Without Conscience

by Michael Kerr

  Time and the element of surprise were on his side. He would rest up for a couple of days and let his leg heal. He gingerly manipulated the kneecap with his fingers and decided that it was not fractured. Perhaps the cartilage had been compressed. He would keep it chilled, and supported with a crepe bandage. Just his luck to pick on some bimbo who obviously practised karate or something. Martial arts would not save her the next time they met, though. He was an idiot to underestimate women. He would have to appreciate that survival was a powerful instinct, and that prey – given half a chance – were unpredictable and could turn like cornered rats.

  He reached across the tabletop for a notepad and pencil, then paused and looked at himself in the small, free-standing circular mirror that he had been using to inspect the back of his knee. His eyes were tar-black, almost hypnotic, even to himself, and his nose was broad and straight. Mouth...maybe a little thin-lipped and purporting a hint of cruelty, which was fitting. Chin...strong and dimpled. His face was wide, and the top of his head was bald, as smooth as a snooker ball; the hair at its sides kept ultra short. It was fair, with a hint of ginger and even some grey; not the fiery red that his mum’s had been. Overall, he was a more muscular, heftier and much younger version of Patrick Stewart, the charismatic captain, Jean Luc Picard of Star Trek: The Next Generation and X-Men fame. He was certainly not deformed or of subnormal intellect. His brain functioned just fine, and although he was physically a tad shorter than he would have liked at five-seven, he maintained that good things came in small packages. Women had always lusted after him. Even when they pretended not to be interested, he knew different, and could see the desire in their eyes. Some needed to be taken aggressively, and would even struggle and accuse him of rape. Strange creatures, women, to resist that which in their hearts they desired, but he was neither fooled nor distracted by their posturing and sham rejection of his advances. He could smell the subtle scent of secretions that gave away their stimulated state of arousal.

  Caroline had been different. He liked all women, and would accommodate them whatever their age, colour or shape. His taste was catholic. But Caroline had captivated his heart and stirred emotions that he had never experienced. He came to adore her from afar, and foresaw a special relationship blossoming between them, that would be unique and of a lifetime’s duration.

  She had smiled at him in the lifts, when they crossed paths in the corridors, and even on occasion when queuing for meals in the canteen. He was positive that she was smitten by him, but when he engaged her in conversation, six months ago now, his dreams had been shattered. He recalled what had been said word for word, incorporating all the nuances and inflections of syntax that had conveyed her lack of sensibility and tainted his love for her, transforming it into an equally powerful emotion: hate.

  “The play was terrific Ms Sellars,” he had said on that Monday, back in May, confronting her after she had finished talking to some assistant head of drama.

  She had continued walking along the corridor, towards her office. “Thank you, er...”

  A charade. Pretending that she did not know his name.

  “Bob Cain, sound effects,” he said, flashing his most sincere smile.

  “Well, Bob, it’s the writer, actors and director, and even your department that deserve any praise. I just produced it.”

  “You have a lot of control over the whole production, though.”

  “I won’t argue. I thought the sound effects of the house burning down at the end of the play were stunning. I closed my eyes in the booth and could almost smell the smoke.”

  “All on tape nowadays, I’m afraid,” he said. “At one time the sound of faux fires was usually achieved by crumpling cellophane and splintering pieces of wood. Now it’s a lot more sophisticated.”

  “That’s interesting, er...Bob.”

  “Perhaps you’d enjoy discussing it at length, over a drink in the bar?”

  Her eyes almost talked. They hardened. They said; ‘You must be fucking joking coming on to me, mister. I’m a top producer, and you’re just a sweaty little sound effects nerd, one step up from rattling coconut shells, breaking glass, and playing with a wind machine’.

  Probably because he cared so much for her, he saw the truth. This woman, who he had chosen above all others, deemed him unworthy. He would never be welcome into her heart, bed or body.

  “Goodnight,” Caroline had said, summarily dismissing him as she reached her door, opened it, and turned her back on him.

