The room was pitch-black. He could still see the semblance of the grainy photo. It floated out in front of him like an old-fashioned film negative, the whites and greys depicting the picture. It was as if the nightmare (the epiphany without realisation), did not want to let go until it was sure it had engrained the image to the fore of his mind, not to be forgotten. He recognised the image (once seen, never forgotten), and he knew exactly where to find it.
He got out of the bed careful not to disturb Jacky, who stirred lightly beside him, and quietly padded across the room. The whites and greys went with him, then slowly broke up and dwindled off into the darkness as he grabbed a dressing gown from one of two hooks fixed to the back of the door. He left the room and closed the door quietly behind, then made his way down the stairs quickly in the dark, holding the bannister to support his weight as he went.
He unlocked the door to his study, turned on the light and went to the filing cabinet. He looked for one file in particular, found it, and brought it to his desk. He rummaged in the file to find the A4 envelope contained within it and pulled out three photographs. He took out a magnified glass from the drawer at his desk and turned on the table lamp for added light. The images were grainy and of poor quality. The smudge that had been on the lens when the pictures were taken did not help his cause. He did not remember them being of such poor quality. It reminded him of how King Kong looked in the very first movie. It was ground-breaking filmmaking at the time, but now the monster looked more like an animated and stuffed rubber toy.
He studied the first photograph of Helen Dooley, stretched, hanging from a branch saturated in bloody red pixels. The second photo of Helen lying down on the dirt was the same image he saw at the end of the nightmare and remained with him in the darkness of his room until it dissolved when he reached for his dressing gown and opened the door. The photo had been taken from a distance and was too pixelated to discover anything specific, though still utterly disturbing. The importance of the image, Tony felt, was in Helen’s position, something in the detail. The third was better but not by much, enough to explore the epiphany further. It warranted a call to Hunt. He read the time from a clock on the wall as he picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. The time was approaching 1:25 AM.
Hunt answered his home phone on the second ring (of course he did).
“Hey, it’s Tony. Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t. What’s up?”
“I think I may have something. It’s only a hunch at this stage. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for but if I find it, we might be on to something.”
“Go on, I’m listening. What do you need?”
“I need you to email me some crime scene photos, just the ones taken of the lollipops as they were found in the victims, all of them. I also need them as they appeared when removed and cleaned. They must be matched up, the before and after.” Tony had his other elbow on the desk, rubbing the side of his head. “Do you want to take a note?”
“No,” Hunt said and then changed his mind. “No, I will, too many fuck-ups have been made already, go ahead.”
“I also need them in the order the victims were found and a brief description of where each incident took place. Nothing too detailed just the location and whether it happened indoors or outside, starting with Helen Dooley.”
Hunt did not dwell on the request. “I’ll make the call now. I’ll get them sent as they’re found and number them on a case-by-case basis. By the time you grab a coffee, Tony, they should start coming through. Do you need me to come up to you?”
“No, there’s no need for that, you’re better staying where you are for now. As I said, it’s still only a hunch, probably nothing, but it’s bothering me. Send them to my personal email. And stay by the phone. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
Hunt hung up first. Tony looked again at the photo of Helen lying lifeless in the dirt and decided Hunt had read his mind. He needed a coffee and something quick to eat while he waited for the emails to arrive. Food would lose all its appeal in about ten minutes’ time.
Tony drained the last of the coffee from the cup and swashed it about his teeth to dislodge the remaining bits of the ham and cheese sandwich he’d slapped together with a generous spread of Dijon mustard when the first email entered his inbox with the sound of a ping. He was just topping up the cup from the coffee press at his desk.
Before he had put the jug down and got the curser over the first email, in came another, and another, and another.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
He opened the first email and saw that there were four attachments to view of four photos. He noticed his hand visibly shaking on the mouse as he double-clicked on the first image. The quality was much better than the ones taken from a mobile phone when the technology just came out. These were the ones taken by the police photographer at the Helen Dooley crime scene. Two were of Helen lying on the ground. The images concentrated between her legs, sickening to look at. The other two were of the lollypop taken over a blue background and measured up against a measuring stick. It was exactly twelve inches in length. The engravings on either side read Lollipop and Raspberry Ripple along its length. Tony sent three of the four photos to print on the inkjet printer he had set up on his desk.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
E-males continued to pour in behind the images. They came in thick and fast like a rush of spam, each one representing a lost life, sometimes more than one. They kept coming, relentless.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Each ping sent a shiver down his spine that rattled his bones. He felt like he was freezing from the inside out. He pulled the sleeves of his dressing gown over his hands and bundled the cuffs in a tight grip. He was thinking that surely has to be the last, only to be followed by another, and another, and another.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
He was familiar with each case in turn but they were spread over two decades. Now the association to all those murders was represented by a series of pings, so close together it was truly distressing. The pings did stop, ending with “Couple, No. 20” in the subject bar of the email. They were the last known victims where Tony had been invited to see first-hand the handiwork committed by a personality he could only hypothesise as the Thirteenth Zodiac.
