On The Edge

by Daniel Cleaver

  I grew up in that instant as I gazed at his grotesque features imprinted onto my brain forever. His pain-contorted face was an image I would never forget. Worse still, he wasn’t dead. I tried to hold him up but my ten-year-old muscles weren’t up to the task. I had tears streaming down my face as I tried to take his weight. His legs kicked and twitched and I thought if I held him up until someone else arrived, he could be saved. But I wasn’t strong enough, I tried and tried to take his weight but he was too heavy and I was too weak. I sagged and he dropped but I stayed holding him tightly, staring up at his protruding tongue and then I felt urine running over my arms and then the smell of excrement as he lost control of his bladder and bowels. My everlasting memory of my father was watching his face turn blue accompanied by the God-awful smell. Can you imagine what that does to a child? No wonder I need therapy.

  Medical Center, 2018 Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, CA 90028 – 18:00.

  It turned out the captain had a severed arm hanging from the diving board of his backyard swimming pool, which would have been a nice surprise for the kids to see before leaving for school in the morning. That still left one and none of the team had anything to report, so we still knew there was one more grisly discovery to find. Although off duty, I still had to go and see the new shrink Doctor Clay. Another in a long line of well-meaning but hopelessly inadequate psychiatrists, who would never understand me or ‘cure’ me. I hear voices, so what? It doesn’t seem to do me any harm. I just won’t tell anyone in the future. I settled back in his chair and wondered how to approach this session: should I be antagonistic, my usual style, or pretend to agree with his words of regurgitated wisdom? I thought it could be kinda interesting to pretend to agree with him; it would certainly be a novel approach and would wrong-foot him, which could be fun. Doctor Clay stroked his stubbly beard in a stereotypical fashion and I wondered if they were instructed to grow beards in Psychiatry 101, to add gravitas to their appearance. It wasn’t working. Doctor Clay was a pimply youth, who looked like a praying mantis, all skinny, loose limbs. He was fresh out of school and wet behind the ears and messing with him could be fun.

  “Her severed arm?” he asked me.

  “Yah.”

  “Dangling from your balcony?”

  “Yah.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  Here we go, with the ‘feelings’ again. “Oh, I was overjoyed, ya couldn’t imagine my surprise. It was just what I’ve always wanted.”

  He scribbled a few notes. “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “Well, yah.”

  “You use sarcasm as a defense mechanism. It said to expect that in your notes.” He waved them to emphasize his point.

  “How did ya think I’d feel?”

  “That’s what I’m asking, it’s my job. Do you know why? Read that.”

  He handed me his mahogany desk nameplate. I read it aloud, “Doctor Clay The rapist.”

  “What?!” he almost yelped.

  “That’s what it says.”

  He snatched it away from me and pointed out the words, “Doctor Clay Therapist!”

  I had rattled him. Good. He was going to be easy to annoy. “There’s a big gap between the ‘e’ and the ‘r’, Doc, are you subconsciously trying to tell us something? When did you first start to have these feelings?”

  “Very funny. Don’t try and psychoanalyze me.” Doctor Clay patted down his hair and tried to calm himself. I saw his lips moving slightly, I’m sure he was counting to ten. “Back to her arm, you claim to have expected it?”

  “I kinda guessed I’d receive a ‘message’ after finding the leg at Mia’s.”

  “Ah, yes,” he flicked through the report. “That was at 3 a.m.?”

  “Yah.”

  “Kind of late to be around your colleague’s home, wasn’t it? Are you having a relationship?”

  Relationship? Who was he – Oprah?

  “Do ya mean am I sleeping with her?”

  “If you like.”

  “I do like. A lot. So what?”

  “You know the department’s feelings on such matters.” Can a department feel? I wondered. I didn’t like this guy or the way the conversation was going.

