Why the Devil Stalks Death

by L. J. Hayward

  “One hour is all I need. I swear.” Jack put his jacket back on and rolled his shoulders, settling all the layers into place.

  Panniers in hand, Jack left the armoury, ready to get moving at long bloody last. Lewis kept pace with him.

  “You’re taking your bike? Wouldn’t you prefer something they won’t recognise?”

  “I can move easier on the bike.” Before Lewis could raise more objections, Jack said, “Don’t worry, mum. I’m taking one from the transport pool.”

  Lewis snorted. “Let me guess, a green Ninja, as opposed to your black one.”

  “I wish. They didn’t have any Ninjas last time I was down there. I’ll have to settle for a Honda.”

  Whatever Lewis’s response was going to be, it was cut off by his phone. He answered and spent most of the conversation grunting affirmatives. When he ended the call, he gave Jack an apologetic shoulder pat. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to risk a rant from your other mother. Lydia’s got something and she wants your opinion. And before you grumble at me, she insisted you come up to the eighth.”

  Sufficiently trained, Jack knew not to ignore a summons from Lydia, so he went with minimum grumbling. Besides, she might have found something to give him a clue about, well, anything would be appreciated at that point.

  Contrary to the usual clamour created by unearthing a new, vital piece of information, the operations room was subdued, everyone quietly going about their work. Lydia sat at the head of the table, focused on her laptop to the point of needing Lewis’s hand on her shoulder to realise they had arrived.

  “We finally had a bit of luck.” She stood to face them. “The police commissioner grew a conscience and has ordered the local investigators to start sharing information. Of course, it doesn’t mean they’re giving us everything up-front. So far, we’ve had a few of their case files from the earlier murders, stuff we mostly had already. They claim they can’t understand why the ISO would want it, since a serial murderer isn’t even remotely related to their purview.” After a deep breath to cool the irritation, she added, “But, we are getting somewhere now.”

  Knowing why she wanted him there now, Jack asked, “Do we know who died at the LAC?”

  Lydia shook her head. “That one they’re really keeping a tight hold on. However, we did find out what Bible verse the Judge left with the victim. I was wondering, since you spent so much time with both of the potential victims, if you’d look at it and see if you can get a hint or a clue from it.”

  Swallowing hard, Jack managed, “Sure. I’d only be guessing, though.”

  “Better than nothing.” Lydia showed him an image of the note.

  Like the others, it was on plain white paper, printed from a standard inkjet. Nothing unique or unusual about it. There were a couple of brown stains on one corner, though. Blood from the victim. Jack doubted the Judge would be so careless as to leave his own blood behind. He read the verse.

  “She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘I have now seen the One who sees me.’”

  Jack’s first thought was that this had been meant for Adam and his far too perceptive eyes. Adam who’d scoffed at Jack saying he “got inside the killer’s head,” claiming instead that he simply had a better capacity to “see the world through someone else’s eyes.” Adam, who would also berate Jack for jumping to conclusions. Similarly, just because the verse talked about “she” didn’t mean it was Stephanie, either.

  “I think it’s about seeing something,” Jack murmured. “Not literally, maybe. I’m not sure. Maybe realising something?”

  “Finally knowing who the killer is?” Lydia suggested.

  “Maybe. Adam always interpreted the verses in relation to what he knew about the victim, and what the offender saw in the victim to make him pick them.” He handed back the image. “I can’t really say anything more until we know who this was found with.”

  “Thanks for trying, anyway. Hopefully we’ll get that information sooner rather than later.” She looked at the panniers he’d put on the floor at his feet. “I should just save my breath, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yeah. You might be able to talk me into going out in public in just my underwear, but you can’t talk me out of this.”

  Lydia nodded. “Turn on your tracking, and if you need backup, yell. Don’t go all macho and try to get out of any mess on your own.”

  “See,” Lewis murmured. “Your other mother.”

  Jack’s chest tightened suddenly. He had good friends here. People who cared for him, not just as a fellow asset, but as someone whose personal welfare they were concerned with. People, he knew, who would run into a fight for him.

