Darkhouse jl-1

by Alex Barclay

  ‘Ma’am, again, I apologise if I’ve dredged up anything painful for you, but—’

  ‘No, you absolutely have not, Mr Finch. You are not the guilty party here.’

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Parnum. Why do you think your husband committed suicide?’

  ‘Because he was miserable. Because he was depressed. Because he hated himself. Because his life was unbearable. Why does anyone commit suicide?’

  Victor waited.

  ‘There I go again,’ said Mrs Parnum. ‘Can’t help myself.’ She gave a short, nervous laugh. ‘Specifically, I don’t know why he committed suicide. He didn’t leave a note if that’s what you mean, but—’ She stopped, then looked up abruptly. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘It happens with the job sometimes and I’m always interested, you know, what can be done to stop it happening again, to save someone else.’ He was groping. ‘Sorry, what were you about to say? You said “but”?’

  ‘But…that morning, a woman called to our house to speak with Ogden. I had never seen her before in my life. She was blonde, late thirties, tailored suit. And the strangest expression passed over her face when she saw me.’ She paused. ‘I guess it could best be described as pity.’

  ‘Pity?’

  ‘Well, that was the thing. Why would this stranger pity me? Hell, to the people who know me, I have a charmed life. But it was like this woman showed up on my doorstep and saw right through my soul.’

  Victor nodded slowly.

  ‘Ogden’s face when he saw her. It turns out it was Marcy Winbaum, the DA. I hadn’t recognised her. She used to work with Ogden years ago. She’s changed a lot since then. And she definitely had a bee in her bonnet that day. Anyhow, she insisted on speaking to Ogden in private. He brought her out back to his study. Well, I was curious, so I put my ear to the door after they were in there quite a while and this woman’s voice was raised, which kinda struck me as unusual. I heard her saying something about “burying” things and “live with yourself”. She said she had found someone who would swear something in a court of law and that he had two choices. Then the timer went on my cooker and I had to go back into the kitchen to take out a pie.’

  ‘Did you ask your husband afterwards what it was all about?’

  ‘I didn’t like to ask. And it seemed apparent to me the next night that he’d created a third choice for himself and that was to blow his brains out.’

  ‘Can I ask you? Your husband worked on the Crosscut case. Those murders remained unsolved up until his death. Do you think that may have affected him—’

  ‘Those poor girls. Ogden took it real bad. But it was quite some time ago.’ She frowned. ‘Isn’t your organisation supposed to gloss over the failings of a dead cop?’ Victor frowned, then remembered his role.

  ‘I guess I was asking out of personal curiosity,’ he said. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything we could do for you to commemorate your husband’s life?’

  ‘Let me tell you about Ogden Parnum,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I would see scratches on his back, tiny little scratches and little crescent moons from hungry nails. And on his face. I would catch glimpses of them, only glimpses, because I was never in a position to do otherwise. And look at me.’ Her hand traced the curves to her slender hips.

  ‘I am not a woman content to let herself go.’ She stopped. ‘And what I don’t understand is that there is nothing I would not have done for him, if you get my meaning. I’ve been around the block, Mr Finch. He wasn’t marrying a sweet and innocent young thing.’ She looked up. ‘What was wrong with me?’ she said, tears suddenly flowing from her eyes. ‘What was wrong with me?’

  Marcus Canney bit and picked at his filthy nails.

  ‘This isn’t a rap on the knuckles in the District Court,’ said O’Connor, pointing at him. ‘You’ll be standing in your cheap little shiny suit with your hair all flat like your mammy does it, that thick look on your face…and it won’t matter a damn. Because it’ll be Delaney.’ He smiled. ‘The judge with the grudge. And you’ll be pissing in the wind.’

  Canney twitched.

  ‘I’ll get no pleasure sending you down,’ said O’Connor. ‘But your suppliers…’

  Silence.

  ‘Come on, Canney. You’re not playing Cowboys and Indians now. This is big time and you’ll go down for five to seven. You’re on your own then.’

  Canney twitched.

  ‘And where will the big players be? Busy training in the new guy. They might do a better job this time, though. And after that, they’ll be wondering what’s the best way to get you off the scene. Will they take care of it inside or will they wait ’til you’re free and easy and thinking your whole life is ahead of you?’