  “Yeah, goodnight, Ms Sellars,” he said, his heart thudding against the cage of his ribs. In that instant, what had been a bright, delicious fruit, turned dark and began to rot in his mind. He had never...ever experienced the pain of rejection before. It embittered him, and a deep fissure of molten hurt overflowed and cooled to form a solid wall of profound animosity.

  It had been in the space of a second, as her office door closed, that he had decided to fuck up her life, then her, before ripping her traitorous heart from her living body.

  He had not approached her again, though had smiled on the odd occasion that their paths had crossed. He was invisible to her, not a part of her insignificant little life. With time she would have even forgotten their one brief conversation, let alone his name. The months passed, and he monitored her life closely, recording her movements by way of a camera with a telephoto lens. He was obsessed, and harboured an unwavering aim to destroy the cause of his chagrin.

  Back in real time. Concentrate. The notepad was still blank. He rose slowly, wincing as he walked across to the corner unit above the microwave and withdrew a fresh bottle of cheap Safeway own-label Scotch, which he opened and poured himself a large measure of. It would help to dampen the pain in his leg, and also ease the shit-awful frustration of the situation he was in. He needed closure re the matter of Larry Holden, Dr Mark and Caroline. He was being screwed around with, badmouthed, and had even been physically attacked and injured by the psychotic bitch in Chiswick. How could he be expected to ignore so much hostile provocation? And what if the murderous runner had had the presence of mind to study his face? Slim chance. It had been pretty dark. Surely, she would have just seen a shape rushing at her. And then she had kicked out, got lucky and ran away. But there was a half chance that she had given the police at least a rough description. And even if she hadn’t, what if someone had seen him struggling to get into his car? They could have clocked the make and even made a note of his number plate.

  “Bastards!” he shouted as he lifted the mirror and threw it across the kitchen, for it to shatter against the refrigerator. The best sound effect for breaking glass was breaking fucking glass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mark had snail mail on his desk, and e-mail waiting on his computer. First things first. He switched on the coffeemaker and set the strength selector to maximum. Life, he decided, would be so much worse without java in it.

  While the coffee bubbled and filled the room with what was probably his most favourite aroma, he sifted through the envelopes. Most were work related; journals full of psychobabble and other dross, which he tossed aside to look at later, maybe. One, a smaller blue envelope, looked interesting. Opening and reaching into the top drawer of his desk, he pulled out an old FBI letter opener and slit along the top of the envelope. Inside was an invitation to the Oxford Union, where an address was to be given by Dr Stefan Friedman, a much-revered clinical psychologist, who he had played golf with on several occasions when they had met up at seminars. All being well, he would attend. Stefan had a wicked sense of humour, and enjoyed a drink or two. And his lectures, given without the aid of notes, were always fresh, innovative, and laced with dark, witty analogies. Stefan looked a lot like the movie director Mel Brooks, with a shock of dyed hair and a strong New York City twang.

  Mark stiffened, in the way that he would have if a rattlesnake appeared on his lap, poised and ready to strike. The last item of post was a buff manila envelope, which in itself was innocuous. It was the sight of his name and
the hospital’s address written in red capital letters that rang alarm bells. There were no prizes for guessing who it was from. He knew that there would be no latents, but left the office and purloined a pair of latex gloves from a storeroom, to which he held a key.

  Back at his desk, he inspected the writing more closely. He had no formal training in forensic document examination, but had picked up a lot of pointers from the professionals at Quantico. An expert could put together a psycholinguistic profile from a ransom note or sample of an unknown subject’s handwriting. All Mark had to work with was his own name and Cranbrook’s address. Not enough to study the way in which sentences were constructed, and the grammar used in their composition.

  Opening the envelope, he withdrew the copy paper with the tips of a glove-clad finger and thumb and carefully unfolded the sheets.

  The sender was not stupid. He had used a printer, so was computer literate. The top sheet was a note:

  Dr Mark,

  You really shouldn’t be poking your EX-FBI nose into THIS rabbit hole. It might just get bitten off.

