by James Carol
‘Terminally single?’
Hannah smiled coyly. ‘Don’t act all innocent, Winter. That’s why you had me check out the bathroom. If Choat had ever had a girlfriend then there would have been some evidence, either here or in the bathroom. And there was nothing. Not a single damn thing. Ergo, terminally single.’
I turned to Taylor, ‘Admit it, she’s good. So what have we got? We’ve got a white male who’s terminally single with serious mom issues. He’s a quiet, unassuming guy. Always polite, always cheerful. Someone like this goes postal and everyone just shakes their head in disbelief and tells the nice news reporters that they would never have expected him to do something like this, no sir, not in a million years. I’ve got to tell you, he sounds good to me. I’m sold. Let’s go wake up a judge and get ourselves an arrest warrant.’ I smiled. ‘Okay, we’re going to play a little game. Each of us is going to come up with a reason why this isn’t our unsub. Taylor, you go first.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because right now Hannah is kicking your ass into the middle of next week. If you’re not careful she’s going to end up in charge of the Criminal Investigation Division.’
Taylor chewed his lip and stared at the horrific floral drapes. When they got too much, he stared down at his hands. Back to the curtains. Back to his hands. He stopped chewing and grinned to himself.
‘Choat’s the same age as Hannah, which means he’s too young.’
‘Nice save. Your turn, Hannah.’
She glanced around the room, ran a hand across her hair. She was thinking hard because she didn’t want to get beaten by Taylor. And that was good. A little friendly rivalry never hurt.
‘He’s a neat freak,’ she said at last. ‘That bathroom was spotless. So clean it had to have been done recently, definitely within the last twenty-four hours. Then there’s this bedroom. The bed’s made up and everything’s all tidied away. If you’re in the middle of a killing spree, the last thing you’re going to be worried about is whether or not you’ve done your chores.’
I made a sour face and shook my head. ‘I’m afraid Taylor wins this round. Your reasoning is sound up to a point. The problem is that you’re assuming the logic that dictates the actions of a serial killer can be measured against the logic a normal well-adjusted member of society would employ. In other words, you’re comparing apples and oranges. I don’t have a problem with the idea that a serial killer could go out and murder someone then come home and give their house a thorough clean. If that’s part of his ritual, then that’s what he’s going to do. It might not make sense to you or me, but so long as it makes sense to the killer that’s all that matters.’
‘You could have just said I was wrong.’
‘But that’s the thing. You’re this close to being right.’ I held up my hand, thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. ‘Burning someone alive is a messy way to kill someone. A neat freak like Choat is going to choose a nice tidy way to dispatch his victims. My money would be on asphyxiation. A pillow over the face or a plastic bag over the head. That way there’s none of that yucky blood stuff to deal with.’
‘Your turn then, Winter,’ Taylor said. ‘Why are you so sure Choat isn’t the unsub?’
‘Because if something looks too good to be true, then it is too good to be true. Choat’s been handed to us all neatly wrapped up with a pretty bow on top. There’s no way he’s our guy.’
Taylor sighed and stood up and started pacing. He was biting his lip and shaking his head and thinking hard. He stopped and looked at me. ‘I really thought we were onto something with Choat. Now we’re back at square one.’
‘You’re kidding, right? This isn’t a snakehead. Far from it. We’ve just gone shooting up a ladder. This is the best thing that’s happened all day. The closest thing we’ve had to a lead.’
Both Taylor and Hannah were staring like I was speaking in tongues.
‘Big picture rather than little picture.’ Without another word, I headed for the stairs.
36
The guesthouse was quiet when we got back, so quiet I was beginning to wonder if I was the only guest. Except for Hannah, I hadn’t seen any other signs of life. The overhead lights cast a dim glow on the red and white chessboard floor. Long-dead movie stars stared down at us from the walls.