Tony released the grip of his cuffs and printed off the photographs from the next five pings and collated them to each victim, six in total. He took time looking through the photographs and took notes on
the location;
the environment—inside, outside;
the position of the bodies as they were found;
compared the wood grain of the lollipops, and
the before and after lollipop shots: with blood, without blood.
He was analysing the fifth set, and had planned to go through the rest, when he lifted his head, paused briefly, looked back down to the pile already on his desk and removed the set of photos of Helen. His eyes went back to the computer screen. He scrolled through the rest of the pings, double-clicked the last one, “Couple, No. 20” and printed the set.
While he waited for the printer do its thing (regurgitate another vision of death), he raised his hand holding the pen, and wiped his brow with the sleeve. His eyes stared into a distance beyond the study walls and he ground his teeth.
The revving whirl of the rollers sent the last photo to the gathering tray. He lifted them off the printer and examined each one. Then he cleared all other sets, placing them beyond his computer so that only two sets of photos remained in front of him, three of each—the two cases emphasised in tonight’s bad dream.
He placed the six photos side-by-side and continued to study the pictures up close. He reminded himself that the devil was in the details and used his magnifying glass to inspect the already clear photos. There were so man
y similarities between them he struggled to identify the significance; both female, both discovered with the lollipops inserted, similarly stained with similar amounts of blood. The only obvious difference was the wood grain and how and where they died.
“How and where they died,” Tony said to himself, and then had to remind himself that at this point Helen was still alive. “Helen was still alive,” he said again out loud and looked through the magnifying glass at the pictures where the lollipops had been inserted.
He dropped the glass from his hand when a wave of realisation smacked him dizzy.
“Oh dear God,” he said, barely able to get the words out, and reached for the desk with both hands to stop himself crashing headfirst into it. His core temperature dropped several degrees. Chilly pins and needles ran about his arms and legs. His stomach was spinning so fast it felt like it belonged to an amusement park. A whirlpool of mush: the coffee, bread, ham, cheese, and Dijon mustard swilled from his innards with nowhere to go but up. He keeled over to his right, aiming for the metal waste bin down by the leg of his desk, just out of arms’ reach. The chair skipped from under him because of his disproportionate weight, landing him hard down on his hands and knees. Vomit spewed from his mouth, spraying in the general direction of the waste bin. The retching continued without respite, choking up, until there was nothing left to expel. The gagging lasted what felt like minutes until he caught a clear breath. Then he gagged some more.
When he did manage to pick up the phone he wondered if he would be able to speak. His gullet felt like it had been washed down with fiberglass but he pressed the redial button, anyway. He took a mouthful of cold coffee to wash out his mouth and listened to the rippling dial tone make the connection. He couldn’t help but wonder about Hunt’s reaction to what he was about to tell him.
52:
“Hey, diddle, diddle,
“A cat played a film.
“No one was over the moon.”
“So?” Hunt said when he answered after the second ring.
“Where have you been?” Tony asked, in a futile attempt to feel better before going through it all again.
“Huh,” Hunt sounded confused. “Did I miss a call?”
“No, I’m kidding. Forget it, being stupid. Listen, the jogger, the one who found Helen Dooley, was any swab ever taken and processed?” Tony knew the answer but had to ask.
“Let me check. I’ll ring you back in five.”
Hunt was gone.
Part of this killer’s rite was to smother the victim’s body in their own blood. Where there had been washing facilities, they had been used. The insertion of the lollipop was always his last act before leaving, a ritual of sorts, and he treated the action with great care. In those cases the shaft was only partially stained, as was the case with the one he had examined at the couple’s house. Where no washing facilities were present the shaft was heavily stained, especially if the victim was in an upright position or the legs were pressed together as would have been the case with Helen Dooley. There were no washing facilities at the clearing where he had strung her up over the branch. The lollipop should have been saturated given that she was strung up before the jogger found her. Her thighs would have pressed against the sides and the blood would have stained the entire length. But what Tony saw in the crime scene photographs contradicted this. The stem of the wood was not completely smothered in blood. There were clear patches of dry wood along its length. The lollipop had been inserted after she had been taken down from the branch, out of Mr. Crawford’s view, who was mourning his wife.
Still, he waited with nervous anticipation. Something twigged his mind and woke him up in the night. It was strange. It was more than the dream that brought him down the stairs and into his study. He remembered feeling something else was present. Something that wanted to guide him to the relevant information found in his study, something not in past bad dreams. Now, in a similar fashion, he had a niggling feeling that time was against them.
Letting Marcus go without explanation was a mistake, something, even someone, was banging in his head to get a move on, and hurry the fuck up. So he kept the phone with him in his dressing gown pocket when he filled and boiled the kettle in the kitchen. He used the downstairs bathroom to clean himself up and used the boiling water with a dose of carpet cleaner to mop up the deconstructed supper back in his study. Luckily, it was too fresh in his stomach to have fermented into that dank vomit-y smell that took forever to rid itself.
