DEAD GONE

by Luca Veste

  Murphy rubbed his eyes. Was he supposed to carry that around with him, along with all the rest of his shitty baggage as well now? It was nothing. Just a small mistake.

  ‘You’re going to have to get used to it, you know.’

  Murphy didn’t reply.

  ‘It was an error of judgement, but it’s exactly what that lot out there will use against you.’

  Murphy sighed, picked a piece of fluff from his trousers. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Where are we, what’s the latest?’

  Murphy looked up; bollocking over. ‘We’re investigating a link to the university.’ He brought the DCI up to date with the morning’s occurrences.

  ‘Okay, good,’ DCI Stephens replied. ‘Get down there, exploit Rossi’s connections if need be. Just find something that we can use. I don’t want a serial working in this city.’

  ‘Understood.’ Murphy watched as she tucked an unruly strand of dark hair behind her ear and then busied herself with paperwork. He left the office.

  Rossi was on the phone at her desk when Murphy returned. He strode over, ignoring the sniggers from the officers milling about near the DCI’s office, who had overheard his reprimanding.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s perfect. We’ve already got a psychology link to the killings, and the university link of course. No point in asking the boss to pay for a consult from a psychologist at this stage, as we’ll only get a no, budget restraints and all that bollocks. So, I called someone I knew from the uni in the Sociology department. They put me through to the psychology department.’

  ‘And?’ Murphy was becoming agitated by Rossi’s enthusiasm.

  ‘And … sorry, he’s called Richard Garner,’ Rossi said, re-checking her notebook. ‘Professor Richard Garner. He’s the head of the psychology department. He was very accommodating and eager to help. Just doing his civic duty he said. Can you believe that? He sounds really posh.’

  ‘Get to the point, Rossi. My coffee is getting cold.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. He’s going to help us try and make a bit more sense of what’s going on here. A professional opinion I guess. He has office hours this afternoon. He’s expecting us.’

  ‘Well we best not disappoint the professor then,’ Murphy said.

  16

  Tuesday 29th January 2013 – Day Three

  The psychology department was on the other side of the campus they’d visited the previous day. It was a different place. Newer buildings mixed with old architecture. The amount of pubs rivalling Matthew Street or Concert Square in town.

  ‘I spent most of my time on this side. Sociology and Psychology both have their departments at this end,’ Laura said, as Murphy half listened. ‘And there’s another library just down there.’ Rossi pointed towards the end of yet another side street.

  She began picking out different buildings as they passed them. Old Victorian buildings surrounded a small grassy area, and were now used to house different scholarly departments, instead of old merchants and bankers. Rossi pointed out the second library, a large glass-fronted building which had more in common with a modern office building than the libraries Murphy was used to. The place screamed wealth. No expense spared. A redbrick university where any middle-class parent with a child not going to Oxbridge would be happy to send their offspring. No matter that five minutes down the road was dilapidated housing and an unemployment rate a royal family would be proud of – you couldn’t see the differences well enough from campus, so that was good enough for them. Murphy knew of so many places like that in the city. The haves and have-nots sitting side by side.

  ‘You know who used to live in these buildings Laura?’ Murphy said, interrupting her.

  ‘Millionaires?’

  ‘Not just millionaires. Merchants. From the shipping companies which built the port up from Albert Dock. Cotton, sugar, and tobacco. This city was built on the back of the slave trade you know?’

  Rossi looked surprised. ‘So you do know some stuff then?’

  ‘I know about the history of my city.’ Murphy replied. ‘Have you seen pictures of Liverpool before the sixteen hundreds? Nothing but a fishing harbour. We start taking a bunch of people in Africa and enslaving them to work on tobacco and sugar plantations in America and the West Indies, and all of sudden we’re a major city. Shouldn’t forget that.’

  Rossi nodded in response. ‘I remember my dad going through a period where he just devoured every book going on Liverpool. He’d sit us down on a Sunday and lecture us on it.’

  Murphy laughed. ‘They seem like good people. How long have they been over now?’

  ‘Over forty years.’ Rossi replied. ‘They still go back to Italy every now and again, but they consider this home now.’

  ‘And you’re the baby of the family?’

  Rossi hit him playfully on the shoulder. ‘Don’t remind me. Six older brothers.’

  ‘Probably explains why you’re single.’

  ‘Yeah. Most blokes don’t hang around long after meeting the family. Intimidating I imagine.’

  ‘They’re just looking out for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Rossi led them up to a smaller building which she informed Murphy was named after a prominent women’s rights campaigner. She seemed to be revelling in the tour guide role, so Murphy left her to it, occasionally tuning back in to the words, all the while feeling he didn’t belong here, his working-class roots shining through. He knew it was ridiculous, that there were probably many students there with the same background as him, but he couldn’t shake it off.

  A quick flash of their ID at reception, and they were whisked through to the psychology department by a lecturer on his way up there.

  ‘Tom, Tom Davies’, he’d introduced himself as, shaking each of their hands in turn. He was younger than Murphy, casually dressed in baggy jeans and a t-shirt which seemed to have a cartoon on the front. Murphy looked down at his Burton’s suit. Overdressed, even for an academic setting.