  Though, as he headed down to the garage, he had to wonder what they would say if they ever found out about him and Ethan.

  Once again, Jack didn’t beat Steph to work, but he did arrive well before Adam. Considering Adam was there off his own bat, he supposed he couldn’t really fault the man for not keeping to a strict eight-hour day.

  “He’s really not a morning person,” Steph explained. “If it weren’t for me imposing a diurnal work day on him, he’d sleep all day and work all night.”

  During their brief liaison, Jack hadn’t actually slept with Adam. They’d fool around for a couple of hours, Jack would dress, and Adam would try various means of convincing him to stay. On their final night together, Jack had found himself contemplating it. Back then, he’d had no idea how regular Ethan’s visits would be, or how integral to Jack’s life they’d become. Hadn’t realised having something real and solid, something almost normal, with Ethan was possible, or that he’d want it as much as he did now. Back then, Adam had been the logical choice of partner. If his mates at the Office had found out about Adam, Jack would have copped shit for being with a psychiatrist, but even that would be pleasant compared to what would happen if they learned about Ethan.

  Settling into his usual seat, Jack asked, “What’s my mission for today?”

  “I want you and Adam to go over what tiny bits of information we have on the Morrissey scene. Hopefully, with your knowledge, you’ll be able to expand on what we have and help Adam work it into his profile. Without the information ADFIS has about it, we’re really just spinning our wheels here. Adam could work up a perfectly good profile from the three other murders, but it wouldn’t be useful in the long run because he didn’t have all the available information.”

  “And the Morrissey case is the odd one out, so I guess it would help highlight different aspects of the pathology, right?”

  “Exactly. I’m so glad you’re here. If it weren’t for Adam, and now you, I’d be doing this all on my own. Even the investigative team has been cut down. Sadly, without another murder, we’ve run out of evidence to process and witnesses to question.” She rallied with a grin. “But, thanks to your notes on the Williams scene yesterday, we’re actually following another lead. The blind spot in the security camera coverage is being looked into. I knew you’d do more than brighten the place up.”

  Jack waved aside the praise. He just felt better knowing he wasn’t a complete waste of space for Steph.

  Adam arrived not long later, slouching in with another tray of coffees. Phone ringing, Steph grabbed a drink, told Adam to take Jack through the Morrissey information, and then left the room, answering the phone with a breathless “What did you find?”

  All but falling into his chair, Adam took a long slurp of coffee, pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, groaned, took off his sunglasses and peered at Jack.

  “Either you really aren’t a morning person,” Jack muttered, “or you’re hungover.”

  A finger pointed vaguely in Jack’s direction. “First one. And maybe a bit of the second one.”

  The Office had a full background on Dr. Adam Quinn, which Jack had read after his first day on the strike force. Adam contracted for a psychology service as a forensic psychologist, working with offenders in prison and after their release. It
most certainly didn’t involve sitting in a leather chair while a patient lay on the couch and unloaded about their childhood. Most of Adam’s work was with violent offenders, and apparently his papers on the subject of criminal psychology were always very well received. He’d been interviewed on 60 Minutes after being taken hostage by a patient for five hours.

  Jack didn’t judge Adam for his condition. He could sympathise with the toll it took to commit oneself to such a hard path. To then take time off to chase a serial murderer as a favour to a friend could only add to the load.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Adam said, a half smirk on his lips.

  “What look?”

  “The ‘poor you’ look. The ‘you’ve looked too long into the abyss’ look. My job has nothing to do with today’s malady. If a certain someone had merely consented to drinks last night, I wouldn’t have spent so long at the bar trying to find anyone else who had even a smidge of a chance of living up to my expectations.” He gave Jack a mock glare. “This is your fault.”

  Both eyebrows raised to banish the sympathetic expression Adam didn’t want to see, Jack drawled, “It’s my fault you couldn’t pick up?”

  “You’ve ruined me for all other men.”

  Jack gave that the derisive snort it deserved. “Aren’t we supposed to be going over the Morrissey scene?”