  Enclosed is a profile ON ME, which I worked up just for the pure hell of it. Obviously, YOU will have access to police and autopsy reports that I haven’t. BUT overall, I think I’M on the money. What YOU have is WORTHLESS. I WON’T keep going till I’m caught. It’s NEARLY over.

  I enjoyed your book, Dr Mark. It says as much about YOU as the killers you used to hunt. YOU also inhabit the DARKNESS.

  This has been an amusing aside. DO NOT continue to search for me, or I will be forced to take DIRECT action against YOU.

  Mark studied the letter and the accompanying psych profile, looking for an insight into the mind and soul of the killer. Only an unbounded arrogance was evident. The unsub was brash, which was a bonus. If he thought that he was too clever to be caught, then in all likelihood he would be apprehended. The most successful killers did not underestimate the authorities that were trying to close them down. They made no contact, and in some instances were only caught through their inability to stop. Insatiable bloodlust brought about their downfall. There was no reason to suppose that this creep would prove to be the exception to the rule. He might truly believe that after killing Caroline, should he succeed in doing so, that he would stop. But he was either lying to or deluding himself. Once started, serial killers invariably kept going, compelled by their sick minds to keep on, until, like lemmings, they eventually fell over the cliff’s edge. There was no off switch in the mindset of an established pattern or ritual murderer.

  Pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, Mark realised that the unsub had not read the interview he had laid as bait. This communication had been written and posted as a result of the original press photo taken by Larry in Hyde Park, together with the attendant article. His quarry had been drawn out by egotism to enjoin in a psychological battle with a stranger who he perceived to be an adversary with special skills. Mark was hit by a sudden welling tide of relief. His decision not to see Amy for a while had been timely. This unsolicited response from the killer justified his belief that he was up against a game player. God knew how he would respond to the insulting character assassination that Mark had put together with Larry. But Mark did know. This psycho would strike back, and it would most likely not hit his spot to retaliate by mail. He didn’t want to be a pen pal. It was now a very personal secondary diversion. It had not taken a lot to distract the killer.

  Closing his eyes, Mark withdrew into himself and felt his way into his quarry’s mind. On some unfathomable level, that he had never understood or questioned, lest he lose the ability, he became the man he hunted. He mentally reviewed the content of the article from the other man’s perspective. A sense of rage and emotional turmoil inhabited him. He needed to attack the source of his vilification; to release the internal pressure that only killing would mollify.

  “Larry,” Mark said, his eyes snapping open as with logical insight he knew that Larry Holden was, initially, in more danger than himself. At this juncture the reporter would be a soft target whom the killer could make an example of to cause Mark to sit up and take notice of what happens if someone pissed him off enough.

  Larry was fully dressed, curled up on top of the bed in a deep stupor, courtesy of a full bottle of Johnny Walker. He was dreaming, bringing his hands together with joyous enthusiasm; applauding.

  The school hall was packed, and before him on the raised stage was the choir. His daughter, Annette, walked out to centre stage, resplendent in her maroon and grey uniform; face peaches and cream, her hair a golden shining mane under the spotlight. This, to Larry and Hannah, was the high point of the service. And as Annette sang like a songbird in perfect pitch, Hannah found his hand and squeezed it gently.

  Everything was as it should be. But dreams lacked the reality of conscious life. The hall faded, to become the murky interior of a pub, where he had endeavoured unsuccessfully to drown his heartbreaking sorrow on the day that his divorce became absolute. Behind the bar, a phone rang and rang and rang, but the landlord ignored it and continued to mechanically and maniacally wipe the same patch of marble counter with a grey, beer-sodden dishcloth.

  Coming to, slowly, Larry felt wetness on the pillow, where he had drooled and spilled tears while asleep. Bile burned at the back of his throat, and his head pounded as he sat up too quickly. The empty Scotch bottle rolled across the floor as his feet, still encased in shoes, inadvertently caught it.

  The dream shone brightly for a second, then receded to fade beyond recall, leaving him feeling empty, wretched and without hope.

  Making his way through to the living room, he picked up the receiver to still the strident ringing that had woken him and was aggravating his ‘bought and paid for’ headache. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Larry, it’s Mark Ross.”

