’s name with no reply. She entered the dining room from the kitchen, said it was dark, both double doors were closed, so you have the living room, dining room, where she was and then Aran’s playroom.” Hunt was chopping with his hand. “The doors to the playroom were locked, the key still in the door. She found the two of them lying in the middle of the room. She wanted to believe they were playing a camping game because all the blinds were down and she could just about make them out lying under a blanket. When she turned on the light, she saw the outline of Aran buried under the blanket in the foetal position right up next to his mother. The poor kid was bound and gagged with duct tape. She pulled back the sheet to check on Tanya and . . . and she . . . she found . . . she found this.”

  Tony heard Hunt gulp his breath as he lifted the case to his lap and opened it as if something contagious was about to be released into the atmosphere. He produced an album of crime scene photographs and skipped over the first couple of pages, the establishing shots. “The guy who took these photos is still on sick leave. This is how Sarah found them. Aran, that six year old, only six, spent the night tucked up under his mother’s arm. I feel sick having to show you, Tony.”

  Tony took the album from Hunt’s cautionary hand, reluctant to hand it over.

  A mixture of horror, sadness, and disbelief swept over Tony. Four photos screamed off the pages with deafening horror. Two of the pictures depicted a naked woman from different angles with a blanket pulled down to just above the knee. Her torso was sliced down the middle and her ribcage pulled back to expose her organs; there were visible marks on her inner thighs, too. The other two were close-up shots. One showed something dark in colour protruding from Tanya’s rectum. Tony looked blankly at the second photo before realising it was Tanya’s genitals. He turned the page to four more photos. Each showed bite-sized chunks of flesh missing from Tanya’s inner thigh.

  Hunt resumed his composure as much as he could. “Different teeth marks, looks like he changes his teeth along with his appearance. No sign of a werewolf this time. Now we have sightings of a crippled old man possibly dressed up as a priest. He left the roman collar around her neck. Same guy for sure.”

  “He changed his appearance?” Tony repeated.

  “I’ll tell you about that on the way.”

  Tony took a deep breath as he turned back the page and looked at the photos once more. Something else struck him as odd. “Where is all the blood, besides what’s rubbed into the skin?”

  “Turn back a page. He killed her in the living room. From what we can tell, he stripped her on the rug in front of the fireplace, lit some candles, and stabbed her in the back eight times with something like a screwdriver. He then let her bleed out before wiping her down with her own clothes and dragged her by the ankles into the playroom where he did all . . . that.

  “We think Aran was present in the playroom and made to watch her dissection. Other than some bruising found on his side and arms, he was not physically hurt. We also found traces of semen on her. It appears he finished off by ejaculating over her.”

  Hunt filled in the details on the drive to Tanya’s house, and walked him through the scene and the sequence of events as he saw them. He told Tony about a man spotted in the area, a priest with no visible face, walking close to the estate with a Zimmer frame in one hand and a white shopping bag in the other. The witness had assumed he was taking it to someone. The parallel marks found on Tanya’s back could be a match. There was no other trace of the old man and no Zimmer frame found at the scene. They had no suspects. Hunt was desperate for answers.

  It was just after two o’clock when Tony and Marcus were back in Tony’s office.

  “It’s clear now he had not finished what he started with Helen,” Tony said when they both sat down. “The dog and the Crawfords interrupted him in Brushy Park. Here, he had all the time he needed and treasured every second. There are similarities to the work of Jack the Ripper. The Ripper’s last known victim, Mary Jane Kelly, was discovered in a similar way to Tanya. The only difference is the Ripper opened her up coarsely and quickly before making his escape. Here the killer worked with the finesse of an artist savouring the pleasure of creating something unique. He went through cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, pulling out tablecloths and tea towels. He wanted something to cover her body, an unveiling of sorts, so that whoever found her would be unprepared for his vision. Rather than go upstairs and take a sheet from a bed, he settled on a throw from the living room, not wanting to be any further away from her than was necessary. It will excite him to know that the image he created, his vision, will forever be ingrained in the memory of those who found him.”

  Hunt remained silent, reflecting on how seriously affected the next-door neighbour had been when he first met her at her home. Then he thought about what he had seen. Hell, everyone was affected. High definition when you stood there in the flesh, not like the photographs, much worse, and then a hundred times worse than that, and then the smell, mixed with excrement made it a hundred times worse again. Hunt pulled on his top lip, unconsciously aware that he battled to hold down his anguish. He could still smell the stench, even now.

  “Are you all right, Marcus?” Tony asked, noticing he had struck a chord.

  “I’m fine, just a bit tired, I suppose,” Hunt replied letting go of his lip only to cover his mouth and squeeze both cheeks. He looked like a man incubating a rotten egg in his mouth that he was struggling to swallow. Hunt swallowed hard. “Please, continue.”

