by Leona Turner
Pulling himself from his thoughts, the DI stopped to look at the front of the building. He didn’t agree with the idea of criminal profiling; he didn’t understand it. When he had started his career been he had been taught to find the clues and piece the puzzle together as simply as possible.
Now, though, the police force required an in depth analysis of who it was they were looking for. How these people were supposed to know that he had no idea; he could never know someone until he had met them, and yet these people claimed to be able to read the psyche of someone they had probably never seen before in their lives.
But for all the DI’s gruff exterior and disbelief, psychiatrists and counsellors made him nervous. For the most part he was a private man, kept himself to himself, and that suited him just fine. The idea of someone poking round inside his head unsettled him more than he cared to mention.
He read the sign on the door: ‘Dr. Loretta Armstrong, PHD,’ and exhaled loudly, turning to see if Henson was still with him, he was.
Walking through the reception area to the front desk, DI Holt was happy to see that it looked relatively normal, relaxed even. The walls were a pale sage colour; there were lots of large leafy plants around, and a small child’s play area. The child area troubled him briefly, as he wondered why a child might need to see a psychiatrist, but he dismissed it as a sign of the times. He felt that children today as a whole were over sensitized and under disciplined. The parents couldn’t control them anymore, as any physical disciplining could resort in a court case, and so the first taste of discipline a lot of kids would encounter would be at the hands of him or one of his officers.
He thought back to when he was growing up; societies young had always created groups. Little niches where they were free to express their individuality by dressing the same and appreciating the same core ideals. The vast percentage of children these days were born with silver spoons in their mouths, and, God help him, sometimes he wished they’d fall flat on their faces and choke on the damn thing.
As DI Holt approached the office door of Dr. Armstrong, he took a deep breath. He needed to remain calm; the last thing he needed was this woman knowing he felt nervous in her presence. Motioning for DC Henson to follow him, he knocked on the door.
Within her office Loretta was busy tidying her desk, it was an unconscious behaviour brought about by how nervous she was now feeling. She’d never seen a detective before, at least not in this sense. What if he wanted information on her patients? She knew realistically he couldn’t—and probably wouldn’t—ask. A sharp knock on the door signalled his arrival.
“Come in.”
As if on cue, the door opened and DI Holt strode in, closely followed by that bumbling idiot of a DC she’d seen on the evening news the previous night. Resembling the colour of a tangerine, he’d spoken at length about nothing that seemed of any real significance, and he was even so bold as to make a suggestion as to the sort of man they were looking for. That was the problem these days—everyone was an amateur psychologist. What was his name, anyway? As if answering her thoughts, DI Holt spoke.
“Dr. Armstrong, I’m DI Holt, and this is DC Henson. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I appreciate that you must be busy.”
“No problem, officers, anything I can do to help you with this case that’s within my power I will do.”
“Well, we’d certainly appreciate that. Oh, and just to let you know, we’re here off the record.”
“Off the record? How do you mean?”
“Well, the only people who know we’re consulting you are the three of us in the confines of these four walls, and maybe your receptionist. We’d appreciate it if you’d let her know the situation and instruct her to keep the information to herself.”
“Well, consider it done. Michelle is not at liberty to discuss anyone who comes into my office. But may I ask why all the secrecy?”
“Well, a number of reasons, really. As you’ve probably seen, the murders have generated a lot of media attention recently, but we’re trying to keep the cases as closed as possible, and for two reasons. Firstly, we don’t want the severity of the situation getting out to Joe Public. And secondly, we do not want tomorrow’s front-page headline to read ‘Clueless’ above a photo DC Henson and myself. So let me tell you what we know for sure: we have two brutally disfigured bodies, no real motives, no witnesses, and not even a realistic list of prospective suspects.”
“So let me get this straight, Detective Inspector Holt, is it?” Holt nodded his confirmation and gestured for her to continue.
“You have no motives for these crimes? None whatsoever?”
Holt looking suitably embarrassed and avoided direct eye contact, nodding his affirmative once more.
“Are the two murders linked?”
“Well, the methods used are not even remotely similar; however, there are certain circumstantial similarities.”
“Go on.”
“Well, there’s the fact that the last murder to happen in Manning’s Town was over thirty years ago. And both of these victims were very brutally murdered—not just killed, but maimed. Also, both crime scenes were ‘clean.’”
“Clean?”
“Yes, no prints, no hair, nothing to go on, and also both murders took place within forty-eight hours, so an awful lot of planning would have had to have gone into it.”
“Any similarities between the victims?”
“Matt Reynolds, the second victim, was in his early thirties, white male. As for the first victim, all we know so far was that he was white male, possibly older than Matt; we’re pretty sure he wasn’t local, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“No one’s been reported missing. We don’t even have an ID on him yet.’
“Interesting.”
“What? What’s interesting?”
“Well, your killer’s age and gender specification is within the range that most serial killers are in when they have their killing spree.”
“Serial killer? You think this is the work of a serial killer?” Holt was shocked. It wasn’t a term he’d even considered in connection with the case; the term ‘serial killer’ didn’t belong in his little town. The subject of many books and films, it certainly didn’t fit here in his small town.