  Canney stared straight ahead.

  ‘Look,’ said O’Connor. ‘You can walk out of here and they’ll never have to know a thing. I can promise you that.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘You’re in it up to your neck, Canney. I don’t know what other way I can say it to you. But you have a way out. We’ll forget all about this. Off you go. No-one’s any the wiser. And we’re all happy.’

  ‘There’s no fucking way I’m going to fall for that.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m sitting here and not in an interview room with the tapes rolling?’

  Canney stared past him, frowning. ‘Yeah, well…’

  ‘Well, what? Tell me. Who’s supplying you?’

  ‘Look, I’m saying nothing. Are you fucking stupid?’

  ‘Your call,’ said O’Connor, standing up. ‘I’ve done what I can. See you in the interview room.’ He walked towards the door. ‘Seven years, though. Even five. That’s the absolute minimum with this guy. I don’t think that’s registering,’ he said, tapping his forehead. He held the door handle longer than he needed to.

  Canney finally spoke. ‘What if I knew something about that Mountcannon girl that was murdered?’

  O’Connor spun around. Canney was smiling, nodding his head slowly.

  ‘You’re the lowest of the low, Canney…’

  ‘What if I’m serious?’

  O’Connor turned back towards the door, shaking his head.

  Canney shrugged. ‘What if I was one of the last people to see her alive?’

  Old Nic went into the Stinger’s Creek diner and swapped twenty dollars for a handful of coins. He went outside to a payphone and dialled Joe’s number.

  ‘I can’t talk right now,’ said Joe quickly.

  ‘Yeah, but you can listen. And I mean it. I know you called off my trip, but here I am, North Central Texas. My bells told me to come. I spoke to the widow and let me tell you, Mrs Parnum is one foxy lady. But she’s a bitter one. Hated the husband, seems he was cheating on her, blah, blah—’

  ‘Did she say anything about why he killed himself? Or anything about the case?’

  ‘Just that he took it real bad. As to why her husband killed himself, she could care less, rattled off the standard reasons. Ice cold. But I think we have a very big reason why. You know who you might want to talk to? The last person who paid a visit to Ogden Parnum before he played Russian Roulette with a full chamber. Marcy Winbaum, the DA, used to work under Parnum, went back to college, yada yada, now she’s ordered the case reopened in the “someone has stepped forward with new information” kinda way. No-one has told Dorothy Parnum yet, because it seems her late husband is – or was – in very deep shit. Marcy Winbaum’s keeping her cards close to her chest, but rumour has it that’s because she’s about to throw down a killer hand.’

  Anna had watched Duke Rawlins search the cottage and from a damp and filthy corner pull the sack that now covered her head. With every breath she took, the rank odour of wet cats and spoiled milk filled her nostrils. She had retched through the entire journey, curled helplessly on the cramped floor of the van. Now she was outside again, dimly aware of a freshness fighting through the stench.

  ‘OK, here,’ whispered Duke, jerking on her arm. Anna stopped. But she could hear the heaviest set of foots
teps continue on ahead.

  ‘Sheba,’ hissed Duke. ‘Sheba, back here, you fat—’

  Siobhán Fallon spun around, her face unable to hide her hurt. She walked slowly back toward him as he tied Anna’s legs at the ankles.

  ‘Please stop calling me Sheba,’ said Siobhán quietly. ‘It’s not that hard to say. Shiv-awn. It’s easy.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Duke. ‘Sh…Sh…She. Bah. Right?’ His smile was fixed.

  ‘Why are you…what did I do?’ She reached a hand to his cheek. He stopped it halfway, squeezing her wrist too tight.

  ‘Oh, you did good work,’ he said. ‘You did. Think of your best burger order with fries on the side and a milkshake and a hold-the-mayo and a hold-the-pickle and an extra barbecue sauce, all written down in your little notebook, spelled right, times ten.’

  She smiled nervously. Her pulse pumped under his grip. She tried to pull away. He moved closer.

  ‘Take that big ol’ sweater of yours off,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ she said, her voice catching.

