by Rob Ashman
‘It’s worth following up. As far-fetched as it sounds, it could lead us to further connections between the women. Who are the others we need to talk to?’ Lucas’s mind was racing ahead.
‘Coleen Stewart,’ Jo replied. ‘Her family were torched in the car along with the unknown victim who we thought was Mechanic.’
‘What are her circumstances?’ asked Lucas.
‘As yet we don’t know. We’re having trouble tracing her, she may have emigrated. The team are working on it,’ Bassano said.
‘And Janet Andrews, the woman who died in hospital, do we have any similar leads on her?’ asked Lucas.
‘Not as yet. We’re tracking down her close family. But if she was in the same boat as Lang and Tate we won’t find anything because no one had any idea, the problems were well hidden. Now she’s dead the chances are we’ll never know,’ said Bassano.
‘Ask anyway. It’s unusual for a woman to reach such a crunch point in her relationship and for no one to know about it. Surely she would confide in someone? Go back and interview Lillian Lang and Julie Tate again. I agree with Jo that this is too much of a coincidence. Find out if there is anything that connects this aspect of their lives. Dig around with the other two, find out if they were in the same situation. And when Hannah McKee recovers enough to be questioned, make sure we follow this line with her.’
They disbanded their impromptu meeting. Jo Sells and Bassano made their way back to the incident room to prepare for further late afternoon interviews and Lucas was once again alone with his disturbing thoughts.
Mechanic, on the other hand, was ecstatic. The last piece of preparation was now in place.
23
Mechanic sprawled on the sofa listening to the soft strings of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. This was always part of the ritual. The music signified the end of the preparation phase and the beginning of the contact planning phase. For Mechanic, this was mental spring cleaning, when all the junk and clutter were swept away to make room for fresh and exciting thoughts. Thoughts which involved the method of entry, the spit of the gun as the first bullet tore into the head of the sleeping husband, and the dull thud as the rubber baton beat Sophie Barrock into unconsciousness.
The visit to Sophie’s house had gone well. The counselling sessions were having a profound effect. She was preoccupied, taking no notice of the person who’d come to check out her pool netting. Mechanic’s job was the perfect cover to get a closer look at the house.
Country clubs have outdoor pools with extensive sundeck areas. The guests love the relaxed setting and the waiter service as they lounge by the pool in the Florida sun. But they hate bugs, especially the flying kind. Hence they all have large framed netting to cover the pool and decking areas, and these need regular maintenance. There were country clubs scattered all over Florida, which afforded Mechanic a legitimate reason to travel widely – and to seek out vulnerable women. Even better if they also had a husband, two kids and a car parked in the garage.
Yes, it was fair to say that, apart from ritual murder, the one thing Mechanic knew about was pools, decking and netting.
The maintenance visit to the home of Sophie Barrock was free of charge, part of the product guarantee. The manufacturers of the netting got local specialists to do the work, and Mechanic was nothing if not a specialist. The form Mechanic asked Sophie to sign after the check had been completed was a clever fake, but added to the authenticity of the charade.
For Mechanic, this visit was a vital component of the preparation. The back of the house was checked out to establish which section of netting could be cut away to make the initial entry. It also afforded Mechanic an alternative view of the escape route. It was one thing to observe the property from afar but completely different to view it at close quarters. Mechanic could also take a close look at the patio doors to ensure the right tools were brought on the night. This was all essential for a well-executed entry.
It also allowed for the first viewing of the interior of the house. Mechanic had completed a rough plan by guesswork, but seeing it first hand was always an exciting prospect. It wasn’t difficult to work out where the kids’ bedrooms were, along with the master suite.
Of course, during the visit there was some fictitious net fixing to be done, along with plenty of walking back and forth to the truck for tools, but this was another way of gaining different perspectives on the house and its contents. Each trip gave Mechanic another opportunity to glance through the windows at the side of the house to confirm the position of bedrooms, bathroom and study. Everything was completed in about fifteen to twenty minutes.
For the most part, Sophie carried on as though Mechanic was not there, which was usual when visiting target houses. After all, the service was free and, as far as the owner of the property knew, there were no problems with the netting or the framework so there was no reason to watch over Mechanic’s shoulder to see if the work was up to standard. Mechanic was always left to get on with it without interruption. Also, because the visit was routine, it didn’t merit being shared with other family members. Let’s face it, a wife telling her husband, ‘Honey, someone came to look at the pool today,’ was hardly a heavyweight news item. It was a brilliant cover.
The other important feature of the visit was that it enabled Mechanic to imagine how the final proceedings were going to play out. Mechanic could visualize standing in the large open-plan living room, having just lifted the door from its runners, and getting in synch with the sounds of the sleeping household. Tuning in was such a rush.
Now the contact planning phase of Mechanic’s work could begin, where every last detail was meticulously run and rerun until the fantasy was perfect. It was true that Mechanic knew about pools, decking and netting. But it was also true to say this was not what Mechanic loved the most.