  We’d drank the champagne and cleaned the two glasses which might have given the game away before the others arrived after we reported finding Candy’s severed leg. No one seemed to notice or find it strange that I was around her house in the wee hours. The captain may have done on a normal evening but he’d been woken from a deep sleep and was more grouchy than usual and then had his own set of problems to deal with. Our replacement team in charge of investigating Candy’s murder did not know us other than on nodding terms, although they seemed to know of me or, at least, my reputation and gave me a wide berth. As far as they were concerned it was one colleague comforting another in the most bizarre of circumstances.

  “Well,” said the doctor, bringing me back from my thoughts. He scribbled on his pad as if he’d just witnessed one of my famous trances. Apparently, it was alarming to witness. I used to go into a catatonic-like state on purpose at high school; it used to get big laughs especially in front of a rookie teacher – who’d normally freak out. I can go into a trance-like state at will and to those watching it’s as if I had almost died.

  “Nope, we ain’t having an affair.”

  “It’s important that you’re honest with me. If you ever want to get out of therapy, I need to know the truth.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Back to the arm, do you think it’ll affect your work?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “It belonged to your colleague, a victim of the Hangman. A case that you were hopelessly equipped to deal with.”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “He’s running circles around you, making you look like total chumps. Don’t you feel embarrassed by your failures?”

  “Well, yah.”

  “Talk about stating the obvious,” sniggered Sheldon.

  “That could manifest itself in all sorts of ways.”

  “Doc, you are way off base, I guessed a limb would be there.”

  “It was still there when you got home?”

  “Yah, they left it there for me as a gift.”

  He stroked his chin while he gathered his thoughts. “You’re being facetious.”

  “It was a crime scene; the techies don’t move that quickly.”

  “And the dangling arm did not bother your neighbors?”

  “Nope, in fact, the dudes upstairs asked me if they could have it when I’d finished with it.” That was true, they had.

  Doctor Clay looked aghast, which made me smirk. He said, “The Hangman really has you beat.” He tried to antagonize me and he was doing a good job. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself.

  “We’ll get him,” I said firmly.

  “But you’re totally clueless.”

  “It sounds like you admire him, Doc.”

  I’d caught him off guard. He composed himself and said, “Well, there is a certain flair about him, how he’s not only one step ahead of you, it’s more like two steps, three, while you stumble along like Frankenstein’s monster, following red herrings as he misdirects you at every turn.”

  “You’re saying he’s highly intelligent?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “A university scholar?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Mensa?” I asked after spotting a certificate on the doc’s wonder wall. I hadn’t realized the depth of the vanity of the man until I spotted that he had displayed his Mensa membership alongside his diploma from Harvard, amongst other qualifications. At least it was Harvard and not some online school based in Las Vegas.

  “I’m certain,” he said.

  “Certain?”

  “It goes without saying.”

  “Does it?”

  “He has a sharp mind and a stylish wit.” He smiled at the thought. “The severed limbs warning, simply ingenious, copying the ritual of
the olde worlde.”

  “You know all about that?”

  “Anyone classically educated would have a rudimentary understanding of medieval life, death, and of the gruesome punishments. It’s utterly fascinating what one human being can do to another. There was a time when torture was confined to slaves and it was thought that their testimony was not to be believed unless the confession was the result of torture.”

  “You’re very knowledgeable on this, Doc.”

  “Well, I did do a thesis on medieval life so, yes, I’ve studied it.”

  “Would ya say in your expert opinion, the Hangman would have a high I.Q.”

  “Yes.”

  “Highly educated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Went to a top university?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say, Harvard?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have a fascination for medieval torture?”

  He looked uncomfortable and straightened a crease in his pants. “Yes, well, I see where you’re going with this. Very clever. But we’re not here to analyze me, we’re here for you.” He was irritated for being made to look a fool and way too inexperienced not to let it show, and he came out fighting. “And for the record, you’re a much more likely candidate to be the Hangman.”

  I nearly choked with laughter.

  “Doctor Ruiz had put in her notes and mentioned it to your superiors.”

