Joe lifted his eyebrows. “I gather getting off early isn’t a frequent occurrence?”
“No. But I wasn’t gonna turn down the offer to get off early. You know what they say about that gift horse.”
“Yeah,” Joe said absentmindedly. “I do. Well, thank you for your time, Mr…?”
“Black. John Black”
“Thank you, Mr Black. Just one more thing. The Absol, carrying Stark’s body. What time do you have for it returning to Dunquin?”
“Erm…we have the Absol logged as returning at 22:19.”
“22:19,” Joe repeated slowly, emphasis the twenty-two.
“That’s right,” John confirmed cheerfully.
“Do you know why it took the Absol over four hours to make the journey? Were there any reported problems? I mean, isn’t it unusual for it to have taken so long.”
“Mr. O’Connell, I told ya, I went home. I’m just a minimum wage harbor master, not a security guard. I keep ma’self to ma’self. Yeah, it took a long time, but the reason for that’s none of my business. And to answer ya question…” He paused and Joe heard more papers rustling. “… nothing’s logged in regards to faults, so I don’t think so.”
“Okay, thank you for your time, Mr Black.”
Joe hung up and spun round in his chair again, only more slowly this time, tapping his pen on his chin.
Interesting.
He quickly logged on to Google’s weather report and checked the weather for the night of 7th September. Though his journey to and from the prison had been in fair conditions, it was prone to sudden changes around The Blasket’s. But no; scattered showers, visibility 18.72 km, wind SSW 9.72 km/h. No chance they ran afoul of bad weather which would account for the delay.
So, what was it doing for the extra two and a half hours?
Spotting Ciaran in his office, Joe bounced out the chair marched through his editor’s door without knocking, shutting the door behind him.
“Just come in, Joe. Don’t let the fact the door was closed bother you in anyway.”
Remaining standing, Joe suddenly felt like the whole room was watching him through the window.
“So, what is it, ya mannerless fecker?”
He considered what he was about to say before speaking. “I think I’ve got a problem.”
“I’ve known that for a long time. What is it? Alcoholic liver disease?”
Joe forced a pained smile. “You’re funny. But that’s not my problem. Well, not yet anyway.”
He took a deep breath. “I told you I received a phone call the other day from someone who works at Absolom, asking me to meet him. Not unusual, right. I covered Stark’s execution, therefore you’d expect someone would want to take a stab at getting their fifteen minutes. But this guy, he alluded to some… discrepancies.”
Ciaran’s chair moved forward quickly. “Discrepancies?”
“Yeah,” Joe confirmed solemnly. “Surrounding the execution.”
“Stark’s execution?”
Joe nodded.
“Okay, it’s not often I’m intrigued nowadays. What did he say?”
Joe leaned against the far wall, as though distancing himself from what he was about to share. Slowly losing his expressionless stare, he returned to the moment.
“He told me that certain procedural necessities that should be followed after an execution appeared to have been skipped or omitted.”
“Such as?” Ciaran said with genuine interest.
“Well, he told me infusion lines were removed against protocol and that there was an apparent omission in the pharmacy log concerning the drugs used. Assuming he’s telling the truth, you have to ask why would they remove the lines? What purpose would it serve unless to maybe hide something? Secondly, omissions in the pharmacy log. Maybe just a clerical error? It’s hard to imagine an establishment of Absolom’s reputation making clerical errors, but there’s always a human factor. So was the line removal and the drug omission an error that’s not been disclosed due to embarrassment, or something else?”
“Given the media attention surrounding Stark and his death, it would be understandable that if there had been mistakes made, they would want to keep them in-house. You know this better than anyone. Look at the media shit-storm the guy caused when he was alive,” Ciaran rationalised. “Is this source reliable?”
“He’s a senior guard from the prison.”
Ciaran pursed his lips in consideration. “What else have you got?”
“Two things; one, there exists a death certificate for Obadiah Stark.” Joe paused for effect.
“And…,” Ciaran pressed.