As Mechanic listened to the seventh consecutive rendition of Canon in D, rehearsing the colourful fantasy of killing the Barrock family, across the city a clean-shaven man was flattening his unruly hair with a generous handful of gel. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit which you could go trick or treating in.
He was sober now, very sober.
24
Lucas swung his car into the driveway. It was getting late and the house was in darkness, a clear sign that his wife was still at the conference. Usually this would mean an evening of rolling out the contraband, but tonight he was too preoccupied for chili dogs, beer and sport. He entered the hallway, throwing his keys onto the side table, and headed straight for the whisky.
He flopped into his thinking chair and kicked his shoes off into the middle of the floor. He’d started the day with two major problems and ended it with three. He slurped at the fiery liquid and grimaced as it rasped at the back of his throat. He didn’t even like the damn stuff.
Lucas had only started drinking whisky after the infamous wok incident of ’78. He’d never been able to understand how the purchase of a perfectly good kitchen utensil could have triggered such an onslaught of abuse from his otherwise loving wife. He’d latterly had to concede that it probably had something to do with it being a Valentine’s gift. Women could be funny about that kind of thing.
His birthday had been a week later. His wife had bought him a bottle of expensive whisky, knowing full well that he hated it. Not to be outdone, Lucas pretended to develop a taste for the liquor, sitting next to her on the sofa while watching TV in the evening with a generous glassful in his hand. But he was clearly bluffing, which made every sip he took another small victory for her.
His relationship with his wife was good, if sometimes a little confused. Lucas always considered himself an upfront sort of guy. A set of circumstances occurring on one day would elicit much the same reaction should they occur on any other day. His wife, on the other hand, was different. Whereas one day a bunch of flowers to say sorry would be welcomed with a smile and displayed prominently in a cut-glass vase, another day they’d be dismissed with a ‘so you think that’s it do you?’ and left in the cellopha
ne wrapping on the kitchen table. To Lucas there seemed to be only two things in the world which produced a consistent reaction in his wife, one was chocolate and the other Paul Newman. He loved his wife but running a police station was far more straightforward.
As the whisky warmed him on its way down, Lucas smiled for the first time that day.
He assessed his position. First, he’d made a complete hash of his conversation with Harper and given far too much away. Second, there was a strong likelihood that in the first investigation Mechanic had had a window in on the case. And third, Mechanic didn’t only murder the families, he somehow manipulated the women’s emotions prior to the crime, pushing them to the brink of walking out on their husbands and children. Then to cap it all he had an FBI special agent who didn’t react well to challenge.
Fuck, that’s four problems, he thought taking another sip.
Lucas looked across the room at his citation for bravery which hung on the wall. It served as a constant reminder that career progression was seldom a function of competence, it was more a result of being in the right place at the right time and blind luck. He was no more able a police officer after the blast than before it. He couldn’t write reports any better, he hadn’t gained an encyclopedic knowledge of policing practices and guidelines. He couldn’t debate more effectively or detect crime any faster. He stayed the same, it was the way the world looked at him that had shifted.
Every time he saw a busted tail-light he wondered what life would have been like without that chance encounter. Lucas thought it was ironic that he’d always had the ability to progress up the corporate ladder but it wasn’t until his bravery award that his career got going. If he’d admitted that he’d had no idea the car was full of explosives and that he hadn’t been brave at all, it wouldn’t have gone down well in the press. But then he often asked himself what he would have done if he had known the reality of the situation. The answer always came back the same, he’d still have stopped it.
There was a knock on the door.
Lucas looked through the peephole still clutching his glass. Harper was on the other side. If Harper’s appearance was strange the last time Lucas saw him, the distortion from the peephole lens meant he now looked grotesque.
Lucas opened the door.
‘Hi, this is unexpected.’
‘You keep turning up at my place so I thought I’d return the favour. Do you have time to talk?’ While Harper could still be mistaken for a tramp, there was something in the delivery of his speech which demanded attention. This was a very different Harper, sober and serious.
‘Please come in.’ Lucas stepped aside and welcomed him across the threshold with a sweep of his arm. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘No, thanks, I had enough yesterday to last me through today.’
‘Coffee then?’ Lucas was determined to show Harper how a normal host might treat visitors.
‘No, I’m fine thanks. I need to talk to you.’
‘Yeah, that’s okay. Take a seat.’
‘It’s about last night.’ Lucas was dreading this, his heart sank. ‘I apologize for my behaviour. I’m not well balanced and I tend to self-medicate with alcohol. You could say I’m a coping alcoholic and some days I cope better than others. I could tell you it’s because it dulls the pain, or that it helps me forget what happened in the whole sorry affair that was the Mechanic case. But both those would be a lie. The truth is I get drunk because I like it. And, before you ask, no I don’t want help.’
Lucas was hugely relieved. Harper had obviously come to make amends for the previous evening. Of all the scenarios Lucas had in his head, this was by far the best.
‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘We all get a little crazy from time to time. Forget it. I appreciated your help and I thought I’d drop by to let you know. I’m sorry I disturbed your dinner. Let’s just forget it.’ Lucas rose to his feet as if to show Harper out.