“Yes, don’t you?”
“Well, I hadn’t really considered it”
“As you said, Detective, there hasn’t been a murder here in over thirty years. And I imagine it wasn’t anything as elaborate as the recent murders.”
“True, true.” Holt was lost in thought. A serial killer; he’d never had to consider such a prospect in all his years on the force, and now here he was, in the winter of his career having to contemplate facing a possible serial killer.
If he’d been worried about coming to see Dr. Armstrong, it wasn’t anything compared to what he was feeling now.
“Inspector?’”
Holt broke from his thoughts.
“Are you sure we’re looking for a serial killer?”
“I can’t be sure of anything, but you shouldn’t dismiss the idea just because you’re uncomfortable with it, impending retirement or not.”
Holt stood stock-still. This woman had just read his mind. He was shocked, but for the most part, he was angry. How dare this woman question his ability to do his job properly.
“With all due respect, Dr. Armstrong, whatever I may or may not feel about these two murders has absolutely nothing to do with my impending retirement, or, for that matter, anything to do with you.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you just now, but I really don’t see how I can help you.”
“You really can’t see how you can help us?” Henson’s voice was incredulous.
“We have two bodies show up within forty-eight hours, one hideously burnt, the other with so many cuts and drill holes he could have been a stand in for a Black and Decker work mate, and you honestly can’t see how you could be of use to us?” Henson was warming to his theme
.
“You have the low down and inside track on every nut and loony in the area—you could point us in the direction of some probable suspects. There’s a lunatic on the loose somewhere out there, Dr. Armstrong. Do you want to be the next victim tonight as you’re walking to your car?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone, DC Henson.”
“I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking: anyone could be next—you, me, the inspector.”
“So you’re asking me to break the doctor patient confidentiality oath? You’d happily send my career into the gutter while advancing your own?”
“Well, no, of course not.” Henson’s argument was starting to wane.
Holt, sensing his young colleague floundering, stepped in.
“But Dr. Armstrong—Loretta—could you sleep at night, knowing you could be concealing a possible suspect?”
“Compelling argument, DI Holt, and I appreciate what you’re saying. Still, without any firm evidence or even a possible suspect, I don’t see how I could assist you. Now, if one of my patients were to come in tomorrow and confess to the murders, you can rest assured you would be the first people I’d call. However—”
“You can’t see that happening.” Holt looked deflated, and Loretta felt for him. He seemed a genuinely nice man, albeit one who was lost. Catching his eye, she smiled softly at him.
“What I can do if you’re interested is set about working a profile about the psychological make-up of the type of person you’re looking for. This would take a little time though, if you’d like to come back and see me another day.”
“Ok, well, thank you for your time.” Holt and Henson were moving toward the door.
“No problem. Oh, and before you go, DC Henson, going back to you what you said earlier, I very much doubt I’ll be the next victim.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“If it is in fact a serial killer in operation, they tend to stick to the same gender, and this one seems to have decided on the male of the species. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Loretta closed the door behind them.
“What do you think, sir, is she going to be of any use?”
“Maybe. Let’s get back to the station—who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and some witnesses have turned up. Or, failing that, a lead on the first victim.”
Chapter 6
As Loretta picked up the phone to dial, she wondered if her decision to do so would come back to haunt her. Ever since DI Holt had come to her office to ask for assistance, she had felt guilty about the way she had handled the situation. She had already decided that they were going to put her in an awkward situation and she’d jumped down their throats before she’d even had chance to offer them a coffee. She had felt particularly annoyed with herself at her treatment of DI Holt; he looked like a kindly man, and she had used her profession to cause him unnecessary discomfiture. In short, she felt that she’d behaved like a child. She had known, however, why she’d done it: people always came to see her for her help, but they didn’t usually have badges. Badges made her like most—nervous; they were a symbol of authority. But as DI Holt had informed her straight away, they were there off the record, not in an official capacity. Had there not been so much media attention surrounding the cases, maybe she wouldn’t have felt so intimidated by the two police officials standing in her office. Since the first body had been discovered, both detectives had been on the TV each night trying to answer increasingly demanding questions. Seeing Holt struggling she had felt genuine pity for him. But that young wannabe he’d been lumbered with for the case had really gotten to Loretta, trying to be Dick Tracey and Kojak rolled into one, with his glistening insights into the type of guy they were looking for.
It made him sound like he was auditioning for NYPD Blue.
When the two detectives had turned up together, Loretta had found herself in a quandary. One of the detectives she could imagine herself liking, and the other was someone she’d like to beat with a blunt object. Finally she’d settled on antagonism.
Now she had to make amends. She wanted to help DI Holt with his enquiries; from what had been said earlier, she knew that he needed her.
Dialling the number, she waited nervously for an answer; she didn’t have to wait long.
“Oh, hello, would it be possible to speak to DI Holt, please?” As Loretta held the line, waiting for the officer to locate Holt, she started to bite her fingernails, a nervous gesture she had not been prone to since childhood.
