by Tim McGregor
Stepping away, he looked to see what was there but of course there was nothing but damp brick walls and the grimy floor. More darkness and a cloud of dust motes billowing through the beams of the flashlights. It was unnerving but he tried not to show that.
“A woman? Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she have a name? What does she look like?”
“She won’t talk to me,” Billie said. “She’s more interested in you. But not in a nice way.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“No. She is.”
Mockler stepped back, as if trying to shake something loose. “What does she look like?”
Billie squinted, as if trying to see in the dark. “She’s young. Early twenties, maybe. Dirty blond hair.”
“Anything else?” he said. “Scars or glasses or clothes? Anything at all.”
“I keep getting a certain year. Eighty-one or eighty-two.”
“Is that when she died?”
“I think so.” Her hand went to her throat. “I’m getting this awful pain in my neck.”
“Is she doing that to you?”
“No. I’m feeling what she felt. I think she was strangled.”
Mockler took a step closer to Billie. “By who? Do you see them?”
“She won’t say. She knows him but she’s scared of him.”
“Even now?”
Billie exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath. “She’s gone now.”
He could almost feel it. There had been a clammy chill all around him but it vanished instantly. He looked at Billie. “Are you all right?”
“I feel kinda sick.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“I just need a second.” She held her stomach in both hands, then she looked up suddenly. “The rest are coming.”
“How many?”
“Five or six. I’m not sure. They’re all talking at once.”
His fingers itched to get his notepad, to write everything down but it didn’t seem right. He didn’t know why, it just didn’t. “What are they saying?”
“They’re talking over one another. I can’t make sense of it.” Billie closed her eyes and became still. “There’s a man. They all hate him but they’re all scared of him too.”
Mockler didn’t take his eyes off the young woman. She seemed agitated and distressed, rubbing her hands one over the other. “Did this man do something to them?”
“He hurt them. Over and over. Until he couldn’t hurt them anymore.”
“He killed these women?”
“Yes.”
“I need his name, Billie. Will they tell you that?”
“They’re too scared to say.” Billie tilted her head, as if trying to strain her ear for sound. “They thought they were safe. These women. They were supposed to be safe, where they were. But this man was there. He had some kind of control over them. And he used that to hurt them.”
“Were they killed here? In this building?”
“I can’t tell.” Billie knelt down on one knee and flattened her hand against the cold floor. “No. Not here. They all died somewhere else. Then they were brought here. And hidden away in some place that was dark and cold. Oh God…”
“What is it?”
Billie opened her eyes and stood up straight. Then she rotated a quarter-turn to her left and pointed at the nearest wall. “There. They were stuffed in that wall. One after the other.”
“All at once?”
“No. Different times. This went on for years.”
She looked unsteady so he took hold of her arm. “Billie, I need his name. Or anything about him.”
“Stop it!”
He let go of her arm but she wasn’t looking at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Get away from me. Stop it.”
She teetered sideways, like she was about to fall. He propped her up. “Billie, what is it?”
“They’re too close,” she hissed. “One of them’s trying to jump me.”
“Jump you?”
“Crawl inside. It hurts.” She clutched her temples as if stricken with an instant migraine. “I don’t like it here.”
Turning for the stairs, her knees buckled but he kept her upright. Draping her arm over his shoulder, he all but carried her up the wooden steps and across the warehouse floor.
“My bike,” she said as he pushed her into the passenger seat of his car.
“We’ll come back for it.”
It’s not real, he repeated to himself as he jumped behind the wheel and fired the engine. Never mind the creeping flesh crawling up your spine, it’s not real.
The car thudded as it clunked over the curb and he stomped the gas and got the hell out of there.
16
“YOU NEED A doctor.”
“Just take me home,” she said.
Turning onto Barton East, Mockler considered ignoring her wishes and driving straight to Emergency. Billie sat unbuckled in the passenger seat, her knees tucked into her chest. She looked green.
“You really don’t look well,” he said.
“It’ll pass.”
He drove on, turning onto Barton. Watching the buildings pass on his right side, he said, “This is your block, isn’t it?”
“Just up here.”
He pulled to the curb before a three-story edifice of dirty brick and iron fire escapes. The windows of the storefront shop were dusty and papered over. Billie gripped the door handle but hesitated, as if the exertion needed to open the door was too much. The pain and nausea had passed but it had left her raw and fragile. Climbing out of the car seemed daunting enough, to say nothing of the three flights of stairs up to the apartment.
“Listen, I—” she said to the detective but the driver’s seat was empty.
Her door opened on its own and Mockler took her hand and helped her out.
“You still look a little green,” he said.
“Gosh. Thanks.” Teetering unsteadily on the sidewalk, she reached for the parking meter for support. “You didn’t have to drive me home.”
“Clearly.” He gave her a wry smile and turned to gaze up at her building. “It’s three flights, isn’t it? Come on, I’ll help you up.”
