The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  “What’s happening to me?” Sardis blurted out at her reflection.

  She turned from the mirror and wanted to leave but not until her thumping heart slowed and allowed her to move. Strange things were happening.

  Passing down the hall she heard her parents discuss something less than important to her. “Give in, Dad, you always do.”

  Sardis sat on her bed with her back resting against the headboard, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Her mouth was sore and her face felt stretched and tight as if trying to give birth to dreams that wanted to follow her out into the real world. Had she known of her mum’s diazepam and its effects she would have found them and consumed a couple by now.

  The residue of terrible thoughts left a chill in the room. Sardis pulled the quilt from under her and fanned it up to cover her legs. Something caught her attention, something that startled and confused her at the same time, something to suggest the dreams might be real. It was lower down the bed under the sheet, a colour that didn’t belong, reflecting against the white fabric. She folded back the quilt, reached down and inspected what she gathered in her hand. She brought it up to her nose and hesitantly sniffed. The material was foreign to her belongings, the smell, too, but both were memorable. The scent of coconut off the speckled lime green ribbon suggested an improbable possibility: The killings were real, every single one of them.

  When the Jester began his stabbing, dancing around the chair, she remembered feeling the need to reach out to the woman. She could feel what her host was up to, the strength of the blows sadistically controlled, firm enough to pierce the skin but not strong enough to end the woman’s suffering anytime soon. All she had wanted to do was reach a hand to the woman’s head, swipe away at the deathly charcoaled auras that surrounded her and infect it with a cloud of calm, ease the woman’s fears about dying, if she could.

  The Jester’s arm was not his then, if only for a split second. It had moved unexpectedly down as if swatting a fly. It hadn’t gone exactly where she had intended but it moved quick enough to displace the aura from the back of the woman’s head. She knew she had made the movement happen because the knife narrowly missed his arm as it crossed over and swiped at the translucent soot. It was then that the index finger caught the ribbon, had constricted around it like a knee-jerk reaction, and pulled it free from the woman’s hair. It was then that she had brought it back into her bed. It was then that she left the woman alone to die along with her helpless lover, and the blanket of disillusioned fear that draped over their heads.

  44:

  “Moving a-head.”

  Hunt was careful not to step on the blood-soaked rug. He stood close to the blood-splattered chair with duct tape stuck to it, instead. It lay on its side in a dried puddle on the wooden floor. A bloody drag mark trailed off its centre in the direction of the kitchen.

  Hunt was looking at the semi-naked man doing nothing, propped up on the couch between several pillows. A level of despair crushed his innards with the knowing that he had not been able to prevent yet another monstrous murder. He looked at his watch for the third time and took a deep breath. The pain in his head pushed him to pinch the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes tight.

  “Taking a power nap?” Tony asked when he entered through the open glass doors from the hallway. His eyes moved from left to right as he approached the few steps. It was the first crime scene Tony had been invited to where the victims had not been removed. He noticed the room to be empty of the usual hustle and bustle for such insalubrious surroundings. The living space was well ventilated, courtesy of the doors open from front to back, and the scent of air fresheners and scented candles was enough to disguise any smell of death.

  Hunt raised a lazy arm in greeting as Tony came down the steps.

  You might want to loosen that,” Hunt said, referring to Tony’s necktie. “One never knows when you might need to take a big gulp of air.” Hunt had gone one step further with the top two buttons of his shirt open. “Thanks for coming down, Tony. As this one happened just off your doorstep, I thought it would be helpful if you came to see first-hand what this maniac accomplishes, and now I am sorry I did. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  Tony pressed his lips together and nodded.

  “Okay, if you’re sure. Now I don’t have to suffer this burden alone,” Hunt said as Tony got close. Hunt gestured for him to join his side and handed him a pair of gloves. “Here, put these on. I’ve cleared the area until we examine the scene. The place has already been swept for fingerprints and the like, and all the crime scene photos have been taken. I’ll let them back in when we’re done. Watch your step.”

  “How long?” Tony asked, putting on the second glove. He tiptoed over the visible trail of dried blood and stood next to Hunt.

  “Sometime in the last seventy-two hours. The postman heard the television blaring on two consecutive mornings. Tried the door, no answer, and rang it in.”

  Tony glanced at the television. It was turned off. He turned his attention to the body of the man on the sofa.

  Hunt followed Tony’s line of vision. “He was stabbed from behind, between the shoulder blades, just the once from what we can tell. Hardly any blood, a trickle down his back, paralysed him from the neck down.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “We’ve established he died sometime in the last twenty-four hours. Now, look at his hands.”

  Tony looked past one of the pillows that had obscured his view. “Oh no, you’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

  Tony was not one for the swearing but this seemed to warrant it. He could quite easily have fit in plenty more swear words but decided to leave the rest for Marcus. Both palms of the man’s hands were open, facing up; the fingers were curled to cups and resting on his thighs. In one hand sat the remote control. In the other was a mobile phone.