  “Whoa! Back up, she told me she knew who the Hangman was. She’d hardly tell me if she thought it was me.”

  “I heard that, too, but there are no notes to that effect; they were either stolen, or erased, or doctored, I guess, because the only notes remaining point the finger firmly at you.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “She’d put together a valid argument to that effect.”

  “What argument?”

  “That you killed the serial killers so they couldn’t defend themselves.”

  “They didn’t have a defense – they did it.”

  “So you say,” he mocked. “She hypothesized that in all the Hangman cases, you’re the first on the scene, could easily get rid of incriminating evidence, and that would explain how the Hangman manages to vanish into thin air.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I’ve never heard such a crock. What else does it say?”

  Doctor Clay calmed down, realizing the errors of his way. He patted down his hair and straightened his tie. “Forgive me, I’ve acted most unprofessionally. I should not have revealed her thoughts to you.”

  “Ya think?”

  “It was only a theory.”

  “Did anyone take it seriously?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “You can’t hold out on me now, Doc.”

  “I should never have said anything. I overreacted. I apologize profusely and I hope that I can trust you not to tell my superiors. I could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Doc.” I waved away the very idea.

  “Thank you.”

  “Just between you and me, how seriously was she taken?”

  He looked around shiftily and then said, “I’ll answer your question, then we must never speak of it again and I’ll ask you not to repeat it to anyone.”

  “I’m hardly likely to, am I, Doc? If I am the Hangman, I sure as hell won’t tell anyone, and if I’m not I’ll hardly put myself in the frame.”

  “It had some merit: you had an outstanding capture record, it was that and the voices. People still don’t understand mental illness, they think the voices made you do it, like Son of Sam, and of course when Doctor Ruiz was the next victim they thought you’d found out about her theory.”

  I thought on this for a moment when he said, “And of course there are others that think you’re directed by Perry.”

  “Perry, what about him?”

  “He’s your good ‘friend’, yes?” He said it making inverted commas with his fingers.

  “Yah, so? What about him?”

  “Well, for one thing,” the doctor said. “He doesn’t exist.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Eastbound on Santa Monica Boulevard, Santa Monica, CA 90404 – 19:45.

  I left the quack’s wondering if he could be a suspect. He knew all about us cops, how we work, how we think: most of the squad had been ordered to go to the psychiatrists one time or another. He would have all our records and I can’t help thinking he would know our darkest secrets – our skeletons in the closet.

  Whether he could be a murderer was another question. I doubted it. Doctor Clay was new to the scene, but he could have murdered his predecessor to take her place. Unlikely. Although he did let it slip that the Hangman was strongly believed to be a cop. I went through the suspects. I considered the captain to be meticulous and hard-working, he’d keep himself to himself and yet they say the quiet ones are the worst. He would consider himself a religious man, he and his family attended church regularly, he would certainly have a very real sense of right or wrong. I had heard that his church was more of the Old Testament-leaning and I had sometimes heard him suggest we should follow the Good Book to the letter, so that would include an eye for an eye, a life for a life. I knew he had a strong moral code and had no time for hookers, or fallen women as he called them; he reckoned they had a choice whether to become hookers or not, he felt that they had taken the easy way out being paid for something they already did freely, but that was far too simplistic. I rated the captain, he was moody, but fair, and despite all his bluster, he gave me lots of leeway to operate in my unorthodox manner, knowing that I usually get results which in turn looks good for him, too. Nope, I could not take the captain seriously as a suspect.