  Rooms lined the corridors, different names attached to doors, doctors and professors side by side, behind closed doors.

  ‘How many bloody doctors and professors work here?’ Murphy grumbled.

  ‘Psychology is a popular subject.’ Tom replied. ‘Always a large intake every year. Also it’s a research-led university, so there’s always something going on.’

  Murphy huffed, ‘complain about our pensions, should come and take a look at what’s being spent here.’

  They came to a door at the end of the corridor. ‘Here we are. Just give him a knock. Good luck.’ Tom turned away with a quick smile, leaving Murphy trying to work out if he was wishing him luck with the case or the professor.

  Murphy stood back as Rossi knocked on the door. A small voice answered in response, and Rossi opened the door.

  It was a mess. Books everywhere, loose papers strewn about the place. Not very large either. Murphy had to squeeze himself past an open filing cabinet to enter the room. At the centre of it sat a man who was seventy if he was a day. Bent over slightly, wiry strands of grey hair protruding from his head. He was as thin as a rake, with a pointed nose and dark sunken eyes. His jaw came to a sharp point underneath slim blood-red lips. A walking stick balanced against the desk in front of him as he turned in his chair to face them. It was the smell that got up Murphy’s nose though, an old musty smell, mixed with nicotine. He almost gagged as the man shook his hand, Murphy aware of the bony fingers being lost in his grip. He shook lightly, afraid of crushing the professor’s hand.

  ‘Professor Garner?’

  ‘Hello,’ the professor said in a raspy voice, which explained the nicotine smell. ‘That’ll be me. Pleased to meet you both.’ Murphy exchanged a bemused look with Rossi, who gave a slight shrug in response.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not as old as I look. Not about to fall apart if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  An uncomfortable silence followed which Rossi ended swiftly. ‘It’s a bit cramped in here, is
there somewhere else we can go?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We shall go to the conference room down the hall, it will be empty at the moment,’ Garner said, slowly getting to his feet. Murphy spied his fingernails as they gripped the edge of the chair. Dirty.

  Garner led them down a corridor to a room, which was thankfully large enough to put some space between them. Murphy sat on a chair that seemed to have been made for a slightly smaller person than him. Rossi had her notebook at the ready, and Garner plonked himself down behind a table, interlocking his long fingers. ‘How can I help this afternoon?’

  Rossi took the lead, Murphy allowing her, with it being more of her comfort zone. She explained the two murders and the possible link to the university, stopping short of revealing the existence of the two letters from the killer. They’d agreed before the meeting not to disclose exact details, and just ask questions. The media weren’t being informed, it was best if no one else was. Especially as it was likely they’d be searching for suspects within the department.

  ‘So we just have a few questions about the university and perhaps some questions about certain psychology links we may have to the case.’ Rossi continued. ‘And we were told you’d be the best person to speak to.’

  ‘Well, I have been at the university for a long time.’ Garner said with a laugh. I would be more than happy to help in any small way.’

  ‘Did you know either of the two victims?’

  Garner paused, looking up as if the answer would reveal itself to him from the ceiling. ‘I don’t know the first girl, sorry, but I was aware of Stephanie Dunning. I lecture to over one hundred and fifty students at a time. But I remember the name. She was a mature student, and they tend to be more forthcoming than the younger ones.’

  Rossi spoke next, ‘Do you remember if she was particularly close to anyone?’

  Garner grimaced, showing red gums and those yellow stained teeth once again. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Unless I have them in my advisory group, I don’t have much contact with them outside of lectures. You should ask Colin.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Rossi asked.

  ‘Works in the library. Nice man. Helps out the students quite a bit. Knows where most of the books in that library are kept, plus most of the subjects they cover. He always suggests the best books to get the highest grades. Invaluable.’

  Rossi looked to Murphy, who took the cue. He shifted in his chair, worried it might break at any time, as he thought how to broach the subject in the letters. ‘What can you tell us about MK Ultra?’ Murphy said.

  ‘The psychology experiments?’

  Murphy nodded in reply.

  ‘Ah, the CIA and their nefarious activities. Not much is known, but they did some pretty unethical experiments. They were interested in mind control above all, using different types of drug to see if they could be used in interrogation. All very top secret. Most of what they did at the time will never be known, as many of the files were destroyed when it came to light.’

  ‘And the LSD part of it?’ Murphy said.

  ‘There was some sort of experiment involving brothels …’

  ‘Operation Midnight Climax?’ Rossi cut in.

  ‘That’s the one. Yes, sounds ominous does it not?’ Garner said with a toothy grin. ‘They gave LSD to unwitting participants to see their reactions. Filmed and studied. Not ethical at all in today’s world. What they did to those poor men doesn’t bear thinking about. One family waited years to find out what happened to their father. He killed himself, according to them. Flung himself from a tenth floor hotel window. The CIA of course denied all responsibility, but questions remain.’

  ‘What about Unit 731 … Does that mean anything to you?’ Rossi said, her notebook open.