The phone rang from his pocket and he sat back down at his desk.
“No, not even a sample taken, but you already knew that. It’s fuckin’ him, isn’t it?” Hunt said. He sounded sick on the other end of the line.
“Yes, it’s him,” Tony said feeling his pain. “He inserted the lollipop in Helen Dooley after he took her down. The bloodstains are not consistent with others. I never spotted it before, partly because the photos he took were of such bad quality and I was focusing on motive. I’m guessing the smudge on the lens was no accident. If the lollipop had been inserted when she was hanging it would have been soaked its entire length. The friction between her thighs as she was moved down off the branch would have been more than sufficient to ensure it. But it wasn’t, the photos I compared between Helen and the last woman show the stains are almost identical.
“He left when he was interrupted and washed in one of the streams or down by the pond, then changed into running gear. Mr Crawford’s timeline from when the killer left to when the jogger arrived gave him enough time to wash, change, and get back. That was to be his exit strategy from the park without drawing attention, a jogger with a knapsack, but he had unfinished business. He couldn’t leave it. It was too important to him and he had to go back to finish off the fantasy.
“It didn’t matter if he was wet because he was running and it didn’t matter that he was covered in her blood because he was the one who found her and released her off the branch. Everything played out to his advantage when Helen survived. Everyone admired and sympathised with what he had done and that clouded people’s judgment of him. He became the hero, not the suspect. There was no reason to process for DNA.”
“I’m already on my way to catch this fuck or kill him. I have an address. Take it down and ask for me when you get there,” Hunt told him the address, then paused, “And Tony. Thanks, we all owe you big time.”
The phone disconnected.
Tony went back upstairs to the bedroom and got dressed. He used the dimmer switch to keep the lighting low.
Jacky stirred again in the bed. The lighting and the rustle of movement had woken her. “Tony, what are you doing?”
He looked at her as he fastened the button on his trousers and slipped into his shoes. Jacky was sitting up, looking at him, wondering what was going on. “We have him.”
“Are you going after him?” Jacky asked, concern in her voice.
“I have to meet Marcus.”
“Tony, please tell me you’re not.”
“I suspect half the force will be there. By the time I get anywhere near it’ll be all over. I’ll be staying well out of the way. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll call you when I have news.”
Jacky got out of bed and kissed his cheek as he finished buttoning up his shirt. “Be careful, come back safe.” She smelt around his neck. “You might want to put some aftershave on.”
“I will; there’s some in the car. This was a bit of a shock. Go back to bed; it’s still the middle of the night.”
“Just get back safely,” she said as he left the room.
He heard her murmur a quiet prayer to herself.
The address Hunt gave him was a house on Chapel Street. Tony instantly appreciated the similarity between that and Whitechapel where murders had been committed in or near the impoverished district in the East End of London. A killing spree that lasted four years by the now notoriou
s Jack the Ripper—they should have been so lucky. The killer was suspected to be a meat-cart driver, whose legitimately blood-spattered appearance helped him avoid capture. Tony thought it ironic and wondered did the street name influence his decision to buy? Probably. The street was twenty-eight minutes away, according to the GPS. It was enough time to settle his heart and stomach.
Twenty-five minutes later he was travelling down a classy-looking suburban neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city. There was a bend up ahead, according to the GPS. The road was lined with street lights and mature trees that blocked a lot of the light. The air looked yellow. All that was missing was ominous fog. The houses were detached, with long driveways, inset into a background of more trees and shrubbery. Some of the houses couldn’t be seen from the road, boarded by high walls and railings with electronic gates and cameras mounted on pillars. On any other day he might have enjoyed the rich spectacle but not tonight, not in the dark. As he rounded the bend the GPS spoke in that impatient voice to inform him that he was approaching his destination.
The road ahead was cordoned off in a hive of activity. Several police cars scattered the street and flashed like out-of-control Christmas lights. A couple of officers were talking to residents who came out to see what all the excitement was about and were likely instructed to stay in their homes until further notice. Journalists and photographers were rushing themselves ready to report the breaking news, if any.
He parked up on the curb under a large tree that stood in the centre of two lamp posts, turned off the headlamps and killed the engine. As he walked toward the cordoned area he noted a Special Forces van pulling away, leaving in the opposite direction, and wondered had there been a shoot-out in his absence. An ambulance was manoeuvring to leave, adding to the fray of flashing lights.
Tony approached an officer in full uniform standing beyond the cordon of tape. He showed his ID and asked for Marcus Hunt. The officer looked pleased to have been asked. “Come with me,” was all the young man said when he nodded and began to saunter toward the house, happy to leave his post and get among the action, if any. He was a heavy man with a big gut and a head start, hardly what you would expect of a police officer. He was in no condition to be chasing anyone anywhere should the need arise.
The Ice Scream Man Page 39