  “There are those who fantasize about the acquisition of women kept as slaves, tortured and humiliated before ultimately being killed and then mutilated. Certain people’s deviancy locks on to different aspects of this process. For some, the whole scenario excites them, for others it is the victim’s death, and for others still it’s the mutilation. It looks like it’s the latter, otherwise he would have kept her alive longer.

  “In many ways this is the ultimate sexual offence. It might not look sexual but if you consider Tanya’s injuries, most of the cruel damage is in the vulval and vaginal area. He pushed a large cushion beneath her hips, which raised her vulva toward him, emphasizing his intent. The mutilation was part of a refined sexual fantasy that he never finished with Helen. He wanted complete intimate control and he couldn’t get that even if he tortured her or turned her into his sex slave. The pleasure gained from the autopsy injuries was greater than any joy taken from the actual killing. There was a sense of exploration and discovery. If you happen to come across the darker side of pornography, specifically the underground publications, take a close look at mailing lists that focus on the mutilation of women.”

  Hunt made a note. “So Aran wasn’t in the playroom when he mutilated her?” Hunt asked.

  “Sadly, he probably was. I still think this man is sadistic; he got great pleasure from Helen’s pain and suffering, but he chooses not to do the same with Tanya. He doesn’t keep her alive for long and take the same enjoyment from her suffering and fear.

  “I think he learned from Brushy Park that he could gain the same measure of pleasure from the fear of those who witness what he is capable of; for him, age doesn’t come into it. He sees Aran as a collective audience, not as a six-year-old boy and this gives him the best of both worlds. Not only does he focus on his main source of pleasure, the interaction with her body, but he also retains the fear factor through his audience. The mutilation was about getting to know Tanya in a way that was so intimate and pleasurable for him that it transcended ordinary sex. Aran’s presence didn’t faze him in his most intimate moments, nor did his presence add to his sexual excitement. Aran was his vessel to the rest of the world. His main purpose was to
show and for Aran to tell. Otherwise, he would have killed him, too. They both fulfilled the role he had assigned to them when he began his fantasy.”

  “What about Aran?” Will he be okay, given his age? Do you think he’ll be able to give us anything?”

  “Aran won’t suffer from the total amnesia that would shroud his pain. He’ll remember the moments leading up to the event and the initial interaction with the killer. He’ll remember his mother’s pain but will block out the methods used to inflict it, and he will remember the silence. Whether he can put it into words is another matter. The danger in drawing it out of him is that it could do further damage to his fragile mind. I’ll brief you on how to approach him, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope for anything concrete.”

  “As much as I hate to, we have to try.”

  “Of course. You said you brought his signature with you?”

  “It’s the same deal as with Helen Dooley,” Hunt clarified as he handed Tony a familiar looking Zip Lock bag from his case. “Again, he inserted it in her rectum, but instead of Raspberry Ripple, get this, it says ‘Super Split.’ The sick, twisted bastard. I mean, what the fuck, ice creams, really?”

  “I scream, you scream, we all scream,” Tony said idly, taking the carving out of the bag. It was heavier than the previous one, a different piece of wood, more expensive.

  A knock sounded at the door and Tony hid the carving below the desk. “Come in.”

  A young woman entered with a tray of coffee and some sandwiches. She acknowledged both men with a shy smile as she placed the tray on the desk.

  “Thanks, Denise.”

  “Most welcome, Tony,” she said politely and left the office.

  Hunt helped himself to the coffee and poured one for Tony while he examined the carving.

  Tony held and fondled the carving like a blind man who’d been handed something for the first time, caressing it between his fingers. He already knew its use, images of its insertion shelled his mind. I scream, you scream, we all scream, but he didn’t know its purpose, the why of it. He might never know but the construction of the piece concerned him. Contrary to Hunt’s assumption that it was “The same deal as with Helen,” Tony saw things very differently. There were big differences. The mushroom shape of the head was about half an inch thicker than the previous one.

  Had he tailored this specifically for Tanya?

  Tony imagined steady hands chisel at the wood, small shavings fall to the ground in all manner of twists and turns as it begins to take shape. Then the sanding starts in a series of delicate, independent strokes. He brings it to eye level for careful inspection and the sanding commences, the pattern repeats itself. Fingers tighten around a soldering iron to emboss the words “Lollypop” and “Super Split” with dedicated precision. Gentle strokes of a paintbrush stain the wood. He allows it to dry, all the time admiring it from close distance. Another paintbrush rubs against the lip of another tin, careful not to overload the bristles. An even coat of varnish is applied. Tony visualized a satisfied man with a strong sense of self-indulgence and a growing sexual appetite.

  “What type of wood is it? It feels like oak,” Tony said, weighing it in his hand.

  “It is,” Hunt said.