Taylor and Hannah had started arguing and bickering back at Dan Choat’s place. They’d kept this up all the way to Morrow Street and were still going at it now. They’d tried to drag me in a couple of times, but gave up when they realised I was ignoring them. There was something almost comical about the way they stood there toe-to-toe. Taylor towered over Hannah by at least a foot, but she was standing her ground, hands on hips and not giving an inch.
‘The unsub’s rattled.’
That halted them in their tracks. They stopped looking at each other and turned to face me.
‘The big question is why,’ I went on. ‘Why did the unsub feel it was necessary to present us with a viable suspect? And why did he chicken out with his grand reveal? He had everything and everyone in place, and then, at the last second, nothing. It was a total anti-climax.’
Taylor and Hannah were still staring, neither saying a word in case they got the wrong answer.
‘What’s the matter? You both had plenty to say in the car, and now nothing?’
Silence.
‘Okay, let’s look at this from a different perspective. Imagine you’re the unsub. You’ve spent years fantasising and planning. You’ve gone over everything again and again and again, rehearsing what you’re going to do, checking for loose ends. Eventually you reach a point where you’ve done all the planning you can stand and it’s time to take that fantasy and turn it into reality. But you don’t make your move just yet. Once you step over the line, there’s no going back. You’re pretty sure how things are going to play out, but pretty sure isn’t the same as absolutely certain. So you wait a little longer, driving yourself crazy with the anticipation. And then, when you really can’t stand it any longer, that’s when you make your move.’
I went over to the counter and dinged the brass bell. B-flat, but ever so slightly sharp.
‘Okay, folks, fingers on buzzers. Last night our unsub finally put his plan into action. This morning he would have woken up feeling like he was the king of the world. Yet tonight he’s improvising like crazy and making mistakes left right and centre.’
‘Making mistakes?’ Hannah asked.
‘Chickening out of his grand reveal was a mistake because it shows uncertainty, and uncertainty implies weakness. Dan Choat was a mistake, too, because if he thinks I’m dumb enough to buy that then it shows he’s seriously underestimated me. So here’s my question: considering that this guy has gone through all the variables a million times, what’s changed? What’s the rogue variable that’s come into play here?’
Hannah and Taylor looked at each other, then at me.
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘I’m the rogue variable. Bringing me into the investigation has changed the whole dynamic. It’s made the unsub go back and reassess his entire game plan. And in the process of re-evaluating, he realised that his grand reveal wasn’t going to work. Somehow he’s got wind of the fact that we’re looking for a cop. He realised that we’d be watching the crowd, and we’d notice he wasn’t there, and that we’d have ourselves a prime suspect.’
Taylor nodded. ‘So he sets up Choat to take the fall, joins the crowd and aborts his grand reveal. Yeah, that works for me.’
‘Considering the pressure he’s under, it’s not a bad move. Maybe he’s certain we’re looking for a cop. Then again, maybe he just suspects it. He’s been keeping an eye on what we’re up to and reached that conclusion. If that’s the case, he’s going to want confirmation that we’re looking for a cop, and if we go after Choat that gives him his confirmation.’
‘So don’t go after Choat,’ said Hannah. ‘That way we keep him guessing and he keeps on making mistakes. It’s a no-brainer.’
I dinged th
e bell again.
‘Since Hannah’s brought up the subject, let’s move on to Round Two. What’s happened to Choat?’
‘He’s being held captive,’ Hannah said.
‘And as a little girl, I’m betting you dreamt of having your very own pet unicorn.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Taylor fielded this one. ‘What Winter means is that Choat’s dead.’
He glanced over at me for confirmation and I answered with a nod.
‘There’s no reason to keep him alive, and a whole load of reasons to kill him. If he’s dead, there’s no chance of him escaping and identifying the unsub. Secondly, a dead body is lower maintenance than a live one. You don’t need a deep, dark dungeon to hide your victim in, you don’t need to feed them. You get the idea.’
