Deadly Obsession

by Michael Kerr

  “Does he think I might get lost, Mike?” she said, her face expressionless, giving no insight as to her disposition.

  “Er, no, Dr Norton. It’s just policy.”

  “Meaning you do not want civilians wandering around unaccompanied. Right?”

  “A great many of the staff are civilians,” Mike said. He found her attitude adversarial. He needed to establish that he was no one’s whipping boy.

  After being furnished with ‘Official Visitor’ ID, Lisa followed Mike through a maze of corridors to the lifts. They took one up to the third floor. She sensed that the quiet young detective was uneasy at being in her company. He apparently found her intimidating and did not have anything to say for himself. That was fine by her. It saved the need for idle banter.

  “Dr Norton’s here, boss,” Mike said, ushering Lisa into the now almost sweet-smelling office and withdrawing quickly, to return to the squad room.

  Jack got up, came out from behind the desk and unashamedly gave Lisa the once over; a fleeting scan that missed nothing.

  “Haven’t you seen a woman before?” Lisa said to him, slightly irritated at his undisguised scrutiny of her. For a second she felt like a model strutting her stuff on a catwalk. Or a would-be beauty queen parading herself in front of a panel of ogling judges.

  Jack gave her an unconcerned smile and held out his hand. “Jack Ryder. Pleased to have you along for the ride,” he said.

  She saw the twinkle in his eyes. He was in some way testing her, evaluating her personality and temperament, which was something she did herself with everyone she met, and was now doing with him. She gave his hand a firm shake. The feel was wrong, but she didn’t flinch. He let go after what seemed a beat too long.

  “I lost it in the line of duty,” he said, holding his hand up to show her that the little finger of his right hand ended at the first joint.

  “I didn’t ask,” she said.

  “You wondered.”

  “Who’s the psychologist here?”

  “You are. I’m just an amateur. It goes with the job.”

  She couldn’t help but like him. He didn’t seem to be projecting a false persona. Her impression was that what you saw was what you got with Jack Ryder. It was refreshing.

  “So how did you lose it?” she said.

  “I got careless with a rapist who was tripping on phencyclidine...PCP. He bit it off and swallowed it. The experience taught me a valuable lesson.”

  “Once bitten, twice shy, huh?” Lisa said.

  They both grinned. Any ice that there had been was not only broken, but almost totally melted. They knew that they could work together.

  “Coffee?” Jack said.

  Lisa took a seat. “Milk, no sugar, please,” she said. “Where’s Ken?”

  “In a meeting on the top floor. He’ll drop by when it’s over,” Jack said, going over to the small table in the corner, where the kettle and all components necessary to brew up were now set out on a clean tea towel.

  “Everything we have so far is in the files in front of you,” Jack said, spooning granules of Cart Noire into two of the least chipped mugs. “They’re your copies.”

  Lisa opened the file on Emily Wallace, went through the reports and photographs quickly, then put it aside and started in on the file on Christine Adams.

  Jack put the steaming mugs on the desk blotter, then perched on the edge of his chair, picked up a stray paperclip and started to straighten it out, waiting for Lisa to finish up.

  She nodded to herself and took a sip of coffee before clasping her hands together with fingers interlocked on top of the still open file and said, “You think we have a repeater?”

  “I know we do.”

  “Was the cryptic writing of the messages he left a match?”

  “Barney Donlevy in Document Section says yes. The offender wrote them with his fingertip. There were apparently characteristics unique enough for Barney to positively attribute both to the same hand. He’ll send me the specifics. But with only three words in each case, he told me not to expect much in the way of a psycholinguistic profile.”

  “And I take it as given that the mobile phone calls were all made from different areas, and that none of the owners are likely suspects.”

  “Right. It looks as though we’ve got a sexual predator with a brain, who knows all about retrieval and investigative procedures.”

  Lisa frowned. Jack noticed that as she concentrated, the tip of her tongue showed from between her lips. He wondered if the power suit was a psychological defence mechanism, meant to nullify her femininity. It didn’t work. She looked more than good. The equanimity she possessed was a lighter flame to a cigarette; a naked light bulb to a moth.