  Adam scowled, then winced, and after a fortifying gulp of coffee, muttered, “Spoilsport. All right, if you insist on working. Captain Shane Morrissey of the Australian Defence Force Intelligence Corps. Thirty-eight years old, a fine vintage indeed. Seventeen-year career with the armed forces, loads of medals and commendations, upstanding officer and all-round good bloke. Oh, and gay.”

  Jack settled back in his chair. “Is his sexuality significant?”

  “It might be. Don’t know. At this stage, with the very small amount we know about the Morrissey murder, we can’t afford to not consider everything as significant. The Judge’s other victims all appear to be heterosexuals, but also considering that they don’t have a lot else in common, the odd gay man out might mean absolutely nothing, or something, or everything.” Warming to the subject, Adam continued in an almost fervent manner. “Before Morrissey, we weren’t exactly ready to link Williams to the Melbourne murders because of the change in city, location of the kill, and the victim’s background. The move from Melbourne to Sydney is a big factor. Most serial murderers are creatures of habit. If something works once, they keep with it until it doesn’t work. Melbourne worked for the Judge. I can tell you now, even though they haven’t been linked to the other two victims, our guy killed more than those two in Melbourne. The very first one would have been opportunistic. Almost an accident. An angry confrontation that went a bit too far, but the killer liked it. He got a rush from it. Seeing that person die, being the instrument by which they died, fulfilled something in him. He would have had to go looking for the next rush, manufacture a situation that mimicked the first one so he—”

  “You went over this on day one.” Jack didn’t need to hear it again, especially not in Adam’s impassioned tones. “The developing of the fantasy, the evolving MO. All of that psychology stuff.”

  Adam grinned. “You remembered. Gold star.”

  Jack flicked a pen at him. “Get on with it.”

  Laughing, Adam tucked the pen behind his ear and did as instructed. “Okay, so Williams seems the odd one out, then we learned about Morrissey. An army intelligence captain murdered, on base, in the officers’ residence. Suddenly, Williams isn’t the strange case anymore. And with two murders in Sydney, the coincidence became too big for the PTB to ignore and they were willing to admit Melbourne and Sydney are the same murderer. If we have any chance of getting this guy before he kills again, I need to know about Morrissey. I need to know why him. Why would our killer take such a big risk of getting into a secure army base and confronting a trained soldier? What was it about Morrissey that made the Judge decide he must die? This is your job, Nishant. If you can give me the how, it will help me with the why. And ultimately, the who.”

  Unable to argue with that, Jack gathered the few bits of information about the Morrissey scene Steph had managed to keep hold of. They worked solidly for several hours, Adam asking questions about base life, routines, and the intelligence division. Jack hadn’t had much to do with Military Intelligence, but he could answer most questions with some measure of confidence. Of course, the discussion had to include the subject of being gay in the armed forces.

  “Officially, the Australian military is non-discriminatory. Gay, straight, queer, it doesn’t matter. Even different gender identities. When I left there was at least one transwoman in an officer position.”

  Adam quirked an eyebrow. “Officially?”

  Conceding with a nod, Jack said, “Yeah, of course not everyone is as accepting as the official policy. There were those who didn’t care and those who did.”

  “Did you have any problems?”

  “Nothing too bad. Less once I was in the SAS. Even the biggest meathead thinks twice before insulting a special forces soldier.”

  Adam’s gaze dropped lazily over Jack’s body. “Mm, yeah. There are better things to be done with that body than insulting it.”

  Squashing down the warmth rising in his belly, Jack threw another pen at the leering man. “Eyes up here, thank you.”

  “Don’t make me beg.”

  Jack’s laugh was genuine. “As I recall, you’re not really good at begging. It’s sort of more like whiny commands.”

  Eyebrows shooting up, Adam scoffed. “Whiney commands? Bite me.”

  “Case in point.”

  Adam tried for indignant, but his usual grin broke through. “Did it work? Do you want to bite me now?”

  “Don’t know about bite, but something, sure.” Jack smirked.

  Before Adam could demand specifics, the door opened and Steph came in, followed by Officer Toomey.