“You’ve done enough.”
“I’m not done with you yet.” He took her by the arm. “Come on.”
Whatever humiliation she felt for being so weak had burned off in the exertion getting up the stairs. Mockler didn’t seem to mind, acting as if he did this every day. She could almost picture him helping old ladies cross the street. Just for the hell of it.
“It’s open,” she said as they came to her door. “But it sticks. Just give it a shove.”
The door squeaked as he pushed it open. “Why don’t you lock your door? Especially in this neighbourhood?”
Billie considered explaining that her dingy little flat was probably the most secure spot in the city, prowled as it was by a legless phantom with the temperament of a junkyard dog. She doubted the detective would like that answer so she said, “It’s not like I have anything worth stealing.”
The mess wasn’t too bad, she thought as the door closed behind them, but it was still untidy. She didn’t get many visitors these days.
“I need some water,” she said, making her way to the kitchen. “Do you want anything?”
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“I’m fine. Sit.”
A noise clanged from the kitchen, like a pot lid falling to the floor. Half-Boy was home, she thought. He didn’t care much for visitors. Especially men.
Mockler perked up at the racket from the other room. “What was that?”
“Just the cat. Have a seat.”
She put the kettle on and came back to the living room with two glasses of water. Mockler rose and took the glasses from her. Billie sank into the armchair she had rescued from the curb last summer. Its lumpy cushions were almost too comfortable.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t much help back there,�
�� she said.
“You were a huge help. Believe me.” He sat on the edge of the couch, like he wasn’t staying long. “I’m sorry you got so sick. Is it always like that?”
“Not always.”
He took a longer look at her. “Does it last very long? The sick part?”
“Sometimes. When it’s bad, it’ll take me a few days to recover.”
“I had no idea,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do it.”
“It’s okay,” she said, but a different response was ringing through her brain. I’d do anything for you. She pushed the ridiculous thought away.
Another sound rattled from the kitchen, like that of a cup being knocked over. Mockler leaned sideways to peer into the kitchen. “Where is this cat?”
“He hides. He doesn’t like visitors.” Billie let her shoes drop and tucked her feet under her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you really believe in this? About what I saw back there?”
He sipped his water. “I’m keeping an open mind.”
“But you never used to. What changed your mind?”
“You did.”
That snapped her awake. “Me?”
“You told me I had a ghost in my home. And you tried to get rid of it.”
She didn’t want to remember. It had been humiliating at the time. And terrifying, when she recalled the face of the Undertaker Man.
“The thing is,” he went on, “I think you did. Get rid of it, I mean.”
He didn’t know the half of it. Billie chewed her lip, wondering if she ought to own up to what happened that night. Mockler would be livid if he knew that John Gantry had been inside his house.
Mockler went on. “Something changed. At home. There was this, I dunno, pall over the place. I used to dread coming home. But shortly after you told me about the… thing, it changed. It felt completely different.”
“How so?”
He scratched his chin, thinking. “Hard to explain. It was like someone opened a window to let in some fresh air. The mood changed. Christina got better.”
Billie became very still. “What was it? Was she ill?”
“She has these bad spells of depression. She’d been going through a really long, bad bought of it. But it changed overnight.”
“That’s great,” she said, trying hard to sound nonchalant. “I’m glad things are better for you.”
“I think you had something to do with it.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You said you tried to get rid of whatever it was. And then things got better.” Mockler looked into his glass and then set it down again. “Since then, I’ve decided to keep an open mind about these things.”
She didn’t know how to respond so she said nothing and the apartment grew quiet. Something rattled in the kitchen and then Billie suddenly flinched, as if prodded by something sharp.
“Charlene,” she muttered.
“Who?”
She blinked her eyes, as if suddenly dazed by a bright light. “The name just came to me. The woman with the bruised neck.”
“Back at the crime scene?” Mockler straightened up and dug out his notebook. “Charlene what?”
“She didn’t tell me her last name.”
“This was the first woman you saw? White, blond hair?” He scribbled into the notebook. “Why did it just come to you now?”
“It can get chaotic when they all talk at once. Hard to tell who’s saying what.”
“What else? What about the others? Did you get a name from any of them?”
“No.” She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. “But there was something they all felt. Something specific.”
“Like anger?”
“More specific than that.” Billie opened her eyes. “Betrayal.”
“By who? Betrayed how?”
It was all so vague and scattered. Snippets of images and snatches of emotion, all of it flashing by too quickly to grasp. “They were supposed to be safe. The place they were in.”
“What kind of place? Did they work together?”
“No. It’s like an institution of some kind. Not a hospital but something like it.” She balled her fist. “I just can’t see it clearly.”
“Was it a prison?” he suggested. “Or a psychiatric hospital?”
“No. They were free to come and go. But they didn’t have anywhere to go to. They couldn’t go home.”