“And, according to my source, no documentation exists in the prison’s Master Execution File pertaining to his death. No after-action summary, no warrant of death. Yet he still has a death certificate. So I checked the prison’s Post Execution Standard Operation Procedure on line, and it states that within 72 hours the warden will conduct a critique of the execution, put it in the Master Execution File and then be issued with warrant of death. Only then is a ‘death certificate able to be forwarded to the country from which the inmate was under sentence of death’ - in this case, here. So why does he have a death certificate on public record if procedure wasn’t followed?”
Ciaran thought for a moment. “Maybe this source’ is just out to make some fast euros by pulling your chain. Come on Joe, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I considered that, but he seemed too genuine. And he was afraid, as though what he was telling me was bigger than simple administration errors.”
“You know,” Ciaran said with a sympathetic smile. “Life isn’t always as mysterious as it seems, Joe. Sometimes things are just exactly as they are. What actual evidence do you have?”
He considered what he had. Nothing. No actual evidence at all, other than conversations with relatives that were ‘off’ somehow, a meeting with a prison guard who was paranoid and a conversation with Sabitch that had wholly consisted of deflection. He had seen the death certificate, but had no way of knowing that there was paperwork missing from the Execution File at Absolom other than what he had been told. That said, why would someone go to the effort of telling him about it unless there was credibility to the story.
“Joe, you’d better not be telling me all you have is a hunch?”
“Not a hunch so much as a strong journalistic instinct that something may be awry with Stark’s execution.”
“So a hunch then?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” He responded submissively. “But if it helps, my hunches always turn out to be right.”
Ciaran stared at Joe and sighed with frustration. “You said there were two things.”
Joe puffed out his cheeks and exhaled sharply. “After the lines have been crimped and disconnected, but left in situ to the body, an inmate is supposed to be washed and placed in a post-mortem bag ready for transfer to the contract mortuary.”
“Right…”
“Well, I did some checking. A boat left Absolom the night of the execution, the one carrying his body, and it took over four hours to reach the mainland.”
“So…?”
“So, don’t you think it’s weird that the boat carrying the dead body of the world’s most dangerous serial killer took four hours to make a journey that normally only takes an hour and a half? The harbor master logs have details of every boat that arrives to and from the prison; shift details, deliveries, visitors. All journeys take roughly an hour and a half. All except that one. So, where did it go for four hours?”
Ciaran paused before answering quietly. “I don’t know. Was there a storm that night…bad weather held it up, or it ran into trouble?”
Joe played with a pencil on the desk. “Nope, I checked. Pretty much clear skies and no record of the boat having encountered trouble.”
Ciaran’s expression became concerned. “I’m not sure I want to hear anymore. The man’s dead. Are you implying there’s some sort of conspiracy going on at Absolom regarding Obadiah
Stark?”
“I never said conspiracy,” Joe interrupted. “I maybe implied cover-up.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it, I can’t think of a fuckin’ reason why there would be either. It’s one of the world’s most secure facilities with one of the most perfect records. Sabitch has had dinner with the Taoiseach for Christ’s sake. But I know you, and you’ve never been wrong yet, so I’ll tell you this, Joe. You damn well better have some fuckin’ evidence to back this one up, ‘cause if you don’t and this blows up in our faces, you’ll be all alone, pissing in the wind, I swear to Christ. You won’t be able to get a job for the fuckin’ Big Issue.”
Joe remained quiet, simply nodding his understanding before turning toward the door.
“Joe,” Ciaran said, causing his employee to stop halfway out the door. “Whatever you find or think you’ve found, be right about this one, for all our sakes.”
“I am. Trust me.” Joe closed the door slowly behind him.
“I do, son. That’s usually the problem,” Ciaran said out loud before returning to his computer.
