Those That Remain

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Why did Mechanic stop for three years?’

  ‘I have no idea. There could be many reasons. Maybe he was convicted of another crime and sent to jail. There are well documented cases where the killer learns to overcome the compulsion to commit murder through other means, such as finding a branch of pornography that meets his need so he doesn’t have to kill for kicks. It might be that Mechanic was ill and unable to continue. But, given the long time lapse, that’s unlikely.’

  As they drove, the questions continued and the answers flowed. Lucas often interrupted Jo to seek clarification of previous points, as if his mind was playing catch-up with the deluge of new information. She was patient with his eagerness to find out more and had an answer for everything he asked. Jo Sells’ doctorate was well deserved.

  They arrived at the Mason house and Lucas reluctantly opened the car door. He could have stayed talking to Jo all day. The seventy minutes they’d had together wasn’t nearly long enough. Lucas felt they could have driven all the way to San Francisco and he’d still have had more questions. The more questions she answered, the more questions he had. She was easy to talk to and had been patient with his schoolboy curiosity – and his schoolboy misunderstandings.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciated that,’ he called to her over the roof of the car as he got out.

  She nodded, ‘That’s okay. We can go over it again if you want.’ He smiled another thank you and made his way to the front door with Jo following.

  The key fitted snugly in the lock and the mechanism opened with a solid clunk. The door swung open and Lucas went inside. The house was strangely quiet compared to the last time Lucas was there. He ushered Jo into the hallway.

  The blinds were closed, but shards of bright light danced across the rooms as the breeze from the open door swayed the strips of material back and forth. The effect made it difficult to focus on the interior. Lucas closed the door to prevent the onset of a migraine.

  ‘Okay. Talk me through what you know,’ said Jo.

  ‘Mechanic approached the property from the beach and cut open the pool netting to gain access. He taped the netting back in place, levered the patio door from the runners and placed his thumb in the middle of the TV screen. That much we’re certain of, but afterwards it becomes less clear. He made it look as though the property had been burgled, took a number of items and left. So we can only conclude that Mechanic had a change of heart and chose not to kill the Masons after all.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Jo. ‘The Masons don’t fit the profile.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, the Masons don’t fit the profile.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, look at the photos.’ Jo went to the large decorative table which had an oversized lamp on it. Surrounding the base were eight photos of Celia and her husband, Charles, on various holidays and family events.

  She held one up and turned it to face Lucas. ‘Look, no kids. Mechanic has always gone for a traditional family unit: mom, dad and two children. These people didn’t have kids. It doesn’t fit.’

  ‘So why would he go to the trouble of breaking in? From what you told me in the car, Mechanic would have meticulously planned this because he’s an organized killer. He would have known they were just a couple.’

  Jo sank into one of the sofas, shaking her head. ‘This is screwed up. This killer is a real detail merchant. He would have rehearsed everything in his head before he made his move. The only thing I can think of is that something went wrong. He made an error and ended up here at the Masons’. Once he gained access, he saw the pictures and realized he was in the wrong place.’ She shook her head again. ‘But that doesn’t figure.’

  Lucas listened intently, the grey matter working at warp speed to make sense of what Jo was telling him.

  ‘Are you saying that he just got the wrong house?’ Lucas asked, with more than a hint of challenge in his voice.

  ‘What other explanation can there be? The Masons are so obviously not his target group. He got in here, came to that conclusion and made it look like a burglary to cover his tracks. It’s the only logical explanation I can think of, but it’s so out of character.’

  ‘It’s plausible, I suppose,’ Lucas said. ‘But it’s a major departure from the clinical performance you described to me earlier. Why leave a print for us to find? That’s careless.’

  ‘Maybe he panicked and somehow messed up. I know I’m making assumptions here, but I’m just trying to figure out what might have happened.’

  They looked at one another in silence, each willing the other to make sense of the situation. A loud knock at the front door snapped them out of their state of mutual confusion.

  ‘I’ll get it. It’s probably Bassano. I asked him to meet us here,’ Lucas said.

  He opened the door to a tall, middle-aged man who clearly enjoyed the Florida sunshine just a little more than he should.

  Lucas allowed his eyes to adjust to the bright light. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘I was supposed to meet my friend early this morning to go fishing, only he didn’t show.’ The man spoke in a very clipped and earnest fashion. Maybe ex-military, Lucas thought. The stranger continued, ‘He isn’t answering his phone so I wondered, since you’re police, if you could maybe do something. It’s not like him at all. He lives for fishing.’ He stared at Lucas.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re in the process of conducting an investigation here, so my advice is to call the station if you’re worried about your friend.’

  ‘But can’t you do it? I can’t raise anyone at his house and that’s really odd.’ He was not to be put off.

  ‘Sir, I can understand that you’re concerned about your friend. If you’d like to call this number …’ Lucas groped around in his wallet and handed him a card.

  ‘But that’s just plain stupid. Why would I want to call these numbers when you’re here already? Why can’t you help?’

  ‘Sir, we’re in the middle of an ongoing investigation. Please call one of the numbers on the card and explain the situation to them. They’ll be able to ...’ Lucas let his sentence tail away as he started to close the door.