  “The sick twisted bastard teased the fucking life right out of him. Can you fucking believe it? Every time, this prick manages to outdo himself and we’re helpless to stop him.”

  The man’s dead eyes were open but they weren’t looking at the objects in his hands. Their despondency focused on the blood trail leading out of sight.

  “Who does that belong to?” Tony asked, pointing at the path of blood.

  “Wife or partner, we haven’t established that yet. Lover, certainly.”

  Tony was thinking out loud. “He fixated on the last place he saw her, refusing to close his eyes, even in death. He watched him torture her then drag her away, knowing he was helpless to stop it but forced himself to keep looking in an effort to absorb some of her pain.”

  Hunt washed his face in his hands. “Okay, I’ll show you the rest. I don’t need to tell you to prepare yourself, it gets worse. . . . So prepare yourself.”

  Tony sucked in a lungful of air. “Lead on.”

  They stepped over the blood trail and followed it through to the kitchen and around the island. They stopped before reaching the end of the counter.

  “Jesus,” Tony said after he hissed out his breath.

  “Yes.”

  The woman was naked and spread out on her stomach like a starfish. Her entire body was stained with blood, rubbed into her skin, gaping lacerations covered her shoulders and the upper back, and the familiar bite-sized chunks of missing flesh from her inner thighs were exposed. Predictably, her genitals were mutilated too, though obstructed from view.

  She was squared up to a stainless steel four-door fridge freezer with ice and water dispenser. Two of the doors pulled out beneath the fridge to house the frozen goods, traditionally. The woman’s body prevented the bottom compartment from pulling open. The palms of her hands were pressed up against the shiny steel surface as if trying to push back from it. From where the two men stood, it looked like her head was stuck through a hole in the freezer door—the illusion
only made possible because the woman’s head was missing.

  The upper freezer door was unobstructed and marked with a prominent X, presumably drawn with the woman’s blood.

  “Am I right in what I’m thinking?” Tony asked.

  Hunt nodded. “Yep,” he said as Tony walked forward. “You don’t have to.”

  He did have to. Tony still needed to know as much as possible. Everything the killer did and how he did it told him a little more. He already knew him well; so too did Marcus. It was still Hunt’s case. They had almost nineteen long years and as many murderous scenes to get to know him. They just couldn’t catch him.

  He’d been stalking and slaughtering his prey for almost two decades, and with a methodical efficiency that meant they were no closer to catching him than they were from that first day.

  The investigation was a very challenging, complex, and unusual one, and had a profound impact on Farnham. As it reached the end of the second decade the investigation exhibited cooperation and professionalism between the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, the District Attorney’s Office of Farnham, the Farnham Bureau of Investigation, the Park City Police Department, the Farnham Forensic Science Centre, the Social Security Administration, the Farnham Postal Service, and the Farnham Police Department. Collectively, they became known as the Ice Scream Task Force.

  The task force faced four primary challenges.

  First, it was critical to effectively manage a barrage of incoming tips and leads. Second, it was important to accurately and efficiently eliminate potential suspects. Third, it was important to manage all contacts with the media and control the flow of information. Fourth, all of this needed to be done while maintaining communication with the unknown killer, with the expectation he would eventually make a mistake.

  A tip line, an e-mail account, and a post office box were set up to accommodate tips. In the first 24 hours following a news conference, almost 400 tips were received. Two months later the tips received by the police exceeded 2,000. Tip lines were staffed with officers and detectives who transferred the information to lead sheets. The lead sheets then were reviewed by homicide detectives, prioritized, and assigned to the task force investigators. One detective was assigned to manage the investigation’s database by entering information from lead sheets, connecting the leads on each suspect, and conducting research to provide additional identifying information, such as addresses and phone numbers. In researching leads, the detective used a number of sources such as old city directories, driver’s license databases, and software programs. In addition, this detective was charged with creating new leads when generating new information from these sources. The database also helped the task force track evidence, in particular the collection and status of DNA swabs. After a lead had been investigated, the results were summarized and a clearance code entered. Over the course the task force recorded more than 5,000 tips and leads from the public, and collected more than 30,000 DNA swabs. The city was simultaneously fearful and anxious to help catch the killer.

  Because of the sheer volume of tips in the investigation, the task force needed to develop strategies to eliminate suspects. Police eliminated all non-Caucasian and African suspects, on the basis of DNA evidence left at crime scenes, all suspects who were incarcerated at the time of the homicides, and all suspects who were either too young or too old. Any suspect who could not be excluded based on one of the three criteria was placed on a list to be asked for a DNA swab. Teams of officers and detectives made contact with suspects and collected DNA samples. Most of the men contacted were anxious and willing to help and agreed to be swabbed so they could be eliminated. Any suspect who would not volunteer a DNA sample was placed under surveillance.

  The team decided early in the renewed investigation that managing the release of information about the case while simultaneously maintaining a good working relationship with the local media was essential. Marcus Hunt was the official spokesperson for the case, which helped reduced the impact and credibility of self-proclaimed experts on television who speculated endlessly about the case. The department believed it was crucial for the police to provide information directly to the community and to make the serial killer understand that Marcus Hunt was the voice of the police.