Back at his desk, Joe stared again at the e mail on his screen, considering his next move. So, he had a wealth of evidence and no evidence at all. Circumstantial, anecdotal and nothing that amounted to anything concrete. He needed something to tie it all together. The time lapse was a start, but he needed more. Visiting Absolom again was out. The warden probably wouldn’t see him, and if he did he wasn’t going to admit to a crime. He doubted Stamford would meet him again and the harbor master probably couldn’t tell him anymore than he already had. He needed to know where the boat went for those missing hours that no one was particularly concerned about. So, he considered, why not go backwards. If the destination of the boat’s cargo was the mortuary, why not start there? Reverse engineer his whole, nebulous suspicion.
Joe rubbed the top of his head vigorously, the potential weight of it all forcing him to consider if he was about to cross his Rubicon. Wanting to focus himself, he grabbed a file from the shelf next to him entitled ‘Stark – relative’s transcriptions’. The folder contained all the interviews conducted with the relatives of Stark’s victims, either by himself or other journalists from the media. He flipped it open and began jotting down some aspects of the interviews he had found unusual at the time. It was time to start gathering the evidence he had, however transparent it may be. Maybe then, he could calm his mind long enough to enjoy his night with Victoria. There was no way he was going to allow anything to get in the way of his meeting with her this time. Obadiah Stark had already gotten in the way of enough of his personal life.
* * *
Joe watched her returning from the long bar opposite them, with a Gin and tonic for herself and a Guinness for him – their fourth. Victoria had the build of a gymnast; slightly broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist and great legs. Her face provided further luster by way of large, encouraging blue eyes. Blonde hair hanging loosely across her shoulders, the slight wave in it suggestive of it having been wet when she’d come to meet him, Joe found himself momentarily imagining her in the shower, but quickly pushed the thought away. He was uncertain whether it was the British accent or her physical appearance that gave her that ‘upper class teacher’ sexiness, but there was no denying Victoria Carter was extremely attractive. And though Ciaran didn’t have a strict ‘no fraternising with colleagues’ policy, Joe knew him trying to get her into bed would not be greeted with applause.
Probably not the best idea in the world to be getting shit-faced with her then…
Familiarising himself again with her credentials before leaving the office, he had little doubt that she was one of the foremost experts in her field, having spent most of her adult life trying to get into the minds of the some of the world’s most evil individuals. He was still surprised she was so willing to offer her assistance with his book. Joe had found himself even more impressed to learn that she had apparently assisted Scotland Yard in drawing up a profile of Jack the Ripper when a local author had offered yet another new theory on his identity. He shivered, momentarily considering how easily Obadiah could have fit the role of the Ripper had he been alive in 1888.
Sinking into the upholstered chair in front of him, Victoria placed their drinks on the small wooden table. Joe raised his glass in a salutary gesture and took a large mouthful, wiping froth from his top lip. The remnants of their meal – burger and chunky homemade fries, were being collected by a waiter who thought Joe hadn’t noticed him staring down her top as she’d sat down. Looking up, he realised Joe was watching him and quickly hurried away with an apologetic nod, balancing the stacked plates in his hands.
On his way here, Joe had realised he hadn’t spent any real time with a woman since his last relationship had ended eighteen months ago. Since then, he had practically lived and breathed Obadiah Stark. Back then, Emma had accused him of being obsessed, stating he preferred getting to know a serial killer than spending time with his girlfriend. In hindsight, he realized she had probably been right and he still hadn’t quite worked out what kind of person that made him.
Maybe the kind of person who would consider that one of the world’s most famous prisons had a touch of the Machiavellian about it.
“So,” Victoria announced, her cheeks flushing with the sip of her G and T. “You were saying?”
Joe thought for a moment, trying to redirect his thoughts from Absolom to his book. “Okay, I have the background on Obadiah, the murders, the details, evidence, etcetera. But what I don’t have is any context, theories on how the mind of the serial killer works, that kind of thing. I’m thinking it might help offset the more unsavory aspects of his life. I don’t mean I want to humanize him and certainly don’t want to elicit compassion for him, I just thought any physiological or behavioral aspects could provide some credibility to the narrative. What do you think, Victoria?”