  “What do you want?” he said, his words clipped and terse. Almost as sour as his breath.

  “I think that you’re in real danger. I just got post from the Park Killer, which was obviously written before he got to read the piece you and I cooked up.”

  “So?”

  “So, I believe he’ll come after you, Larry. He’ll want to show me that he doesn’t take kindly to ridicule.”

  “No sense of humour, eh?”

  “Not that you or I would laugh at. You need to pack up and haul ass out of there, now.”

  “You don’t really think―”

  “What I think is that he will kill you, Larry, just to make a point. He won’t contact you, warn you, or stalk you. He’ll just fucking kill you, as soon as he can.”

  “Christ, Mark, do you expect me to move out into a hotel that I can ill afford, on the off chance that some mad bastard might take time out to waste a second-rate stringer?”

  “I don’t consider it an off-chance risk. You just spelt it out. He’s a mad bastard, and that sums him up, in layman’s terms. Check his curriculum vitae, Larry. He kills people. That’s what pops his cork.”

  “Okay, I get the picture. I’ve got some stuff to print up, and then I’ll decamp.”

  “Don’t get whacked over some crummy photographs, Larry.”

  “Worry not, Doc. I’ll watch my back and find somewhere to hole-up.”

  “Just don’t get smashed and decide that it’s not important. I honestly believe that you will be his number one priority.”

  “I hear you loud and clear. Thanks for calling.” Larry said, then disconnected and returned to the bedroom, where he undressed and dumped his shirt, underpants and socks into a raffia basket that was already overflowing with dirty clothes, before going into the bathroom to shower and shave.

  Twenty minutes after receiving the call from Mark, Larry was feeling more human as he sipped black coffee and reflected on what the American had said. The more he considered the likelihood of some homicidal maniac targeting him, just because of an article he’d written that the guy probably hadn’t even read, the more ridiculous the premise seemed. The killer’s penchant was for redheads. He was fixated on
the female of the species, not any Tom, Dick or Larry. Mark Ross meant well, but seemed a little paranoid and irrational. Commonsense told Larry that he was far more likely to die as a result of drinking and smoking to excess, than at the hands of the so-called Park Killer.

  Having dismissed the warning, Larry went into the small, cramped second bedroom, which he had converted into a darkroom, and closed the door. He should have gone wholly digital by now, but the familiar smell of developer and fix mildly seared his nostrils, and at once sheathed him in a cocoon of familiarity. In a world of uncertainty and fluctuating fortune, this environment of: chemicals, trays, enlarger, and boxes of photographic paper was a constant. Since being a teenager, he had found a sense of escape and almost seductive wonder in the red glow of a darkroom. He had never tired of watching an image magically appear as he gently agitated a seemingly blank sheet of paper in a fresh batch of colourless fluid. The new digital technology was soulless, and did not offer the same level of satisfaction.

  Lost in a warm, womb-like retreat that dispelled his problems and the acute self reproach at having fucked up his life and alienated the only two people who had given it substance and meaning, Larry developed, fixed and rinsed a film, then cut it into manageable strips and clipped them on to a length of cord that hung over the bench. He then printed up a few 8x10’s of an ex-boy band singer who had just launched his solo career with a hit single, and was flavour of the month. Larry had snapped the young man as he staggered out of Stringfellows in Covent Garden and fell over, pissed, with fresh vomit on his shirt front. The prat had an idiotic expression on his face, and was offering up his middle finger to the camera lens. Pure gold.

  Larry shrugged. He may not be the new Litchfield, or ever be invited to ‘do’ the Pirelli calendar, but the spontaneous and candid reality of what he shot was, in his view, far more credible.

  At noon, Larry left his refuge to relieve his bladder, have a cigarette, and dispel hunger pains with a quickly made and even more quickly devoured sandwich, made up of stale bread and a single slice of sweaty, out-of-date ham that he liberally smothered with mustard. He then returned to his sanctum, where space and time seemed suspended, and the pain and inability to cope without the crutch of alcohol dissolved.