  ‘Hmm. That’s a tricky one. Not much evidence exists regarding what occurred there. It was a set of camps during the Second World War, not unlike the concentration camps Nazi Germany operated during the same period, only in China. A section of the Japanese army had control of a state there,’ Garner said, waving his hands away. ‘They’ve been accused of experimenting on humans, performing vivisection whilst they were still alive, testing the effects of grenades on live subjects, the results of blood loss on bomb victims. They used germ warfare, infecting people with syphilis and gonorrhoea to see the effects.’ He paused, and as Murphy was about to speak Garner smacked a hand on the table. ‘Fleas. That’s it. They had plague fleas, encased in the bombs they dropped in China. Killed hundreds of thousands when the area became diseased with cholera and anthrax.’

  Rossi was writing everything down whilst Murphy tried to keep track. ‘What about death? Psychologically speaking what does death mean to you and your profession?’

  Garner held Murphy’s gaze, cocked his head slightly. ‘We all deal with death differently, detective. I subscribe to Freud’s view on it personally.’ Garner said.

  ‘And what’s that?’ Murphy replied.

  Garner was silent for a few seconds, still holding Murphy’s eyes. ‘Well, it’s quite simple really … it is the aim of all life.’

  17

  He watched them leave, looking out from his office window as they walked away from the building. He was searching for the word to describe how he was feeling. The one word which could sum up the sensation coursing through his veins. How he felt after what he’d done in the last few days.

  Exhilarated.

  Every fibre of his body was tingling with electricity. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his hands shook when he lifted them up in front of his face. He wondered if the adrenaline pumping around his body would ever dissipate.

  He’d barely slept since he’d started. Yet he didn’t feel tired at all.

  He had never felt as alive as he did in that moment.

  And the secret was death.

  He was death, come to life. That was his purpose. That was what he had learned to become. He brought death to all he touched, in turn bringing a reason to his own existence.

  He knew what his purpose was, the point of his being as successful as he had been. Born into wealth, education, being.

  And now death.

  His body shivered with excitement. What would be next?

  Who would be next?

  He looked out across the campus, shaking his head. Turned and added ice cubes to a glass, poured himself a drink. The cracking of the ice breaking the silence surrounding him. It probably wouldn’t be good to be seen drinking on the job, but he felt like celebrating.

  They’d been here. And he was still free.

  He couldn’t fail.

  He lifted the tumbler to his lips, the ice had melted a little, taking the edge off the sharpness of the whisky. The smoothness remained, warming his throat as it travelled down.

  That last girl. Pitiful. All that planning gone to waste.

  The previous one, almost perfect. Watching her, high as a bird, seeing things he couldn’t imagine. Ending her life when it became time.

  Almost.

  Unit 731. The Asian Auschwitz. Not as famous as its inauspicious kin, yet the information was there if you wanted it.

  And he had.

  Fascinating.

  They could only estimate the amount of people who had died there, anything between three thousand and two hundred thousand. Incredible numbers.

  A labour camp for military research in China, during the Second World War. They performed tests to see the effects of grenades at various distances, but then went much further. Limbs were removed, pregnant victims had children ripped from their wombs without anaesthetic.

  But it was the blood loss experiments which had fascinated him.

  Intermitent bloodletting. That had been his plan for the bitch. Until she made him change his mind.

  He’d come back to that one. One for the future perhaps. And what a future he had in store.

  He’d been shown the light. And the dark.

  He was grateful for both.

  He turned over a fresh page of his writing pad. And began to
write.

  Experiment Five

  Bystander Theory

  How long can a dead body go unnoticed in a public place?

  Not so much unnoticed, maybe ignored.

  Make it apparent the person is dead?

  Location important … Liverpool One, Liver Buildings, Albert Dock … somewhere big, accessible, lot of foot traffic.

  He looked over what he had written. He knew the place. It was just a case of picking the person who would take part.

  He had the perfect specimen.

  18

  Tuesday 29th January 2013 – Day Three

  Murphy and Rossi walked back to the car. Garner had been unable to help them any further, but his words had played on Murphy’s mind since the short meeting. Death seemed to be circling around him, constricting him.

  ‘What now?

  Rossi was asking the pertinent question … what should they do?

  ‘We need to get a track on the two victims’ last movements,’ Murphy replied.

  Murphy counted pubs they passed as they went back to the car. Four. Bloody students.

  ‘And I want a list of everyone who works in the psychology department. We start interviews with them all tomorrow.’

  Rossi nodded in reply. She looked as tired as Murphy felt. ‘We should go to the library now. See if that librarian is working?’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Murphy replied, ‘may as well whilst we’re here.’

  They trudged off towards the library, the effort of it beginning to grate on Murphy. He was tired, having had little sleep the night before, and the long day was catching up to him. ‘What did you make of the professor?’ Rossi said.

  ‘No idea. Struck me as a bit strange, but then, aren’t all those type of people.’

  ‘What about what he said about death? The Freud view of it?’

  Murphy sighed deeply, unsure of how to respond. ‘I always thought Freud was all about wanting to shag your mother and that kind of weird stuff. Didn’t realise he had a sideline in sad sayings about death. I’ve no idea though. I don’t know if that’s a healthy outlook to have on life to be honest. If all you’re doing is waiting around to die, when do you actually live?’