DEAD GONE

by Luca Veste

  And that’s not the only occurrence …

  Sergio Aguiar in 2008. Beat his two-year-old son to death in California whilst being watched by bystanders. Most reported they didn’t step in because they were worried he was psychotic, and he might have had a weapon concealed on him.

  Wang Yue in 2011, two years old. Hit by a van, in China. Eighteen people walked past her stricken body, some stepping around the blood gushing from her wounds. It took almost ten minutes for someone to help her. She died some days later.

  Diffusion of responsibility. It’s someone else’s problem. Not mine, let someone else deal with it.

  How long was this man here for? Laid out, arms and legs outstretched, in plain sight of all the visitors to our famous dock?

  I’m leaving him there at three-thirty a.m. on the 31st January.

  I’ve been reading up about you, David Murphy. A highly respected member of the police service. That is, until you married your second wife. The way in which you two met was frowned upon by your fellow officers. I’m sure they came around when the time came for you two to marry. But who’s to say what was really said behind closed doors.

  Then he was released. And he wasn’t happy, was he, David?

  There’s a lot about you in the papers, you were quite the local hero at one time. Rising through the ranks, a local council estate child done good. Then, it turned. Your parents were murdered. I read a lot about this, and your past was raked through in the media. Your marriage broke down, which is understandable given the circumstances, and nothing more was heard about you for a long time. That is, until I came onto the scene. Then there’s the Phillips girl you didn’t help. I’d love to know if her face still haunts you, detective.

  Maybe we’ll get the chance to discuss that one day … Would you like to be the subject of one of my little experiments perhaps?

  I have focus now. Meaning. I know the man who is trying to stop me. I hadn’t factored that into my analysis. An odd thought to be the subject of a manhunt.

  I thought the piece on the front page of the Liverpool News was terribly overblown. Something should be done about that reporter. Say the word, detective, and he’s gone.

  It wasn’t hard to find all this information on you, everything lasts forever on the internet. You know that of course. I’m sure you’re aware of the videos that still exist of you outside your parents’ house. Your anguished screams of grief, captured forever. Beautiful to watch.

  So you know something about loss, grief, pain … death. It’s apt that you will be spearheading the investigation into my activities. Because it’s not going to stop now. I have learnt so much. It’ll be exciting to see what is to come.

  I’ll be seeing you.

  ‘Just under twelve hours then.’

  Murphy nodded at Rossi in reply. A dead body lying in full view of passersby for almost twelve hours. The papers would have a field day with that information.

  ‘Where does he keep them?’ Murphy said, mindlessly doodling on a notepad.

  ‘His house? I don’t know. Seems to be planned out properly, so it’ll be somewhere he feels secure.’

  Murphy grunted under his breath. ‘He’d have to be able to keep them subdued for a period of time. He seems to keep them for at least twenty-four hours before killing them.’

  ‘He seems to be focused on you now.’

  Murphy smirked. ‘Not the first time.’

  It’d been two days since they’d spoken to Colin Woodland. One day on from them sitting outside his house near Stanley Park, Liverpool football club’s stadium only a few streets away. ‘We need help with the psychology angle of this. I don’t think your sociology degree and my woodwork CSE is enough. I’ll speak to the boss about getting someone in.’

  Rossi nodded enthusiastically, bringing the nodding dog he used to have on the dashboard of his car to Murphy’s mind. He bit back a smile. He was finding it more difficult to control his emotions.

  Laughing one minute, despair the next.

  ‘Where do we start then?’ Rossi brought his attention back to the room.

  ‘CCTV?’

  As if on cue, Brannon puffed his way into the incident room, making a beeline for Murphy.

  ‘Got them, sir,’ he said, banging into the desk as he somehow misjudged the distance.

  ‘Excellent. Start watching them. Make a list of all the vehicles that turn up between one a.m. and six a.m.’

  ‘Great. I’ll get right on that.’

  Murphy watched as Brannon winked at Rossi and left.

  Murphy picked up the letter, the plastic evidence bag crinkling in his hands.

  ‘We need to start again. From the beginning.’

  23

  Thursday 31st January 2013 – Day Five

  ‘Donna McMahon, LSD experiments. Found in Sefton Park. Strangled to death. Julie Ward. The fighter. Found in Newsham Park, two days later. She has no experiment linked to her other than what he says he was planning to attempt. Died from stab wounds to the throat, with more to her chest and abdomen.’ Murphy attached the last photograph to the white board. ‘Today, Colin Woodland, bystander effect. Preliminary post-mortem report gives the cause of death as stab wound to the heart. Although, as you can see from the photos, there was significant damage all around it.’

  ‘He was trying to find the right place to hit the heart?’ Rossi said.

  ‘Maybe it started like that, but he destroyed that area of his chest, hacking away at it. A stab wound goes directly through his heart.’

  ‘Jesus. Three in five days. I’ve never known anything like it.’

  Murphy stepped back, looking at the map of the city. Attempting to see some kind of pattern. Nothing jumped out at him.