  ‘But you’re a police officer.’ The man was shouting. ‘What’s the point of calling the station when you’re here? You could do it right here, right now.’

  Lucas was about to exert the last few pounds of pressure to shut the heavy front door when something in the way the guy said the last four words made him stop. He slowly reopened it.

  ‘What do you mean, I could do it right here, right now?’

  ‘My friend lives in the house next door to this one. His name is Dave McKee.’

  15

  Mechanic’s head was feeling slightly fuzzy. It was always the same the morning after, like coming down from a massive high. The surge of endorphins meant that even the background pain from Mechanic’s burned and lacerated stomach didn’t feel so bad.

  The late morning sun poured in through the big picture windows which overlooked the park. The air conditioning kicked in, ready to do battle with the July Florida weather: ninety-three degrees, ninety percent humidity with scattered showers. The apartment was well furnished, neat and tidy and the smell of polish hung in the air.

  Mechanic got out of the bath, dried, put on a bathrobe and walked to the kitchen looking for coffee and anything sweet.

  It was odd the way sugar played such a major part in the recovery process the morning after. But sugar it needed to be and lots of it. Mechanic put four Pop-Tarts in the toaster and set the kettle to boil before sitting at the breakfast table to bask in the gentle glow, smiling broadly.

  The fuzzy head didn’t matter, it would soon clear. The important thing was that last night was a job well done. The screw up the previous evening wasn’t important. The success of last night had erased it. The crucial thing for Mechanic was that the mistake had been corrected with such style.

  The Pop-Tarts sprang from their glowing red slots. Mechanic lifted them onto a plate a
nd devoured them hungrily. Sugar rush.

  Once they’d been demolished, Mechanic refilled the slots with another four and made coffee while the answering machine blinked an impatient red from across the room. Mechanic tried to ignore it to concentrate on the hot sweet black liquid steaming in the cup, but it just blinked on and on demanding attention. The fuzzy feeling subsided as the sugar coursed around Mechanic’s body and the excitement of a new message took over.

  Mechanic rushed into the bedroom and returned with a small leather-covered book. Sitting by the phone, Mechanic hit the play button.

  The tape rewound in the machine. It whirred and spooled back to the beginning. This was a long message. Eventually it stopped, clicked and started to play.

  ‘Hi, my name is Kaitlin, we’ve spoken briefly before. If you recall, I saw your advertisement and thought I’d get in touch again.’ The voice was high pitched and tentative. There was a long pause. ‘I was really interested in what you said on the poster.’ Another long pause. Then Kaitlin’s words came out in a rush. ‘I really got what you were saying. It was as if you were talking directly to me. You understand what’s going on and what it’s like. I feel as though you’ve been there too and I’d like to talk with you, I think you could help.’ There was a pause before she suddenly said, ‘I’ll give you a call another time.’ And with that, Kaitlin hung up.

  Mechanic sat in silence. This one was promising. The choice of location had paid off. It was always beneficial to think these things through and carefully target the next victim. After all, it would not serve Mechanic well to have a blanket campaign. No, careful targeting was the answer.

  There were indications that this one could be good. Mechanic replayed the message and ticked off the mental checklist. She only gave her first name, a sign that this was a covert call. Kaitlin probably wasn’t even her real name, but that didn’t matter. The hesitations and pauses signified someone who lacked confidence, who was confused about what to say. Vulnerability was key. The poster had struck a chord with her and the chances were that she hadn’t spoken to anyone about getting in touch. She sounded frustrated at the end of the message, as though she had built herself up to make the call, only to be disappointed when Mechanic wasn’t there to take it. Then there was the killer line, ‘It was as if you were talking directly to me.’ That was a fantastic phrase. Kaitlin was hooked, completely hooked.

  Mechanic made notes in the small book and closed it with a satisfied grin. Message left 8.30pm. She’ll call back, she’ll definitely call back. A knot of thrill and exhilaration built up in Mechanic’s stomach.

  Just one final check. Mechanic lifted the receiver and dialed *69 to get Kaitlin’s number, but it had been withheld. She would call back. Mechanic hit the button on the answer machine to wipe the message tape clean before getting dressed, still nursing the cup of coffee.

  No sooner had Mechanic reached the bedroom door than the phone rang.

  16

  Lucas was back at the station, looking deep into a cup of lukewarm black coffee. He felt drained of energy. The morning at the McKee’s had rushed by in a blur of hectic activity and had taken it out of him.

  When the guy at the Mason house had said that Lucas could do it ‘right here, right now’, the realization went off like a firecracker in his head. Ignoring his visitor, Lucas ran to the back of the next-door property. Sure enough, he found the netting had been cut and taped back in place. Across the pool he could see the patio door propped up against the frame.

  Inside the house he found Hannah McKee tied up and lying on the floor. A pool of congealed blood stained the bedroom carpet where she’d been beaten into unconsciousness. She was still alive, but in a bad way. Lucas was relieved when the ambulance arrived quickly, her injuries were way outside his abilities to help. The garage contained the sickening theatre of Dave McKee and his two children buckled up in the family car. Dad in the driver’s seat with the kids in the back. Each one had been shot through the head.