Mockler noted it all down, scratching the pen quickly across the paper. “Why weren’t they safe? Was someone hurting them?”
“Yes. The man I saw hiding the bodies in the wall. They were afraid of him. He had some kind of power over all of them.”
“Did he kill these women?”
“He hurt them first. Not just once, but over and over.” Billie took a long sip from the glass, like the flashes of memories and emotions had parched her. “It was awful. They would hide under the covers, pretending to sleep while this man would walk down the row of beds. And then he’d pick one of them.”
Mockler watched her as she spoke. She was shivering and her face winced over and over, as if feeling pain at a whirl of things only she could see. He set the notebook aside and put his hand over hers.
“Billie, can you see him, this man?”
“Not really. It’s more like I’m getting what the women felt about him. Not an image.”
“Is there anything about him you can pick up? A name or detail. Anything at all?”
“He’s powerful. No one would speak against him. He’s a hypocrite too. A family man.” She flinched and jerked in the big chair, as if prodded with pins.
“Is he a big man?” He tried to keep the desperation creeping up his gullet from spilling into his voice. “Thin or heavy? Tall? Short?”
“There’s something wrong with his ear,” she said.
“His ear? Which one?”
“His left. It’s mangled, like a big chunk was cut out. They all had to look at it when he—” The sensation that flashed over her was vile and poisonous. Her voice hitched short and she fell silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “Put it out of your mind now. Think of something else.”
“Is that helpful?”
“It’s huge. You’ve given me a ton to work with here, Billie. I’m sorry if that was painful, but I’m grateful to you.” He smiled at her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m exhausted,” she said. The night had been draining.
“I’ll get out of your hair. Get some rest.” He got to his feet and when she rose to follow, he motioned for her to stay. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”
He crossed toward the door. “Thanks, Billie. This was a big—” Another crash from the kitchen cut his words short. He looked at Billie. “That cat’s a terror. You should put him out at night.”
“I’ve tried. He always finds a way back in.”
At the door, he thanked her again and said goodnight. The door clicked shut behind him. Billie scrounged up just enough energy to tip out of the chair onto the couch, pulling the quilt up over her shoulders.
17
“SKIP THE EGGS,” Mockler said, rushing through the kitchen. “I’ll grab something on the way in.”
Christina hovered over the oven, eggs sizzling in the pan. “What’s the rush?”
“I need to get an early start today.” He scooped up his mug but the coffee was lukewarm. “I’ll probably be late coming home too.”
Breakfast was usually his job. A matter of practicality, since he woke early every morning. This morning was different. He needed to get to work on the new information he had learnt the night before.
“Eager to get work, huh?” Christina moved the eggs around with the spatula. “That’s a good sign. You making progress?”
“Yeah.” Knotting his tie, he watched her cook. “You might want to wait to flip those.”
“I know how to make eggs, thank you.”
There was
an edge to her tone. Was he nagging her? He might have, distracted as he was about getting to work. Or it was something else. There seemed to be an edge to every conversation lately. Little moments of bickering over small things. He didn’t have time to figure it out now.
“What do you have planned today?” he asked.
Christina flipped the eggs then turned to him. “I’m meeting Carlos today. I can’t wait.”
“Who?”
Her face fell. “Carlos. The guy who owns the gallery? I told you.”
“Right.” She had told him, he just couldn’t remember the details. “He likes your stuff. His gallery’s down on John, isn’t it?”
“Locke North,” she said. “He’s offered me a show.”
“That’s great.” He adjusted his tie for the third time. “Is this even?”
Christina scooped the eggs up to plate them but the yolks broke and dribbled all over the stove-top. Scowling, she looked up at him. His tie was crooked. “It’s fine,” she said.
He rushed in to peck her cheek but barely grazed her skin in his rush to get out the door. “Good luck with the gallery guy.”
“Carlos,” she said.
“Him too,” he joked before disappearing out the door.
Christina looked down at the mess of runny yolk leaking over the plate. Pushing the mess aside, she settled for the toast she had made. At least it wasn’t burnt.
~
Task Room Three was quiet and dark when Mockler arrived. He stopped to chew the fat with the graveyard shift detectives who were wrapping up before shift change. It had been an uneventful night, for which they were all grateful. With the unit still down in numbers, everyone was stretched thin to cover the workload. As a result, the mountain of old files in the task room had gone untouched.
Mockler hit the light and surveyed the catastrophe of paperwork. The missing persons files that had been pulled lay at one end of the table, the boxes waiting to be sorted lay at the opposite end. A gargantuan task but at least now he had something to work with.
Opening another box, he started sorting through the files, keeping an eye out for the name and physical description that Billie had given him. Identifying at least one of the victims was imperative. Every investigation started with the victim but without that basic information, nothing could be done. Uncovering a number of remains that could not be identified was a dead-end from the start.