  He said, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No, Jack. And why did you call him a sexual predator? What do you mean by that?”

  She’d called him Jack. He didn’t think she had done it for any abstruse reason. He lit up, always unmindful of policy, took a drag and turned his head to the side before exhaling.

  “I used to go through more than thirty a day,” she said. “So don’t worry about it.”

  “How did you quit?”

  “Easy. I woke up one morning and wanted to. So I did.”

  It made sense. Jack didn’t want to quit. He knew he should, but enjoyed it too much. “He rapes and kills his victims,” he said. “That’s why I called him a sexual predator.”

  Lisa shook her head. “Rape equates to taking by force. He strangled them first and then abused their bodies. That makes him a homicidal necrophiliac, if we want to be precise.”

  “It’s still sexually motivated, and a direct result of force,” Jack said in defence of his observation.

  “True. But he doesn’t fit into the standard classifications that most rapists conform to.”

  “Which are?”

  “There are four main types, but they can overlap. This guy does. He’s like the Power-Reassurance Rapist who perceives himself to be inadequate. He has to compensate for whatever deficiency he has. Some have a specific sexual dysfunction. It could be premature ejaculation, or the perception that their penis is malformed or too small. Or maybe they just can’t get it up without extraordinary stimulus.

  “This type is looking for reassurance, to establish control and prove his potency. Trouble is the individual you’re looking for has elements of the Anger Rapist, retaliating against a mother, a wife, or maybe a girlfriend he has a deep-seated grudge against. And then we have the most dangerous type of all rapists: the Sadistic Rapist. With this creature, his attack on a woman is twofold; to live out whatever sick fantasies he harbours and to unleash his built-up aggression. He is far more likely to murder his victim than any of the other types we come across.”

  “You said that there were four types.”

  “That’s right. I don’t believe the killer of these two women is an Exploitative Rapist, though. The classification pertains, as the designation suggests, to an impulsive predator. He will see an opportunity and seize the moment. In this case, we are trying to find a man who has most likely contacted his nominated victims long before he murdered them. And the act of sex with their bodies was to degrade them, not to specifically gain sexual gratification. The bottom line is, I think you’re looking for a stalker.”

  “A lot of stalkers kill,” Jack said. “Which makes them as dangerous as serial murderers.”

  “True. He will fixate on a certain individual. In this case it would appear he made numerous phone calls to Christine Adams. Maybe threats to harm her or any family members kept her on the hook. She would have been too scared to report what was happening.”

  “So why kill her?”

  “I don’t know. She may have reached the end of her tether and found the courage to tell him to take a hike. Or he may have taken it as far as he could go, tired of her, and went for the big confrontational finale. They’re all individuals. Stalking is like an invisible crime. The public have the false impression that it only happe
ns to celebrities, but they’re just the tip of the iceberg. The only sure thing is that stalkers are highly motivated, resourceful, and can be extremely dangerous.”

  “In your estimation, will this lunatic kill again?”

  “Yes. He has an obsession, and an agenda we have yet to determine. Hence the ritualistic way he placed the knife between Christine’s legs, and cut Emily’s feet off. Did the cryptic messages he left make any sense to you?”

  “No. We’re even trying the Internet for hits on My Devil’s Kitchen and The Final Decree.”

  “They sound like film or book titles.”

  “If they’re listed, we’ll find them. Can I take it you’ll work this case with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what exactly will you do?”

  “Take these files home and work on them. Study the victimology and the symbolic content of the crimes. He’s communicating. The mutilation and messages are signatures. I’ll try to work up a profile and see if I can assess his likely post offence behaviour. As with every individual I’ve evaluated, behaviour reflects personality. And I’ll need to visit the scenes to see them from the killer’s point of view.”

  “Fine. When do you want to go?”

  “How does tomorrow morning sound?”

  “What time?”

  “About ten.”

  “You want me to pick you up?”