I dinged the bell a third time because I liked the sound, and the effect it had. Taylor and Hannah’s attention snapped back to me. ‘So what do we do? Hannah’s suggestion is one possibility. We do nothing. The problem with that strategy is that it’s going to be a major stressor for the unsub. He’s going to be sat there trying to double guess us, and treble guess us, and quadruple guess us, and that’s going to drive him nuts. The more stress we pile on, the more unpredictable his actions become. Which is good because, like Hannah said, he’ll make mistakes. But it’s bad because it could push him to kill sooner than he would have done otherwise. Do either of you want that on your conscience?’
Hannah and Taylor shook their heads.
‘The alternative is that we play along with the unsub. We go charging in, telling anyone who’ll listen that Choat’s the bad guy. Sheriff Fortier and Shepherd will rally the troops and before we know it every spare man will be out hunting Choat. While they’re doing that we hang around on the sidelines and keep our eyes peeled for anyone who’s looking particularly smug.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Hannah, echoing my earlier question.
‘We sleep on it. We’ll meet at Apollo’s for breakfast at eight and make a decision then. Letting the unsub sweat it out for a few hours shouldn’t cause a problem, and we’re all exhausted. We need to sleep.’
When I said we, I meant me, but Taylor and Hannah both looked as tired as I felt. Back in my room, I poured a glass of Glenmorangie, put on some Mozart and opened the window. A gentle breeze blew through, fluttering the drapes. I lit a cigarette then perched on the windowsill. With the room door closed, the outside world ceased to exist. The music and the whisky helped complete the illusion. And it was an illusion. At any moment my cell could ring, bursting my bubble. Midnight calls went with the territory. The people I hunted respected chronological constraints as much as they respected geographical borders.
The second movement of Mozart’s one and only Clarinet Concerto was playing gently in the background. This was my all-time favourite piece of music. The way that clarinet sings, it’s the loneliest sound in the world. Show me someone who isn’t moved and I’ll show you someone who doesn’t have a soul.
For a while I smoked and sipped my whisky and listened to the most beautiful piece of music ever written and did my best to shake off the day. My brain never switches off. The best I can hope for is that I can get it idling in a low gear. There was always something to think about, some puzzle to unravel.
This piece of music was a prime example. Western music uses a twelve-note octave, and somehow Mozart managed to blend those twelve notes into something so heart-rendingly beautiful that I don’t understand how it can actually exist. I’ve picked this piece of music apart, examined every note, every phrase, and I still don’t understand why or how it works. The only conclusion I can draw is that there are some things that exist beyond our ability to comprehend.
However, this doesn’t sit comfortably since it leaves me trapped in a logic loop. Every question has an answer and every puzzle can be solved. Maybe one day I’ll have a moment of enlightenment, that eureka moment where the pieces finally fall into place.
Then again, maybe you should be careful what you wish for. Once you know how the illusion is performed, the magic is lost for ever, and all you’re left with are a bunch of gaudily painted plywood props and an assistant in a cheap costume who’s wearing too much make-up.
The music drifted into silence and I switched off the laptop. I kicked off my boots and removed my jeans, chased a sleeping tablet down with some whisky then lay on the bed. For a while I stared at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, eyes heavy and my thoughts finally slowing to a more manageable level. Somewhere along the line, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
37
I woke just after five, my brain turning at full speed. The thought that had got hold of me was that I was somehow responsible for Dan Choat’s murder. Simply put, if I hadn’t got involved in the investigation then Choat would still be alive now. Terminally single and trapped by his mom issues in his neat-freak life maybe, but still alive.
This idea was flawed from the foundation upwards. We cannot be held responsible for the actions of others. If a wife goes crazy and grabs a shotgun and shoots her abusive drunk husband dead, who do you blame? The husband for being a drunk? The shotgun manufacturer? Jack Daniel? You could try, but the truth of the matter was that she made the decision to pick up the shotgun, and she made the decision to pull the trigger. There were a dozen other ways she could have chosen to handle the situation, but that’s the one she opted for.
I understood the logic and, when the sun came up, I’d buy into it. The problem was that at five in the morning what you believe and what you know are poles apart.