Harper remained seated, staring at the carpet. ‘The other thing is …’ Lucas’s heart missed a beat, ‘… I think I had a leak in the investigation.’
Harper dropped the sentence like a grenade. Lucas sat back down, his worst fears materializing.
Harper continued, ‘You asked me if there was anything about the investigation which didn’t feel right. You also asked if I had any suspicions about anyone who was working on the case. The answer to both those questions is yes.’
Lucas couldn’t believe that a man who’d been one can of beer away from a coma could remember what he’d said almost word for word.
‘Go on.’
‘The Galbraith killing was completely out of step. Out of step that is if you compare it to the pattern of the other murders. It makes no sense. I’ve always thought that Galbraith was killed because he was about to change the profile and that would have exposed Mechanic. The big question is, how did Mechanic know that was about to happen? The only place that could possibly have come from is someone within the team.’
‘That’s the way I figured it. That’s why I came round last night with a lame-ass excuse to get more info and substantiate the theory. I made a complete mess of it.’
Harper raised his hand to stop Lucas.
‘Save it, that’s not important. The other big question is, who on the team would know that Galbraith had redefined the profile. It sure as hell wasn’t me and I was running the damn show.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘The answer I get to both questions is Dr Jo Sells.’
Lucas sat motionless, the intensity of what Harper was telling him kept him nailed to the chair.
‘She was the only one with access to Galbraith’s most current work and his most current thinking. They were pretty close so it was unlikely that something that significant wouldn’t be shared between them. I have no proof but I’m damn sure she’d have known about the change of profile. She fits the criteria on all counts. No one else had a clue what was going on. The new profile never saw the light of day. It died with Galbraith when Mechanic put a bullet in his head.’
‘It kind of fits,’ Lucas said, recalling his previous conversation with Bassano in the bar. ‘But it might not have been Mechanic who killed Galbraith. All we know for sure is that it was the same gun.’
‘I know. And that could explain why Galbraith was there in the first place.’
Lucas finished off Harper’s train of thought. ‘Jo Sells could have told Galbraith to go to that location. Then either Mechanic killed him or Sells shot him herself with Mechanic’s gun.’ Both men looked at each other, stunned at what they were suggesting.
‘We’re running away with ourselves, but whichever way you cut it,’ Harper paused to maximize the impact of what he was about to say, ‘I reckon Jo Sells had a direct link to Mechanic and my spies tell me she’s back on the investigation working with you.’
‘Fuck,’ Lucas said for the second time that night.
Both men sat in silence, each struggling to absorb what the other had divulged.
‘I’ve a proposition for you,’ said Harper. ‘If you make known our suspicions over Jo, she’ll disappear and, if we’re correct, she’s the only link you have to Mechanic. You need to keep her close, at least until we have something concrete.’
‘What do you mean we?’
‘Let me work on the outside. I can dig around for evidence that implicates Jo Sells. After all, you can’t do it. She’s super bright and will smell a rat. I still have contacts and if there’s something positive connecting Jo Sells to Mechanic I’ll find it. It’ll be between you and me. What do you think?’
‘It’s risky. You’re suggesting we run the two in parallel? I can’t be seen to condone you operating outside the main investigation.’
‘You don’t have to condone it. If for any reason I get exposed, then it’d be seen as Harper being bitter and twisted and trying to rake over unfinished business. We write nothing down and only communicate face to face at predetermined locations. You would have ultimate deniability.’
‘I
t might work.’
‘And anyway,’ continued Harper, ‘you got a better suggestion?’
Lucas had to acknowledge he hadn’t. He had to keep Jo Sells on the team but also had to keep her at arm’s length from their developing suspicions. If she got even the smallest inkling, she’d make a run for it and they would lose any potential link to Mechanic.
Lucas considered his options for the second time that evening.
‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘It would have to include Bassano. He could watch Jo from the inside. He can ensure she’s not getting spooked and he’s a damn good detective.’
Harper thought about it. ‘That would work. He’d have the same deniability as you and, from what I know of him from my buddies at the station, he’s a good guy. Do we have an agreement, Lieutenant?’ said Harper cracking a smile. He extended his hand.
‘We do Ex-Lieutenant.’
Harper headed back to the front door and then stopped. ‘I want you to know this is important to me. This is personal. And, before you ask, as of now I’m on the wagon. So if you see me shaking at any time, it’s not because I’m dancing.’
They said goodnight and parted company. Both men had a whole lot more to think about than forty minutes ago.
25
While Lucas was negotiating a way forward with Harper, Bassano and Jo Sells had been trying to coax answers out of Lillian Lang. They’d decided that there was little point revisiting Julie Tate. It was early evening and Julie would have at least half a bottle of gin inside her.
Bassano had spent much of the afternoon in the car with Jo, trying hard to impress her. He talked about his home life, his messy divorce and his job. She said very little even though he asked her about her doctorate, her training and what she did for kicks. Despite the one-way conversation, Bassano was sure she was interested, it was just a matter of time.