  “I hope there’s some work happening between the hilarity,” Steph admonished them, carrying on before they could do anything more than look contrite. “Jack, you know Constable Toomey.” The tall blond nodded in Jack’s direction, trying his hardest as usual to hide between his shoulders. “Apparently he and some other officers have been at the Williams scene all morning, trying to recreate your suggested means of entry. They say it’s not possible.”

  Toomey shrugged apologetically, looking at the table between Jack and Adam.

  “It is,” Jack insisted, but trying to talk Toomey through his scenario proved difficult. The man kept shaking his head at everything Jack proposed and saying flatly it wouldn’t work in practice.

  Eventually, they all ended up down at the scene where Jack demonstrated how it was possible to slip in between the overlapping camera fields, scale the wall, and get into the building through the roof. Not that it necessarily proved his point, as Adam reminded everyone Jack came from a special forces background. Once shown the way, though, Constable Toomey was capable of making it, even if he was caught on the edge of one camera sweep or the other.

  Whether it was the memory of Adam’s condition that morning, or the excursion out of the room in the LAC, or a combination of both, Jack gave in to Adam’s pestering and agreed to a few drinks when they were done for the day. After digging up a spare helmet, Adam got on the back of the Ninja. Having the man pressed to his back, arms around his waist, invited a few nice, if unwanted, memories, and not just for Jack, apparently.

  “Whoo!” Adam exclaimed when they’d come to a stop outside a pub not far from his hotel and he’d wrestled the helmet off. “Who would have guessed being in that position fully clothed would be such fun?”

  Jack elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t go getting any ideas, Quinn. This is just drinks.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of anything else.” But as he got off the bike, he made sure to press his erection into Jack’s hip.

  Ignoring it, Jack followed him inside the small bar. They scored drinks and found a quiet table in
the back. In silent agreement, they chatted about everything but the case, and it didn’t take Jack long to remember why he’d agreed to more than one night with Adam back then. He liked the man, a lot. However, that like didn’t turn into lust this time. When he did catch himself thinking about sex, it was Ethan who automatically populated the vague images in his head. As one drink turned into two more for Adam and his flirting ratchetted up several notches, Jack’s thoughts kept going back to Ethan, and in the end, he had to admit defeat and call it a night. Not before making sure Adam got to the hotel, though.

  As Adam fumbled his way off the back of the bike outside the Oaks, less coordinated than he had been the first time, he looped an arm around Jack’s neck and planted a kiss on the lower part of his helmet, over his lips.

  “One day,” he murmured against the smooth surface, “you’ll let that happen without anything in the way.”

  A shiver ran down Jack’s spine. During their first hook-up, when Jack had explained that he didn’t kiss on the mouth, Adam had given him one of his piercing looks and, after an uncomfortably long evaluation, said, “Sure. I get that. Just let me know when you’re ready for it.”

  Now, Adam stepped back, his hand trailing down Jack’s arm. “See you tomorrow, Nishant.”

  “Later, Quinn.”

  Jack’s debrief at the Office had to be some sort of speed record, and yet, when he got home, Ethan was already in bed. He wasn’t sleeping, but when Jack crawled in with him and made some exploratory moves, Ethan murmured, “In the morning, Jack,” and rolled over, snuggling his back into Jack’s chest. Disappointment mitigated by the promise of morning sex, Jack wound an arm around Ethan and tucked his face into the warm skin of his shoulder.

  Even this was better than anything else.

  Jack’s first destination was his apartment. He left the Honda Interceptor he’d taken from the Office transport pool in the visitor carpark, entered the building through the front doors, and took the lift up to his floor. Anyone who knew him even vaguely should be aware he usually took the stairs. Avoiding traps was all about breaking habits. Still, Jack felt confined and restricted in the lift. He took the time to pull his USP and hide it inside his helmet. The hallway on his floor was empty when the lift doors opened. Stepping out, Jack moved slowly, searching for something out of place or new. Nothing leapt out at him, but he kept up his cautious pace until he reached his neighbour’s door.