“Hello, DI Holt, it’s Dr. Armstrong here. I just wanted to apologise for earlier and offer any assistance you might need. I appreciate you’re a busy man, but if you’d like to have a proper talk about the matter, we can.”
Holt was in his office on the other side of town with the phone tucked under his chin, sorting through paperwork. He started rubbing at his brow, an unconscious movement that let anyone who knew him know that he was under stress. He didn’t want to go back to her office; aside from the fact the last meeting there had been a disaster, he didn’t like the overall feel of the place. With its sage walls and leafy plants, it was like the whole building was trying to be something it wasn’t.
“That would be appreciated, Dr. Armstrong, and in relation to earlier, I fear Detective Constable Henson and myself were equally to blame. Although to be honest, I’d prefer it if we could meet elsewhere to discuss matters. I’d rather it didn’t get back to the press that we’re consulting an outsider.”
“That’s understandable. You’re welcome to nominate a more suitable place.”
“Well, it can’t really be a public place, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I could suggest my apartment, or would that not be allowed? It’s just that it’s quiet there and I live alone, so there’s no chance of someone walking in and overhearing something they shouldn’t.”
Holt wondered briefly if his anxiety was somehow communicating itself to her through the line, then, trying to keep his voice as relaxed as possible, he spoke.
“Well, that would be perfect, as long as you wouldn’t find it too much of an intrusion.”
“Not at all, but I must make one insistence.”
“Yes?”
“Could you come alone, please? That young DC really gets my back up.”
Holt had to laugh out loud at that.
“You’re certainly not the first person to say that. He can be a little, how should I say, overbearing at times.”
"When do you want to come round?”
“Whenever it’s most convenient for you. You’re the one helping us, remember?” He was smiling now.
Well, you can come round tonight if you’re not busy.”
“That would be great, as long as you’re sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Shall we say seven?”
“Great, and I promise I’ll make sure DC Henson’s safely back home first.”
“Thank you. See you at seven, then. Bye.”
"Bye." Holt broke the connection and then stared into the receiver. If someone had told him that this would be the outcome of the afternoon, he’d have laughed in his or her face.
Chapter 7
Clare had just gotten in from work, and after putting the kettle on, she wandered through into the lounge and slumped down on the sofa.
Clare’s phone rung to life, and when she answered it, she was met by a familiar voice.
“Hey gorgeous, we still on for later?”
“Yeah, of course, be here around seven.”
“Will do. Anyway, how’s your day been?”
Clare rolled her eyes. Dean was a lovely guy, but he was becoming a little suffocating; this was the third phone call today. They’d gone on several dates since the first and each date resulted in him becoming more clingy. Every time they went out seemed to result in more phone calls the following day. And if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t want him becoming too attached, something which was already apparent.
“Fine, thanks. Nothing much has happened
in the last two hours since I spoke to you.”
“All right, all right, sorry.”
Clare reddened.
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve had a shit day work-wise, that’s all.”
“Well, I guess you’ve got stuff to do, so I’ll see you later.”
“See you later.”
As he rang off, Clare threw her phone down. Simultaneously, the doorbell rang. Opening the front door, she found a flustered-looking Hannah weighed down with shopping bags. Passing some of the bags to Clare, Hannah strode straight through and turned the TV on.
“And hello to you, too.” Struggling with bags, Clare managed to close the door and followed Hannah into the living room.
Hannah had the news on and was watching intensely.
“Hannah, what’s this all about?”
“Be quiet a minute and watch.”
Clare watched as the news report recanted its main story: two bodies found in Manning’s Town. They both watched in silence, and as the report finished, Clare turned to Hannah.
“Yeah Hannah, I heard about it on the news this morning. Have you only just heard?”
“No, I knew they’d been another body, what I didn’t know though is that I knew him.”
“What?”
Clare watched Hannah for a moment; she seemed lost in thought.
“Hannah what’s wrong?”
Hannah looked at Clare, her eyes welling up.
“Clare, the second body was Matt’s.”
“Oh my God. Hannah, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I mean, it’s just that I don’t know how to feel about it. It’s weird, but a small part of me feels relieved. That sounds awful, doesn’t it?”
Clare was well aware of Matt; Hannah had started seeing him five years ago, before Clare had known her. He had been a very jealous and insecure man, and he’d spent months running her down emotionally. He had repeatedly cheated on her, and eventually he’d started to physically abuse her. Luckily for Hannah, she had had a strong network of family and friends around her and she had managed to get away from him after the first time he’d hit her. Though his next partner hadn’t been so lucky; after one particularly savage attack, she’d been knocked unconscious. The girl’s parents had picked her up from the hospital and taken her away. Matt had been given the opportunity to get professional help to deal with his anger management issues. He had accepted the help, and of late Hannah had heard he had been doing quite well—he had a partner, she was pregnant, and there had been no ugly episodes. Although Hannah hadn’t really believed he had been capable of change, she had hoped he was, if just for the sake of his latest partner.