  I downshifted a gear and screeched to a halt near the King’s Head, quickly scanned both the bar and restaurant, but Perry wasn’t there. I was going to ask the bartender if he’d been in yet, but a part of me, a very small part of me, was worried that he would say he’s never heard of him. I jumped back in my Camaro and zoomed off up towards Hollywood, to the Fox and Hounds, to be precise. I considered George McGinty as a candidate, but I couldn’t see it somehow, he mouthed off too much. I thought the Hangman was clever so the last thing he would do was to spout off to anyone that would listen to his views on hookers, muggers’ pimps, murderers, and pedophiles. As he’d often said, he’d line the lot of ’em up against a wall. No trial, nothing, he’d get himself a machine gun and take the lot out in one fell swoop. He often said he’d be judge, jury and executioner. He had no qualms about taking human life: as far as he was concerned, they weren’t human, they were vermin and didn’t deserve to live. The light turned red and I had to screech to a halt, leaving a puff of smoke trailing up from my tires. The man in the car next to me shook his head righteously. I felt like pulling him over, he was bound to have done something wrong and I wanted to take my temper out on someone but managed to stop myself. The lights changed and I burned him off, but it wasn’t even a competition; he tried for about a hundred yards, but his Japanese import just didn’t have the guts for a race, or maybe he didn’t.

  I rolled the idea of George as a vigilante slayer of woman, but it didn’t fit. He certainly had a strange sexual quirk, wanting to be choked and starved of oxygen while having sex, and the strangling element had echoes of the Hangman, and one of his ex-wives had hinted at even more deviant behavior in the bedroom. I could see him being a vigilante, but surely, he’d pick a more deserving collection of lowlifes for his brand of justice, not women of perceived low virtue. It really didn’t make sense in this day and age: what had the Hangman said? ‘Woman of loose morals, of questionable virtue’? I’d have George McGinty down as a dispatcher of the scum, the pimps, drug dealers, the guys who made others’ lives misery, I could see him as an avenging angel, but not the Hangman. I couldn’t see it, he just didn’t have the brains to outwit us: he was all brawn and was a useful member of the team, but only if given orders. He never had the flashes of inspiration, which was what usually turned a case. The blinding vis
ion, the light bulb moment, eventually when someone suddenly had an idea pop into his or her head, that would be followed up and eventually lead to the villain’s capture. I struck him from the list.

  I tested Milo out as the killer, but I didn’t even know where to start with him. He was keen and was driven by justice, he had a sense of purpose and I often wondered what had happened to him in his past. I realized that I didn’t know much about his personal life. I didn’t know him at all, which merited a deeper look. Historically, serial killers were secretive and loners: from that aspect he might be a candidate, but he was also scared of his own shadow. He was full of bluster where it mattered in front of the other guys and perhaps, more importantly, the scum that we dealt with daily. He could certainly hold his own, although I’d watched him wet himself out on the ledge; again I recalled that many serial killers wet themselves and having to wear diapers up into school age was a common trait, the subject of much teasing and humiliation, a cause for getting even with society. Yet Milo seemed solid in my opinion; he was determined and although he might lack intuitive thought, he got there by sheer determination. He was like a terrier with a rat. He’d work at it repeatedly until he got a result. However, he could speak the ancient Peruvian dialect that the Hangman did, which was suspicious and, as it turned out, it was alleged that a few sacrifices were still carried out in that region, although it could not be verified by a reliable source. It certainly flagged up a concern, So, Milo had some of the tendencies of a serial killer, but I didn’t want it to be him and that was ruling my head. I tried to look at it dispassionately and had never had to suspect friends and colleagues before. Maybe I was too close to the investigation to act efficiently. I’d not failed previously and did not want to fail now. It was too important.

  I still liked the doctor for it. He had the intelligence that he insisted must be present to carry out the elaborate plans, and he had brains by the bucket load. He had access to all our files and if I was him and he killed his predecessor, to move into her role as our personal analyst, he was in a key position to enquire into our investigation in a casual manner that would not alert us to him. I swerved across the wrong side of the street, parked by a fire hydrant, and put my light on the top, as I parked near to the Fox and Hounds. Okay, so it’s an abuse of power, but hey, it was a minor misdemeanor and I was on a case sort of, well, to prove that Perry was real because if he wasn’t, then I was in a far worse mental state than I thought.