  Informational releases were strategically orchestrated, with guidance provided by Tony and the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit. Strategies included not providing any detail that might disclose the direction of the investigation, being careful not to challenge, provoke, or insult the killer, and scripting the briefings in advance to ensure that there were no errors in the delivery of information. Impromptu releases were made at the department’s regular weekday 10:00 AM media briefing. Marcus would arrive at the daily meeting unannounced, provide the scripted release, and immediately exit the room without taking questions. He always reiterated the need for the public’s help and provided information through which the public could submit tips. Hard copies were provided to reporters and posted on the department’s Internet site. Media releases did not indicate the direction of the investigation, the number of swabs collected, the number of suspects eliminated, or the number of personnel assigned to the investigation. The scripts were also carefully crafted to communicate with the killer in the hope that he would begin dialog with the police. The killer didn’t bite the bait. The search for the elusive killer had, in fact, stalled.

  The department couldn’t comment further without additional information that served the investigation or the public by its release. Being left in the dark infuriated the families of the victims. Some slammed police for how they’d conducted their probe, which has been plagued by unfounded rumours, misinformation, public spats among officials, and flap about theories. “If they’d done a good job, they would have found the killer already,” one family spokesperson stated.

  Eamon Masterson had a clearance code.

  Tony went to the freezer door marked in blood. He slowly pulled the compartment by the handle with a latex hand and peered inside. Hunt stood beside him but didn’t look in. He’d seen it and didn’t care to look again.

  The woman’s head faced out. It was clean of blood. Her eyes were open, probably forced, and her tongue stuck out in a mocking gesture, definitely forced.

  “Nyah-Nyah-Ne-Nyah-Nyah.”

  Tony closed the door in one fluid motion.

  It was another punch to the face and another chip off the old damaged psyche.

  Tony turned to the kitchen sink. Diluted blood spotted the surface and spread to the countertop. He spit the bile from his mouth into a couple of sheets from a kitchen towel close to the sink, crumpled the tissue and put it in his trouser pocket.

  There was little time to breathe, much to investigate, the signature obvious.

  Protruding from between the woman’s legs was the familiar lollipop stick, as it had come to be hardheartedly known.

  “This one is very different again,” Hunt said.

  Tony bent down to inspect it. Given the amount of blood about the body, clearly rubbed in by the hands of the monster, this one had less bloodstain than expected.

  “This was one of the last things he did,” Tony said. “He washed the head in the sink first, before placing it in the freezer and manipulating it. His hands were relatively clean when he inserted it. The majority of blood farther down is from between her thighs. I’m guessing there won’t be much blood trace found on the phone or remote.”

  “Is he trying to tell us something new, anything specific?” Hunt asked.

  “I don’t know; it’s more of an observation,” Tony said as he continued to examine the lollipop. “He’s carved a miniature head on the end. That’s something.”

  “It’s called a marotte.” Hunt said in a manner that said it was nice to teach Tony a thing or two for a change. “It’s a prop stick carried by jesters or harlequins. The miniature head is carved on one end and w
ill often reflect the costume of the jester who carries it.”

  It was one of the other officers who had informed Marcus, but Tony didn’t need to know that.

  Tony was deep in thought. If he was impressed by Marcus’ knowledge of the Middle Ages it failed to show. “So now this time he’s the Jester wearing a hat with bells and mismatched curly boots? I wonder how amusing these two considered this ‘fool.’ It’s incredibly detailed. Clearly a lot of time and thought goes into adorning his costumes and make up. It’s a massive part of his fantasy and more importantly it keeps him focused. Every time is like the first time. It keeps him sharp, stops him becoming complacent, and frustratingly for us, he is less likely to make mistakes. This guy is a perfectionist, the time line is changing, it’s getting longer and that goes against the grain. For someone so passionate, the excitement that he feels, I would expect the urges to intensify, the killings to become more frequent, not less, like most addictions. Somehow he finds restraint? That worries me.”

  It had been just over a year since the last victim. It made no sense to his profile, but nothing about him was predictable bar his obvious trademark and the guises he would methodically portray. This killer was proving to be an amalgamation of the Thirteenth Zodiac and although it was still a work in progress, Tony already felt like he needed to rewrite his book just to accommodate him.

  Hunt blew out his mouth. “Can you make out the engraving?”

  Tony examined the piece closely but could only see the one soldered word: “Lollypop.” He rotated the shaft and took out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “May I?”

  Hunt nodded. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

  Tony shook the cloth to ensure no foreign bodies would confuse any findings. He delicately wiped away some of the blood before deciphering the scorched engraving. He examined the piece closely again, then stood up. His body visibly shook. He folded the handkerchief carefully, then dropped it into the evidence bag Hunt held out. He met Hunt’s gaze and keeping his composure, Tony said, “Choc Ice.”