  ‘Two in deserted parks at opposite ends of the inner city. One at the Albert Dock. Two women, one man. Different ages, all connected to the university. Two students, one librarian. The two students were studying different subjects, in different parts of the university.’ Rossi paused, tucking her hair behind an ear. ‘Where were they all taken from? That might be the key.’

  Murphy snapped his fingers. ‘Good thinking. We need to find that out. Where are we with looking at the CCTV?’

  ‘Eight taxis, six private, two black hacks. Six cars we’re running through the DVLA now.’ DS Brannon had appeared beside Rossi, holding a packet of crisps, barely pausing between speaking and shoving them in his mouth. ‘Already discounted the taxis, as they were in and out.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Murphy said, looking at Rossi, sensing her discomfort as Brannon got too close to her.

  Brannon began to shake his head, but then stopped. ‘There was something a bit weird. There was a guy stood right in front of the camera for about twenty minutes. He’s standing there, then he takes out his phone, speaks for a bit, and then looks around. He just got off after that though.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Rossi asked, moving over to the map on the wall.

  ‘Think it was about three-ish, Laura.’ He said her name slowly as if it were foreign on his tongue. Murphy closed the distance between them, facing Brannon. The smell of cheese and onion stuck in the back of Murphy’s throat. ‘Did we get a good look at him?’

  ‘Enough that we can see him properly.’ Brannon replied, placing a finger in his mouth, dampening it, before removing the dregs of the crisp packet and sucking it off a fat sausagey finger.

  Murphy turned away. ‘Good. Laura, I’m going to take a look. You make a start on the cars from the DVLA.’

  Murphy walked behind him, the bounce in Brannon’s step becoming quickly annoying. Like they were off for a visit somewhere fun.

  ‘It’s really a good picture. I knew there was something off about him. As soon as I saw him I knew I had to tell you.’

  Yeah, okay, that’s why it was an afterthought, nobhead. Murphy scolded himself. Brannon was just trying to please, and that sometimes brought results.

  Murphy waited as Brannon rewound the footage to the moment the man appeared. The camera was se
t up to monitor the entrance to the road which led down to the Albert Dock’s clubs and bars, which now attracted most of the visits there after dark. Come to see history in the day, make history at night. Not one of their better slogans. The man appeared in frame at five minutes to three, clearly waiting for something. He was looking up and down the road which ran along the outside of the Albert Dock; a wide main road, which ran most of the length of the seafront, up towards Bootle in the north and Parliament Street towards the south.

  ‘There he is.’

  Brannon paused the footage. ‘Can you zoom in a bit?’ Murphy asked. Brannon pressed a couple of buttons and the man’s face became slightly larger, but also blurrier.

  It didn’t matter. Murphy knew who he was.

  Murphy paced Stephens’s office. ‘His name is Robert Barker. Me and Nick Ayris interviewed him about a year ago after his girlfriend, Jemma, went missing. Nick is a DS in South Liverpool now. You know her mum. Helen Barnes?’

  DCI Stephens steepled her fingers under her chin. ‘Jemma. Known Helen for years, but we don’t really keep in touch.’

  ‘Yeah, well anyway, Robert Barker was the boyfriend who reported her missing. She’s never been found. And now we have him on camera at the dumpsite for the latest murder.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The reason I recognised him straight away and knew his name, was because I’d seen it recently. He works at the university. Some admin job in the psychology department.’

  ‘Ah, now I see why you’re here.’

  ‘Exactly. Enough?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  They sat at a table in the canteen, a couple of uniformed officers on the other side of the room for company. Murphy relaxed a little as he added three packets of sugar to his coffee, looking around for a spoon before shrugging his shoulders and using his finger.

  ‘Asbestos hands, like my mum,’ he said, flicking his finger dry, noticing Rossi shake her head.

  ‘Of course. Nothing to do with laziness?’ Rossi replied, reaching behind her to take a spoon off the next table.

  ‘No. You should see the walking I’m doing on that treadmill. Miles every night. Don’t even need to leave the house.’

  Rossi laughed. ‘There’s me thinking it would just gather dust in the corner. Good to hear you’re actually using the thing.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got to do something with my evenings.’

  ‘Still haven’t spoken to her?’ Rossi said, finding her cup overly interesting at the same time.

  ‘No. And don’t give me down the banks about it. Jess already had a go the other night.’

  ‘She’s your wife. You need to speak to her at some point. It’s been almost a year.’

  ‘I know, Laura. It’s … just hard, you know.’

  Murphy looked away as Rossi lifted her head.

  ‘I was a PC when you got together. I remember what was said, even nicked her a couple of times myself.’

  Murphy shook his head. He hadn’t known that. ‘And?’

  ‘So, I knew you were taking a chance. Heard what everyone was saying, but I had my eye on CID at that point and knew I’d probably end up under you. So I kept my mouth shut.’

  Murphy turned his head as Rossi took a sip from her coffee.

  ‘She wasn’t a proper druggie you know,’ Murphy said. ‘She might have hung around with smackheads, but she wasn’t like them. She’d take speed sometimes, bit of coke here and there. But she was different from all of them. She still had life in her eyes, a spark. And he was taking that away from her.’

  ‘So why can’t you sort it out?’

