by Robert Brown
“Yep, I know that one,” said Cael.
“Anyway, he said he needed me to rehearse the trick, so I followed him to his little den. As soon as I got there, I knew something was up. The place was like a serial killer’s lair. Full of weapons and horror props and weird photographs. It made me tense up. Then, when I inspected the water tank, I saw there were no safety precautions in place at all. No oxygen tank. Nothing.”
“That’s when you knew something was wrong.”
“Yeah. I knew I had to get out of there. I’m not risking death for a stupid magic trick. I tried to escape but his place was so dark – I couldn’t see where I was going. Then I felt a prick in the back of my neck. The guy pushed me to the ground. Everything just went black.”
“And you woke up in the tank?”
“Yep but it wasn’t filled with water.”
“Were you still inside his workshop?”
“No. I was in the back of a vehicle. A white van, I think.”
Cael pulled out his notebook. It would be the first time he had used it this entire investigation.
“He took me to the bridge. Took out the tank and put it where you discovered me.”
“But it wasn’t filled with water?”
“No, he stuck a hose through a gap at the top of the tank, then siphoned the water from the river into it.”
Cael took a deep breath. “Of course.”
“He left a little gap at the top of the tank for air but I couldn’t hold myself there for long. I kept falling back under.”
“Okay, thank you for being so open about the situation,” said Cael. “Can you tell me what this guy looked like?”
“Black hair. Short guy. Not built. Scrawny.”
“Old?” asked Cael.
“Nope. Around your age. But nowhere near as good looking, obviously,” she said.
“And what was the website you found him on?”
“Modelwork.com.”
“Do you remember his name on there at all?”
“His username was something weird. Like, ‘knife’ or something but with a ‘v’ in there.”
“Knive?” asked Cael.
“Something like that. He told me his real name was Ash but I don’t think he was telling the truth.”
Ash. Something about that sounded familiar.
“No, he probably wasn’t,” said Cael. “Well, that’s everything I need. You’ve been more helpful than anyone I’ve met so far, so thank you. Save me a white chocolate when we catch this asshole, yeah?”
“Sure thing.”
Cael stood up, pulled on his black jacket and put away his notebook.
“Oh, there was one other thing,” said Jayne. “Before he put the water in the tank, he told me, ‘If you think this is bad, the next one is going to be buried alive’, or something like that.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Cael.
37
Kirstybowers1974: Good day, my name is Kirsty Bowers. I’m a freelance model, however I’m a little older than the usual clientele! I’m 43 years old (but still 21 at heart).
I’m quite new to the scene after a drastic career change but so far I’ve worked a couple of magic gigs. They’ve all gone great. I’d love to assist you in your project if you’d be willing.
Kind regards. Kirsty.
Message sent at 11:42 a.m. on 03/16/2017.
Knave: Hi Kirsty, thank you for your interest in my project. That’s fine. Your age is of little importance. As long as you know how to carry yourself, that’s all I’m concerned with. Would you be able to send some pictures across?
Thank you.
Message sent at 1:58 p.m. on 03/16/2017.
Kirstybowers1974: Certainly. No problem whatsoever. Please find attached several pictures. I apologize that they’re not professionally-taken shots; I’m still working on getting those done with a professional photographer.
I hope these will be enough for you? Thank you. Kirsty.
Message sent at 2:45 p.m. on 03/16/2017.
Knave: Perfect. Thank you. Whereabouts in London are you based? Would you be able to meet up and discuss my requirements any time soon? I am attempting to perform a human burial (it may sound scary but don’t worry, it’s totally safe!). My rate is £100 per hour during rehearsal, followed by £500 for each performance you’re involved in.
Thank you.
Message sent at 4:17 p.m. on 03/16/2017.
Kirstybowers1974: Fantastic. I’m in the Earl’s Court area but I can travel. I’m free any time except Friday and Saturday evenings. What about tomorrow afternoon?
Kind regards. Kirsty.
Message sent at 4:35 p.m. on 03/16/2017.
Knave: Great, that sounds perfect. Can you meet me in Camden town center by the Royal Oak? I’ll pay you cash in hand too. Is 12 p.m. okay for you?
Thank you.
Message sent at 5:01 p.m. on 03/16/2017.
Kirstybowers1974: No problem at all. I shall be there!
Thank you for the opportunity.
Message sent at 5:09 p.m. on 03/16/2017.
38
From what the tech department had discovered, modelwork.com was very lax when it came to security. It didn’t monitor the root addresses of its members, nor did it require any kind of verification for new accounts. While they had discovered a member of the site using a name very similar to the one Jayne Carter had told Cael about, finding the details of his real identity proved to be impossible.
Therefore, they had to get creative.
Cael and Tyler weren’t sure whether their killer knew that Jayne Carter had survived her ordeal. If he did, the person they were about to meet was not their suspect. If he didn’t, their plan just might work.