  ‘Because I have this.’ He let go of her wrist and pulled a curved blade from his back pocket and held it up to her face. She froze. Duke stared through her. She slowly pulled her arm from the right sleeve, keeping her elbow close to her body. She did the same with her left arm until the sweater hung around her neck. The sleeves fell loose, barely covering her faded grey cotton bra. Goosebumps rose on her pale skin. She started to shiver. Duke leaned over and untied the rope around Anna’s neck, lifting the hood free. Anna turned her head away. Duke grabbed her face, forcing her to look.

  ‘You don’t wanna miss this,’ he said. He raised the knife to his mouth, biting down on the handle to keep his hands free.

  ‘Now, let me see if I remember how to do this,’ he said, reaching around Siobhán’s back and unhooking her bra. Her broad, flat breasts fell to the rolls of flesh at her waist. A look of disgust flashed across Duke’s face. Suddenly, Siobhán thrust out her hand, grabbing the handle of the knife, pulling it towards her sharply so the blade sliced through the side of Duke’s mouth. She turned to run, but he was on her, quickly throwing her down, pinning her arms above her head.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he hissed, spitting onto the grass beside her. Then he held his face over hers, letting long, slow drops of blood fall onto her lips and run gently down her cheeks with her tears.

  ‘Stand up. Get up! And take off your jeans—’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ spat Anna. ‘Leave her.’ Duke grabbed her face and shook it with a force that silenced her.

  He turned back to Siobhán. ‘Take them off, everything. You’ve seen what this knife can do,’ he smiled, raising a hand to the gash in his face.

  She did as he asked, desperately trying to cover her body with her hands. Anna’s stomach was heaving. She hoped Siobhán would catch her eye and maybe she could let her know that everything would be OK, that she would never tell anyone what she had to go through. Then when she saw what Duke pulled out of his bag, she knew the girl was going to die. And nothing would matter.

  ‘Don’t look back, now.’

  Siobhán got up, but she instinctively turned around. And screamed when she saw the bow.

  ‘Run, rabbit, run!’ he yelled, raising the bow to his shoulder. Siobhán ran from him, stumbling through the low gorse, her bare feet twisting over sharp rocks. She made it thirty metres when the first arrow hit.

  Joe picked up the phone to Marcy Winbaum, the first person he had to tell the truth to since Anna had been taken. She spoke with the confidence of a woman who had worked hard to get where she was. Every word she said quickened his heart beat, weakened his body, but strengthened his resolve. He had never experienced this before – a raw panic that coursed through him, starting in his chest, moving downwards, throbbing simultaneously in his head. He tried hard to slow his breathing. Flashes of the fax came into his mind, the victims discarded like broken dolls. The images were replaced with the mug shot of Duke Rawlins, the dead body of Donald Riggs. And then Anna. Joe felt something rip inside. He had led his wife into the path of this maniac. His only hope was that now, he had a bargaining chip.

  Victor Nicotero walked away from the phone booth, thinking about Dorothy Parnum, thinking about how people can be so strong, yet so weak at the same time. He liked that. He pulled out his phony FOP folder to write that down for his memoirs. He reached into his inside jacket pocket for his retirement pen. It wasn’t there. He checked his folder. He patted his other pockets.

  ‘Goddammit,’ he said and turned around.

  Duke knelt by the body of Siobhán Fallon, working on it with the curved blade. Anna, free from the bindings on her ankles, but bound to a narrow tree trunk, jerked forward and vomited between her legs. With the force, she felt the slightest slip of the knot that tied her wrists.

  ‘Keep watchin’,’ Duke said to her, ‘or I’ll make you do something you might regret.’ Anna looked up at him through watery eyes.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Duke. ‘This is on account of you and your husband. Blame the both of you while you’re at it.’ He smiled and completed each step of his ritual, all the while looking back over his shoulder to Anna whose beautiful horrified face sent pleasant shivers down his spine. When he turned away again, she ran.

  Frank Deegan fanned out the pages of the fax on the passenger seat, thinking he could glance at them on the drive. By the second page, he had to pull over. He studied the photos and read the detached descriptions of young skin and bones and hair and limbs and the hideous wounds that defiled them all. He never understood how men would want to shatter these delicate creatures.