  “Expensive piece of wood, heavy, too, not like the piece before . . . a sign he’s growing confident in his ability and motivation. The way he was able to gain access to the address and spend upward of four hours in the house, leaving relatively few identifying traces behind tells me that self-preservation is important to him. He never touched the bottle of wine, and the blood around the kitchen sink, thin drips, suggests he washed at the sink before he left the house. This indicates a man who is in control.

  “He wants to portray himself as a man of good taste. Only the best from now on because he has proven that what he does is worth it. With every passing day his confidence grows and he is refining his plans and techniques in the belief that he is creating art. It doesn’t cross his mind he’ll be caught; he wants notoriety for what he does, to go down in the history books like the ripper and haunt the minds of those who learn about him long after he’s gone.”

  “Motherfucker,” Hunt said as he opened his mouth for a sip of coffee.

  “This is almost flawless,” Tony continued, holding the carving by the stem. “Much smoother and better proportioned than his last attempt. He’s taken the time to sand, stain, and even varnished this one. It’s meticulous. A lot of work went into producing this.” Tony turned it in his hand to show Hunt.

  “And why do you think he’s gone to so much trouble? To what? To show us he’s handy with a chisel and a piece of sand paper?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s for the same reason some killers, most, take a trophy of some description, like a piece of hair, jewellery, or clothing. It allows him to relive the experience and the associated feelings that brings when he sees or touches it. In a way, this is his trophy. Making it again reminded him of what he did to Helen. It pleasured him to make it. It takes longer to make it.

  “The first carving played a vital role in fuelling his fantasies. It helped to push the fantasy into reality. When he held that first piece of wood in his hands, he knew who it was meant for. It allowed him to explore the possibilities of what could be done with his victim. The closer he got to finishing, the more realistic the possibilities became until eventually he took them to the outside.

  “However, with this one, he worked on it for a considerably longer period, the level of detail and quality of finish tells us that. He does not want to let this one go as easily. When he holds this in his hands, it revitalises all those feelings and brings him back to Brushy Park, to Helen, to the dog, and to the Crawfords. It allows him to relive the experience, so he holds onto it longer, works on it longer, and contemplates what he will do next, longer.

  “Now that he has completed this latest attack, the images are vivid in this man’s mind. He goes home and gets straight to work on the next piece. And that piece now becomes the trophy for both Brushy Park and Tanya. Now he can replay the images in whatever order he chooses over again in his mind. He will masturbate with it in the same way someone would use an explicit magazine, but this will only last so long; the magazine begins to lose its flavour. As the feelings begin to diminish, he thinks about what his next victim should be and begins his search, but he’s fussy about who he chooses and wants his victim to have the most impact on society. A sweet seventeen year old on her birthday or an established children’s author with a single child works just as well. Ice cream, you scream, we all scream. When he has his next victim in his sights, the trophy is almost finished and he begins to think that he could have done better. He’ll look at his trophy and think, next time I’m going to do this and that. It’s a pleasurable experience and an exciting time in this man’s life, and when the urge is strong enough. . . . Well.”

  “He’s not going to stop, is he?”

  “No, absolutely no way. If anything—”

  “Don’t say it, Tony. I get it.”

  31:

  “Some miscarriage of justice.”

  “Breakfast is served,” Alex said, in his white t-shirt and plain blue boxer shorts. He held a breakfast tray in both hands, nudging the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty.” He sat down on the edge of the quilted double bed and carefully placed the tray on his lap.

  Suzanne stirred and inhaled through her nose, a sweet moan escaping her lips.

  “We have grapefruit segments in their natural juice sprinkled with a little caster sugar, just the way you like it.” Alex looked down at the tray as if he’d forgotten what he’d put there. “Some toast with strawberry jam and a nice pot of freshly brewed coffee, yum yum.”

  “Hmm, it does smell good.” Suzanne yawned and stretched in the bed. “I do feel like Sleeping Beauty; I could sleep a hundred yea
rs. Though I’m not so sure about the beauty bit.” She opened one eye and then the other. “Oh, thanks, Alex. Looks lovely and I’m starving. Is that Bentley barking outside? What’s he barking at?”

  “I just let him out, probably at a sheep or something and it’s driving him crazy. Do you remember when we nearly lost him after he ran into that field?”

  “God, don’t remind me. I thought we’d lost him for good. What was it, about two hours later when we found him a few fields away, just standing there, barking through a ditch at a sheep that paid no attention to him? He’s such a big softy . . . but he’s really going for it out there, maybe it is something? We should take him for a good walk somewhere.”

  “Yeah, sounds good to me, and we can go for a late pub lunch after. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “I’d like that. What time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Eleven-thirty, bloody hell, fourteen hours! I must have needed that.”

  She sat up in the bed and shuffled a couple of pillows behind her back. Alex passed her the tray, then took half a slice of toast for himself.