Luckily, Tyler’s wife Samantha had been more than happy to use her pictures to lure their target into a trap. She was genuine. Her pictures couldn’t be traced back to an advertisement, a stock photograph or an amateur adult website. Cael and Tyler only hoped the killer wouldn’t see through their ruse.
At 11:50 a.m. the following day, Cael, Tyler, Samantha and a team of plainclothes officers walked casually up and down the streets of Camden high street. Their meeting had been arranged outside the Royal Oak pub at the corner of Lichton Street. So far, there had been no sightings of anyone matching Jayne Carter’s description of the man.
From afar, Cael surveyed the location from a bench about 100 yards away. As it was a special occasion, he wore his favorite fake moustache, American baseball cap and oversized black hoody. One hundred yards in the other direction, Tyler sported a similarly ridiculous appearance.
Midday came and went. Cael pulled up his phone to a message from Tyler.
Nothing on my end.
Same here replied Cael.
12:08 p.m. came. Cael pulled out his phone. He opened the browser that was still logged into the modelwork.com chat client. As he went to type a message to the mysterious Knave, he noticed something.
Knave is typing a message…
Perhaps he was going to be late? Cael waited a minute. Two minutes. No message came through. What was he typing? A novel?
A message came through from Tyler. Cael ignored it, gluing his eyes to the Model work chat client. Come on, you son of a bitch. What are you trying to tell me?
12:18 p.m. arrived. He was a no-show. Another two messages from Tyler came through. Cael finally opened them.
Nothing.
Shoot.
Who’s that guy next to you?
What the hell? Cael hadn’t even noticed. He looked to his right. No one was there.
What? Cael replied.
He sat down next to you for about two seconds.
Knave is typing a message to me on the chat client. He’s been typing for over 10 minutes Cael replied.
Ping.
Finally, the message came through. Cael expected a long-winded message about how he couldn’t make it that day, or the tubes were running late or some lame excuse.
Instead, he got the exact opposite.
Knave: I left you a gift.
Message sent at 12:19 p.m. on 03/17/2017.
The message jolted Cael back to reality. He surveyed his surroundings. Nothing. What was he talking about?
Kirstybowers1974: Excuse me? Are you still coming?
Message sent at 12:20 p.m. on 03/17/2017.
Unfortunately, Cael received the treatment every teenage narcissist in the world dreaded.
You have been blocked by user: Knave
Right then, Cael felt something against his feet. He looked beneath the bench. A cardboard box sat underneath him.
He messaged Tyler. Get here quickly. Bring everyone.
Cael jumped out of his seat. In the back of his mind, he half-knew what to expect inside. It would be his leftovers; something the killer had that wasn’t necessary for his ritual. There was no blood, unlike Lana Dixon’s box. Whatever was inside certainly wasn’t recently-murdered.
Within 20 seconds, Tyler, Samantha and the other officers arrived next to Cael.
“What the hell?” asked Tyler.
“He was here?” asked an officer.
“We’re about to find out,” said Cael. “Anyone want to do the honors?”
“There’s no chance it could be an explosive, is there?” asked an officer.
“No chance. That’s not his style at all. This is his attempt at theater. It won’t be an explosive but it’s certainly not going to be pretty.”
Tyler reached down and pushed the box out from beneath the bench. As with Lana Dixon’s box prison, it had been sealed with industrial-strength tape.
Cael pulled out his car keys. He bent down and ran his keys along the center of the box. Immediately, the scent of decayed flesh emanated into the London afternoon air.
“Oh God,” said Samantha. “That’s foul.”
Cael kicked the box open. He was right. It wasn’t a bomb, nor was it a pretty sight. He turned his back to the box; he didn’t need to see anymore.
Two officers leaned in to get a closer look.
“What is it?” one of them asked.
“Jesus Christ,” said Tyler.
“It’s the bottom half of Stephanie Brady.”
39
Four Jack of Hearts playing cards. One glued to Stephanie Brady’s torso, one pinned to a tree by Lana Dixon’s body, one discovered beneath Rivendare Bridge by forensics officers, one stapled to Stephanie Brady’s lower half.
“It means Jack,” said Tyler, handing Cael a strong black coffee. “Knave. It means Jack.”
“You Googled it too, then.”
It was just before midnight on Friday, March 17. After their close call with the killer, Cael and Tyler were at a loss. Drakestone’s hideout was rented under a fake name and had been for decades. The reports from Alcaro Interiors stated that the janitor to whom they had paid compensation was a man named Ash Hemlock. The account to which it had been transferred was set up in a fake name, and the account had since been closed. It was no doubt the same person but any additional details from Alcaro staff regarding his identity were minimal. It appeared that janitors simply blended into the background.
“So, was he a janitor as well as a magician or what?”
“I don’t think he’s a magician anymore. At least not professionally. He probably took up janitor work because it was easier to stay anonymous.”
Cael turned on his computer monitor for the first time during the investigation. From his table, he picked up the disc labelled DRAKESTONE and inserted it into the CD drive. He sat back, waiting for the annoying whirring sounds to cease.
“I better get going. If I don’t stop these midnight rendezvous, my wife might get even more suspicious.”