“Vicky,” she corrected. “And I think it would provide a good focal point. Studies of serial killers often straddle a fine line between either portraying them as deities or evolutionary misnomers, so it sounds like you’re going about it the right way. Have you read the Franklin report on Stark?”
“Yeah, a couple of times actually. His interview provided me with some great insight into his background and the details of the murders…stuff even I didn’t know about.”
“John’s work is an excellent jumping off point,” Vicky confirmed. “It would certainly provide your readers with the more rounded picture you mentioned. What about biological explanations? They might encourage debate amongst the readers.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t know there were any.”
“Well, there’s controversial research suggesting a link between human physiology and the brain, that it directly correlates to an individual’s levels of aggression and propensity for violence.”
She paused, noting Joe’s slightly bemused expression. “Okay, basically all sensory systems have a thalmic nucleus that get signals which are then forwarded to the associated cortal area of the brain. Theoretically, if an individual has an impaired thalamus, they may suffer from a lack of empathy, thereby affecting how they process the emotions generated from inflicting pain on others for example.”
Joe grinned. “Wow, Miss Carter,” he said in an exaggerated fashion. “You’ve just turned me on with the sexiest justification for someone being a serial killer I’ve ever heard.”
Vicky blushed slightly. “Shut up. It’s all highly technical stuff, I assure you.”
“Oh, it must be if you’re using the word ‘stuff’ to describe it.” He maintained a flirty smile as he raised his glass and took two large mouthfuls.
“Seriously though,” Vicky corrected, her smile slowly fading. “Imagine you had no conscience, no feelings of guilt, remorse, concern for friends or family. Shame is an alien concept to you, regardless of the immoral action you have just carried out.” She took a sip of her drink and gently placed it back on the Tetley’s mat before continuing, her voice
so quiet it was barely audible above the background hum of the bar.
“Your blood’s like ice water flowing through your veins, you have no internal restraints that you even recognise. But you also know that, no matter how intelligent you are, you’ll never amount to anything in the upper echelons of society, not unless you become CEO.” Vicky chuckled darkly before continuing. “You know you’re different. You’re broken. What makes you unfeeling also makes you unable to function in society. And this makes you resentful, envious of those around you. You dream of living life as a human being, and instead you simply exist as a monster.”
Silence permeated the air, her comments hanging there uncomfortably. Uncertain how to respond, Joe ran a finger around the rim of his glass as he thought.
“So, would a sociopath have insight to their own lack of humanity?”
“Well, they know they’re different,” Vicky said. “They know they experience emotions in a different way to me and you. Really, all they have in regards to actual emotion is a profound sense of ‘one-upmanship’. I guess you’d call it pride. But the characteristics they do possess; deceitfulness, manipulativeness, impulsiveness, disregard for another’s safety, these are their actual emotions. Along with the ability to be superficially charming, they end up armed with a paradoxical way to interact with society. Ironically, it also makes them more interesting than most of the people we would encounter in everyday life. And because they’re more intense, more impulsive, they therefore become sexier, more intriguing and, ultimately, more dangerous.”
She shook her head as though dispelling dark thoughts and returned to her drink, all the time avoiding eye contact. Joe leaned his chair on its back legs, recognising her discomfort before tipping it back on all fours and moving his glass to the side, his elbows resting on the table as he leaned closer to her.
“This can all be applied to Stark?”
“Absolutely. Obadiah Stark is the epitome of everything I’ve just told you. Despite the unassailability of his character, he represents the pinnacle of what a true sociopath is – free of internal restraints and an unhampered liberty to do whatever they want. Ramirez, Manson, Henry Lee Lucas, they were all in Stark’s league, but he definitely takes the prize for being the most successful in regards to his trade. You only have to look at how long he evaded capture to realise that his intellect and cunning far exceeded theirs. And just like them, he’s never expressed guilt for his crimes. Then again, Manson and the others were actually insane. Stark’s never displayed irrationality…only apathy.”
Hellbound: The Tally Man Page 18