  “No. I’ve got the addresses. I’ll meet you at Emily Wallace’s flat in Harringay.”

  “There are probably new tenants living in it now. The girlfriend she shared with moved out. And how will going there three months after the event be of any help?”

  “I won’t know until I’ve been. It’s how I work.”

  “Okay. How do I get in touch if anything breaks?”

  Lisa plucked a pencil out of the plastic desk tidy and scribbled on a Post-it pad. “That’s my home and mobile numbers, in case you can’t reach me at the hospital,” she said. “Please keep them private.”

  As Jack helped Lisa gather up the paperwork and photographs and return them to the document wallets, Ken joined them. He looked harassed.

  “How’s my favourite shrink?” he said to Lisa. “Do you think you can come up with a pen picture on this creep?”

  “I’m fine, you old reprobate,” she said. “And yes, I believe his actions to date are enough to give me some insight.”

  “That’s music to my ears. Has Jack been his usual curmudgeonly self?”

  “He’s been the perfect host.”

  “Impossible. He thinks civilians are like haemorrhoids; a pain in the arse.”

  “Then he conceals his presumptions...or diagnosis, well.”

  Jack rapped his knuckles on the desktop. “Hello, you two. Excuse me, but if you want to talk about me as if I wasn’t here, I’ll go,” he said, pocketing the Post-it pad and smiling at Lisa as he left the office.

  Lisa made small talk with Ken for a few minutes. She thought he looked sapped of energy and much thinner than when she had last seen him. It was as though he was fading away, being sucked dry of life.

  “Who’s my official contact?” she said.

  “Jack. He’ll be running with this one. He’s like a bloody Mountie, Lisa, he always gets his man.”

  “Always?”

  “Put it this way, the few cases he hasn’t solved, he still works on the side. He doesn’t give up, ever.”

  “He sounds driven.”

  “He is. He wants whatever justice he can get for the deceased, and for their families and friends, who’re also victims and suffer because of some scumbag’s actions.”

  “You can’t win them all.”

  “Don’t let Jack hear you say that. He doesn’t like negative vibes. He works on the premise that they all make mistakes, and that we’re failing at what we do if we don’t pick up on them and get a result.”

  “Does he find time for a life? Or does he have a cot here and send out for take away?”

  Ken pulled a face. “The job cost him his marriage, Lisa. He hardly sees his kid, and as far as I know his social life is nonexistent. He absorbs other peoples’ suffering and takes it upon himself to make a difference.”

  “Is he ambitious?”

  Ken nearly choked. “Christ, no. Anything but. The brass only turns a blind eye to his unorthodox way of operating because he helps cut serious crime statistics. He isn’t going any further up the greasy pole of promotion, knows it, and doesn’t give a shit.”

  “That’s how I pegged him.”

  “Why are you so interested?” Ken asked. “Have his baby-blues and macho attitude hit the spot?”

  “Bollocks, Ken. If I’m going to be consulting on this case, and working with Ryder, then I want to know something about the man.”

  “Yeah. Well be warned anyway. He believes that he’s got enough baggage to last at least three lifetimes. Nobody gets close to him. I think he looks on everybody, including me, as tools to use to get the job done. He can be charming one minute and a first-rate bastard the next.”

  “Sounds like most men I’ve come across,” Lisa said, heading out into the corridor.

  “You must be attracted to the wrong type,” Ken said. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  JACK went over to the free-standing easel, flipped over a fresh sheet and wrote on it in black marker pen:

  Victimology

  Christine Adams. Emily Wallace

  What were the victims like?

  What attracted the killer to them?

  What made them high risk?

  WHY THEM?

  When he had finished writing, he clapped his hands together to get the team’s attention.

  “We need to answer these questions,” he said, pointing to the sheet of paper. “Once we know why these two women were targeted, we’ll have a better picture of the psycho who murdered them. It may be that he simply selects young women with dark hair and eyes, but we can’t take that for granted. Have any of you got anything fresh?”

  “Christine Adams’s ex-boyfriend has just been brought in,” DC Phil Jennings said.