“Sure. Tell her I’m sorry for involving her in this shit.”
“It’s fine. She loves a murder mystery more than anyone.”
On Cael’s computer monitor, the grainy footage from 1989 showed up.
“See you tomorrow,” said Cael.
“Don’t kill yourself over this. We’ll find him,” said Tyler as he exited the office.
For the next hour, Cael played the footage of Drakestone’s sawing-in-half trick over and over again. Although he wasn’t a master magician by any means, he couldn’t grasp the concept of how Drakestone could hold out a sheet whilst simultaneously removing a 10-pound saw blade. He enhanced the footage, zooming in as close as possible, but all laws of physics stated he couldn’t perform that act no matter how many arms he had.
And then it hit him.
40
Sleep didn’t come that night. It never did. Not when he had a theory burning inside him. It took him almost an hour, mostly due to his lack of technological know-how, but with the help of a fellow insomniac in the tech department, he had managed to perform a reverse image search online.
Scott Davies had simply taken a picture of the photograph with his mobile phone. He saved that image to his computer, then loaded the image into a search engine. Almost too easy.
When the results came up, Cael was perplexed that he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Of course.
St. Mary’s Mental Hospital.
The picture from Drakestone’s wall was the image he had reverse-searched. It was the only picture not displaying a dismembered body or a person mid-execution. Something was important about it.
As soon as he stepped out of his vehicle and approached its gothic architecture, Cael knew something inside St. Mary’s Mental Hospital would explain everything. Something, someone, some single piece of knowledge would connect the dots for him.
It was 6 a.m. While the rest of London slept, Cael waited patiently outside the hospital’s locked doors. One of the night staff noticed his presence and gestured at him to go away. Instead, he mouthed the words help me.
The young girl, presumably no older than 21, approached the glass doors. She squinted. If his lip-reading was on the ball, he could have sworn she had mouthed the words Cael Adler? Back at him. The girl pulled down a side window.
“Are you him?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m whoever you want me to be.”
“Cael Adler?”
“That’s me. Can you help me, sweetness?”
“Sure. I read about you in the Daily Mail the other day. You’re the ‘poor man’s Sherlock Holmes.’”
“I’d be offended if it wasn’t true,” he said. “Can you let me in? I need to speak with you about one of your patients.”
“Absolutely,” said the girl. She went behind the reception desk and fetched a key. After some fumbling, she opened one of the doors to let Cael through.
“Which patient is it you need to know about?”
Cael stepped in. The early morning air had an icy edge to it. “William Wood,” he said.
The young girl grew quiet. After a silence that felt like three hours, she finally said, “Nope. There’s no one here by that name.”
“No, there must be.”
“Afraid not,” said the girl, “I know every patient here. We have only 45 or so, and there’s no one named Wood here.”
“He would be in his late 60s, early 70s. Traumatized by something that happened to him in the past. He’d be suffering delusions, extreme anxiety. He’d be deadly silent for days at a time. He’d have a hobby that he immerses himself in for hours on end. He wouldn’t interact with anyone else.”
“That could be pretty much everyone in here,” said the girl.
Cael sighed. He held back his head and fixed his gaze on the marble ceiling of the hospital foyer.
“Alright. Maybe I was wrong,” Cael said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Adler. I’ve been here only a year so he might have been here before I started.”
One last shot. “He’d be very skilled with a deck of cards,” said Cael, “but he wouldn’t want anyone to know it.”
“Oh my,” said the girl. “You might be talking about Mr. Hemlock.”
41
Unlike every other patient in St. Mary’s Ment
al Hospital, the gentleman in cell 213 was not lost. He was not unfit for the outside world, nor was he imprisoned against his will.
Given that the hospital would not be brimming with senior members of staff for another hour, the young orderly had allowed Cael access to Hall C – the location of the man whom staff knew as Bill Hemlock.
Peering through the small window into his room, Cael saw Mr. Hemlock sitting at a desk in the far corner of his room. It was a pleasant room, a world of difference from a prison cell. In here, he was cared for. Outside, it would be a different story.
“I need to speak with him,” said Cael. “I’ll be only two minutes. I promise.”
“Are you sure? If anyone knows I brought you down here, I could be in trouble.”
“Trust me. If you get the sack, you can come and work for me.”
“Deal,” said the girl. She inserted her master key into the cell door. The lock turned with a heavy thud. Mr. Hemlock turned around.
There was no question about it. It was the same man.
He was dressed in a shabby brown robe. His body had clearly succumbed to the inevitability of age; he was hunched over, his overgrown grey hair hanging loosely in front of his eyes.
“Mr. Hemlock, I need to talk to you.”
As Cael entered his cell, he noticed a worn deck of playing cards next to the man’s bedside table.
“Who are you? What time is it?”
“It’s 6:20 a.m.”
“It’s not breakfast time yet.”
“No, it isn’t. This is about something else entirely.”
The gentleman said nothing. He turned back to his desk. He was drawing a landscape with charcoal pencils.