  He looked again at the photos. He could connect the dots between the American victims’ injuries and those suffered by Mary Casey in Doon. But there was an extra dot, that bit further out that he couldn’t quite draw a line to – Joe Lucchesi. Then another dot right beside it – the small, delicate Anna.

  Dorothy Parnum was dabbing the corner of her eyes with a balled-up handkerchief when she answered the door. Her mascara had run and her frosted lipstick had disappeared, leaving an ugly pink trail of lip liner around her mouth.

  ‘I forgot my pen,’ he said, but she was already holding it out to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I apologise for my behaviour earlier. I don’t know why I was telling you all that.’ Fresh tears welled in her eyes. ‘But you look like the kindest man a grieving widow could hope to meet.’ She squeezed his arm, but it only made her cry harder. Finally, she took in a deep breath and tried to smile.

  ‘No more boo-hoos,’ she said. ‘That’s what Ogden used to say to me. No more boo-hoos…but there were always more.’

  THIRTY

  Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1992

  Ogden Parnum closed the plastic folder and watched a hand print of sweat shrink and dry on the surface. He stared at the space between two photos on the wall ahead of him, then hung his head until his neck strained and blood pulsed at his temples. He ran trembling fingers over and over through his thin hair. Then he hit the intercom.

  ‘Marcy, I think we need to call someone to the station. Come in to my office.’

  ‘Sure, Chief.’ Ogden Parnum had worked with five deputies over the years, but none was as bright and efficient as Marcy Winbaum. He knew now that she was the last person he needed on this case. And the suspect he was forced to call in was the last person he wanted to see.

  ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she smiled, pointing at the lab report.

  ‘Take it easy there, Marcy. I think it’s all a bit premature and there could be a whole ’nother explanation.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got something else I’m excited about, if you’re willing to listen, boss. I’ve been going through the rest of the Crosscut Killer file. And uh, then I cross-referenced it with the Janet Bell file, the body found in ’88, the prostitute also went by the name of Alexis? I think she’s one of them, sir.’

  ‘She’s a gunsh
ot wound, Marcy.’

  ‘OK, bear with me on this one, bear with me. The body of Mimi Bartillo shows up the same year, our “first victim”, puncture wounds to the kidneys, six slashes to the ribs. The body is left out for us to find. Then eight months later, the body of Janet Bell, buried, badly decomposed, an apparent gunshot wound to the kidney. But, look at this.’ She pointed to one of the crime scene photos. ‘On her satin skirt. If you look closely, you can see a triangular tear in the fabric.’ She looked at him. His face was blank. ‘What if it wasn’t a gunshot wound, but a wound from another weapon, an arrow? A three-blade arrow. Triangular. I’ve checked with the M.E. and he thinks it’s a definite possibility. When a body has been hit by a projectile at high speed, a wound opens up and lets us know what happened – we can tell a stab wound from a gunshot wound, because of the type of damage done. But if the body decomposes over a time, well, it’s harder to tell, it gets kind of…mushy or whatever.’ She blushed. ‘I guess the, uh, flesh around the wound would be…compromised.’ She nodded. ‘The triangle on the clothing here is the key.’ She paused. ‘I think Janet Bell was the first victim, sir. She was buried, but then the killer kinda liked the idea of leaving the bodies out, so that’s what he started to do.’

  ‘But Bell wasn’t shot in the leg, so how’s that her skirt would be cut?’

  ‘OK. Imagine that I’m running in a satin skirt. Chances are the wind would catch it and it would blow up. Remember Marilyn Monroe over the vent? Well, what if Ms Bell was running away from her killer, the skirt blew up and whoosh, the arrow goes through the fabric, penetrating her back?’

  ‘Jeez, Marcy,’ said Parnum. ‘That’s a bit of a leap, don’t you think?’

  ‘I know you hate me interfering and all, but I really think I’m on to something here. So far, our guy has killed Mimi Bartillo, ’88, Cynthia Sloane, ’89, Tonya Ramer, ’90, Tally Sanders, ’91 and now our Jane Doe. And, I think Janet Bell, ’87. That’s six women, boss. And if the evidence today—’