For a while I lay in bed, wishing for sleep. My watch ticked around to five-thirty and I gave up trying. As much as I wanted more sleep, it wasn’t going to happen.
There was a small kettle on the dresser so I was able to make a coffee. I switched on my laptop and set the computer to play tracks at random, quietly, just in case there were any other guests. ‘Every Breath You Take’ by The Police came on, a firm favourite of newlyweds and stalkers. All alone in a darkened room in the raw hours before dawn, the song seemed to take on a sinister edge that I’d always known was there but had never fully appreciated.
The kettle boiled and I fixed a coffee, adding three sugars to disguise the taste. I settled down on the bed and checked my emails. ‘Every Breath You Take’ was replaced by ‘Riders on the Storm’, an atmospheric old Doors song that was just as sinister. The mood I was in, it seemed prescient.
The email from Chief Olina Kalani in Honolulu included dozens of attachments. I’d asked for everything, and everything’s what I’d got. Photographs, interview transcripts, autopsy reports, the works.
The media had christened this unsub the Clown Killer. I hated nicknames because their only purpose was to create mystique, and mystique was the foundation of legend. When that happened the atrocities committed by these assholes became glamorised. Before you knew it, you had magazine articles and books and TV specials, even movies. These people were monsters. Lock them in a dungeon and throw away the key. Don’t give them bright lights and infamy. That’s just wrong.
This unsub only targeted prostitutes. He attempted to rape them, then he stabbed them and painted their faces. An untidy, ragged red smile, a big red nose, thick black make-up around the eyes. The bodies were dumped in alleyways or behind dumpsters. No attempt was made to conceal them. This guy wanted his victims found.
The first thing that struck me was how needy this unsub was. Here was someone who craved the spotlight. His murders were performances. He wanted people to sit up and take notice. He wanted people to go, ‘Wow, look what the Clown Killer’s gone and done this time!’
The second thing that struck me was how low his self-esteem was.
Prostitutes are low-risk victims. The nature of their profession means they’ll go off with a complete stranger with little regard for their own safety, which makes them easy targets. That said, within this group there are sub-groups, each with a different level of risk attached. The riskiest p
rostitutes to target are your high-end escorts. If you’re charging thousands of dollars an hour, then you can guarantee that your pimp or madam will make sure their investment is protected.
This unsub worked the other end of the scale. His victims charged nickels and dimes to blow you in your car or an alleyway. They were junkies. They were older. They’d gone past their shelf life. Consequently, they were easy targets.
His attempt at raping his victims was another indicator of low self-esteem. Reading through the autopsy reports, it was obvious that this part of the attack was over mercifully quickly. The downside was that this angered and frustrated him, and he then took his anger out on his victims. Each one had been stabbed at least twenty times. Deep, forceful, thrusts to compensate for what he wanted to do, but hadn’t been able to.
In the background, Hendrix was singing ‘The Wind Cries Mary’. I lit a cigarette and closed my eyes and thought things through. I could see a man in a hurry, fuelled by fury and self-loathing. And I could see a small boy whose life had been a hellish nightmare of beatings and abuse, whose only escape was into the perfect world promised on TV.
Hendrix faded out and Led Zeppelin came thundering in like the Four Horsemen. Even with the volume on low those four guys still managed to sound like the end of the world. I hit reply and started typing.
This unsub was a white male aged twenty to twenty-five, a failed actor or musician. He probably spent his life telling anyone who listened that he was on the verge of greatness. That the record companies were fighting to sign him up and turn him into the next big thing or the TV networks were lining up to get him to star in their next big series or his Hollywood agent had got him a part in next summer’s big adrenaline-inducing blockbuster. The truth was a string of failed auditions and forgettable talent-show appearances.
And he was going to be easy to find because he would have been a face in the crowd at every crime scene. This unsub wouldn’t have been able to stay away. He’d want to witness the reaction to his work at first hand.