  “Good. I’ll go and have a word with him. Anything else?”

  There were only negative grunts.

  “Come on, Mike,” Jack said, “Let’s go play good cop, bad cop, and sweat this guy.”

  “You think it could be him, boss?”

  “He’s a suspect until eliminated as such. That’s all I think.”

  Kyle Foley paced up and down the small interview room. He was angry. The police were like a British version of the KGB, or whatever the Ruskies called it these days. They had asked him to accompany them to Scotland Yard and help with their inquiries. When he’d said that he would prefer not to, it was implied that refusal was not an option, and that if he wanted to be treated as a hostile witness and taken in against his will, then he could expect to be their guest for an indeterminate length of time. Fucking Nazis! He hadn’t been a witness to anything.

  “Take the weight off, Mr Foley,” Jack said as he entered the windowless room and pulled out a plastic stacking chair from under a solid metal table, which had its legs bolted to the floor.

  “I’d rather stand,” Kyle said, watching nervously as Jack and Mike sat down.

  Jack said nothing, just lit a cigarette and stared at the young man, to unsettle him further.

  “You want a cup of coffee?” Jack asked after a minute’s silence.

  “Uh, yeah,” Kyle said. His mouth felt like it was lined with dry sand, and he kept licking his lips to try and moisten them. They were sticking together.

  Jack nudged Mike’s knee with his own. Mike got up and left the room to get the drinks, leaving Jack alone with the suspect for a few minutes.

  “Sit down, Mr Foley. And be aware that we are not accusing you of anything. We need you to assist us with the investigation into Christine’s murder.”

  Kyle gripped the top of the chair opposite Jack, lifted it slightly off the floor, pulled it back, s
lammed it down and dropped into it. “I’ve told your lot everything I know,” he said. “You had no right to drag me in here against my will.”

  “Try to be more factual, Kyle. Nobody dragged you anywhere. You elected, as a responsible citizen, to accompany my officers. Truth is, you are currently a suspect. I need to be convinced that you had nothing to do with the brutal attack and subsequent murder of your ex-girlfriend.”

  “You’re out of fucking order,” Kyle blurted. “I haven’t set eyes on Christine since August.”

  “So it was over between you?” Jack said.

  “Yeah. Like I keep saying, she was out of my life. We went our separate ways. End of story.”

  “No contact at all?”

  “No,” Kyle said. “I’m going out with someone else now.”

  It was significant to Jack that the young man looked down as he spoke, unable to cloak his deceit.

  “I can recognise a lie when I hear one, Kyle. Do you want to dig yourself in a little deeper, or cut the crap, come clean now and save yourself a lot of grief?”

  Kyle closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “All right, so I phoned Christine a few times,” he said. “But she wouldn’t see me again. After a few weeks I got the message, accepted that it was over and moved on. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

  Jack studied him. The brash and slightly hostile attitude had dissolved. Kyle Foley was twenty-five, two years younger than Christine had been. He was a tall, fit-looking guy with a shock of auburn hair; a carrot top with the looks of a sportsman, who would brush up well and impress a jury, should he ever find himself having to rely on their gut instincts over evidence. He reminded Jack of Tony Chambers, a killer who the team had arrested over two years ago. Chambers was twenty-three at the time, tall, dark and handsome, newly married, and living in a modern detached house on an upmarket estate in North Dulwich. The personable young man designed computer software, was a regular churchgoer, and extremely popular with his neighbours. When a thirteen-year-old girl, Marion Blake, went missing on the way home from the nearby school she attended, Chambers was instrumental in organising local residents to search for her. Five days later, Marion’s naked body was found in bushes on a railway embankment adjacent to the Elmer’s End Crematorium. Her arms had been bound behind her back with duct tape, she had been raped, and a piece of tarpaulin had been placed over her head and secured around her neck with thick twine. The cause of her death was brought about by repeated blows to the skull with a blunt instrument; the resulting bone fragments, blood and brain tissue being contained by the thick, waterproof fabric.