  Murphy bit on his bottom lip, holding back what he wanted to say. ‘Shit happened. It wasn’t her fault, but I can’t forget it.’

  ‘What about forgive?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Rossi shook her head.

  ‘I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it is,’ Murphy said, finishing off his coffee, wincing at the heat.

  Rossi stood up. ‘All I know is that she’s waited around for you, still is. Are you going to wait another year before either ending it, or sorting it out … sir?’

  Murphy smirked. ‘We’ll see. Anyway, drink up. We’re going to get Barker.’

  PART TWO

  You do not understand even life. How can you understand death?

  Confuscious

  Grief is perhaps the one aspect of death which can be examined. However, even this comes with its own issues of experimentation. There are many different reactions to death, with a seemingly vast array of diverse responses towards it. A death of a loved one can lead to many issues for the person left behind. Dr Kubler-Ross forwarded the theory of the five stages of grief, namely denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. However, this arguably compartmentalises a strong set of emotions which cannot be streamlined into a set of ideals. Simply; death and the response to it, is anything but universal.

  We all deal with death according to our own emotional set up. How we live our lives, our past and present, informs how we grieve.

  We should also be aware that grief is possibly a social construct, created by man to instruct us how we should act when someone dies. We mirror each other’s reactions, learning how we must react to death.

  There is no correct way to act. When we grieve, we do so in a way that has been designed for us by the society in which we live.

  However, we are not all the same. We all feel differently, react differently to events than each other. Inwardly, we struggle to define ourselves by those social ideals, causing psychological issues as we deal with our own grief.

  Grief isn’t a real, tangible object. The way in which we use it is.

  Taken from ‘Life, Death, and Grief.’ Published in Psychological Society Review, 2008, issue 72.

  Experiment Two

  She stood at the top of the stairs, trying to catch her breath, the sound of it hitching in and out reassuring her that she had made it this far. Only a few feet from the safety of the outside world.

  It was a really bad idea. Going back was a really stupid idea.

  In fact, in a list of bad ideas, this was probably the worst one she’d had. She should run. As fast as she could in the opposite direction. Never stopping.

  But she couldn’t leave the other girl down there. She could hear the screams looping around and around, the same cries and pleas. She couldn’t exactly leave her there, run for her life and hope she got help quick enough to save her.

  It wasn’t her fault if something happened to the woman locked away down there, in the room opposite where she herself had been kept. No one would blame her for leaving her there.

  She battled with her conscience.

  If it was the other way around, wouldn’t she hope someone went back for her?

  It came down to a simple fact. She couldn’t live with herself knowing she’d left someone else in that position.

  She listened to the quiet, trying to hear if there was any movement from the bottom of the steps. She couldn’t see anything properly, just outlines of form, the silence giving shape to invisible obstacles.

  She stepped down, not wanting to move too fast in case she disturbed the unconscious man she hoped was still where she had left him. She tried to muffle the sound of her bare feet slapping on the stairs.

  Two steps away from the bottom, she finally saw him. Still in a crumpled heap against the wall. There was a thin shaft of light coming from somewhere behind him, further down.

  He was around six feet away from the door which she needed to open. She reached the bottom of the steps and kept moving, reaching the door within a few strides. Her right knee throbbed, and she could feel dampness leaking down her shin.

  It was locked.

  She’d known it would be, but she still tried to open it. Searched for a bolt or something which would be easy to slide back and open it up.

  She looked back at her own door, the bolt across the middle, the hatch still open.<
br />
  But she found nothing like that. Just smooth wood and a keyhole, with no key.

  The girl behind the door screamed out again, making her jump. She looked over at the man.

  Unmoving.

  She breathed in deeply, letting it out in a low whistle.

  She wanted to get out of there. There was a little more light now her eyes had become used to the darkness outside of her room. Not enough to see more than a few feet in front of her, but it was nowhere near as tar black as the darkness which lay within her room. The basement was small, but seemed to grow in size as she stood in front of the door. She could see what she needed near the bended legs of her captor.

  Captor. A strange word. Not one she was used to saying, or thinking, but it had just popped into her head. Why would that be?

  What the hell was she doing focusing on her choice of words?

  Concentrate.

  She stepped lightly over him, his shallow breaths lifting his chest up and down softly. She moved quietly, but quickly. Grabbing the keyring from the floor, she noticed it held three keys. She wondered what the third one was for. Almost smacked her own head when she remembered the door leading to the basement. What a fool.

  She berated herself again. Focus.

  She turned back the way she came, her eyes constantly shifting between where she was stepping and the man slumped on the floor, his head tucked into his chest. The smell of blood filled the air, fresh. How did she know what blood smelled like?

  She wished those breaths would stop. Then she wouldn’t be shaking so much.

  She tried the first key on the ring, sliding it in to the lock. Turned it, but nothing happened.

  Of course it wasn’t the first one. This was her horror film, and at any second the scary man was going to grab her ankle and pull her to the floor. She held her breath, checking he was still unconscious, the few feet in length that lay between them contracting, seeming both longer and shorter in distance.

  Snap out of it. Try the second one. It won’t be the second one. It’s always the last one. She decided to just try that one instead then.