  Lucas stood in the corridor which ran from the bedrooms to the living room. The walls, floor and ceiling were splattered with brain, blood and bone. He imagined Mechanic squeezing the trigger and the core of carnage erupting from the back of McKee’s head. The gun must have been silenced because everyone else was in their rightful place when the fantasy played itself out in cold reality. There’s never an adequate professional shield to protect you from the crushing horror of young death. Lucas felt it weighing heavily on him.

  He got the wrong house, he thought.

  Jo Sells stayed at the property and waited for Bassano to arrive. She wanted to immerse herself in the crime scene, while Lucas went back to the station. He needed time to think.

  Lucas was staring out the window in his office when Bassano burst in. ‘Sir, I think I know why Mechanic went to the Mason house the previous night.’ He spread a large street plan of Ridgeway Crescent and the surrounding area onto the conference table.

  ‘But I thought you were at the house,’ Lucas said, puzzled.

  ‘Never mind about that,’ said Bassano impatiently. ‘Okay, let’s retrace Mechanic’s steps on the night he broke into the Mason property. We’ll make a few assumptions but I don’t think I’m far off.’ Lucas nodded his head for him to continue.

  ‘The chances are that he got to the general location by car. It’s the safest, most controlled method and allows for an immediate getaway. But he’d want to park far enough away from the target house not to be spotted. So …’ Bassano stabbed his finger into the map and described Mechanic’s route, ‘… he drives down Ridgeway Crescent passing the Mason house on the right. It’s a long road with a cul-de-sac at the end where there’s space to park. He travels five hundred yards and pulls up at the parking lot. Now he gets out of his car and walks back along the water’s edge to the target house. No one will pay attention to someone enjoying a walk along the beach. It’s perfect. When he gets to the target house, and when no one is looking, bam! He’s in.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Lucas, ‘but he went “bam!” and broke into the wrong house.’

  ‘That’s right, and that’s where the error was made. The McKee house was the intended target and they live at 1315 Ridgeway Crescent. All the properties are located on the beach side of the street and the house numbers run in numerical order. Mechanic drives to the end and looks at the number on the last house, number 1287. He subtracts 1287 from 1315 and counts twenty-eight houses when he walks back up the beach.’

  ‘Brilliant piece of deduction, Sherlock, but he still gets the wrong damn house. Are you saying that with all his high IQ and meticulous planning, Mechanic can’t count to twenty-eight?’

  ‘No, sir, he counts pretty good.’ Bassano tried hard to instill calm into his boss. ‘He counts twenty-eight houses as he walks past them on the beach side of the properties.’ Bassano straightened up from the map on the table. ‘Only, the twenty-eighth house is the Mason house,’ he said, emphasizing each word as he spoke.

  ‘But how can that be?’

  ‘Because one of the residents of Ridgeway Crescent is superstitious and there is no number 1313. The house numbers go 1311, 1312 ... 1314, 1315. Number 1313 is missing, I checked it out. Mechanic counted twenty-eight houses but without number 1313 he ended up in the next door house to the one he wanted. That put him in the Mason house, not the McKee house.’ Bassano looked triumphant.

  Lucas slumped into a chair, exhausted by the events of the day.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ he said to Bassano who gave him a wide smile. ‘But do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘While it solves a little riddle for us, it doesn’t get us any further with the big questions. Like, what’s the connection between our victims? How is he selecting them? Why did Mechanic kill Galbraith?’ Bassano nodded agreement, his smile fading away.

  ‘It does tell us one thing, sir,’ Bassano offered.

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘It tells us he can make mistakes. It tells us he’s not
foolproof.’ Bassano looked at his boss for any flicker of recognition.

  ‘You’re right,’ Lucas said. ‘Let’s hope he makes a few more. How are the rest of the team doing?’

  ‘They’re working hard trying to provide answers to all the questions you just raised, but they’re drawing blanks at every turn. That’s why I got excited about unravelling why Mechanic hit the Mason house. So far it’s the only thing we’ve managed to crack.’

  ‘Keep at it and call me if anything else turns up.’

  Bassano left and Lucas returned to his desk, tilting right back in his chair. From this angle the mountain of paperwork looked even bigger. Even the arrival of a previously dead psychopath on your patch didn’t stop the administration machine churning out endless numbers of forms to fill. He jerked the chair back into its upright position, dragged the pile towards him and removed the top sheet. It was a request from the Governor’s office to comment on a performance stat. Lucas picked up his pen and started scribbling.

  It was late in the evening when he gave up on his paperwork and made his way to his car. There’d been no further revelations from the investigation teams. Lucas had joined them in the incident room on several occasions during the afternoon, as much to get away from his admin as to get himself briefed.

  Walking across the parking lot he could see someone standing by his car, hands in pockets. As he got closer he recognized it was Harper. He was dressed in a suit you could trick or treat in and a white shirt sporting a tragically frayed collar. He was shuffling his feet and staring at the ground. Lucas couldn’t work out if his hair was gelled flat to his head or he had a new haircut. If it was the haircut option, it looked like he’d done it himself.