by Rob Ashman
She had always held the firm belief that suicide was wrong in the eyes of the Lord. However, now that she was unencumbered by that view, her tumble down the stairs was never considered an accident. Rather it had been viewed as the last act of a sick woman with nothing to live for and no belief in a divine force to keep her from doing it.
A handwritten note had been scribbled at the bottom of the file notes. It read: Claim for hospital negligence pending, Dick Harper, 23 Oct 1979. Lucas stopped reading and replaced the files. Dick Harper. Now that was a name to conjure with. Lucas knew him well or, at least, he knew the folklore that surrounded him. He was a bull-headed bastard of a man who’d held the position of Lieutenant at the time of the Mechanic murders. He was straight out of the old school. Harper had been promoted through the ranks in his early years, due mainly to his uncompromising style and formidable reputation which exactly fitted with the times.
‘Cops make the best villains,’ he would boom. ‘Just use it wisely.’ Double talk for ‘Do whatever needs to be done, but don’t get caught while doing it.’ Harper hadn’t been a bent cop. He’d proudly boast that he’d never accepted a bribe in his life, but he wouldn’t let the mere technicality of a known scum-bag’s innocence get in the way of a good collar. He held the criminal fraternity in a grip of fear, a grip that was as often physical as it was metaphorical.
Unfortunately for Harper, the force’s top brass had changed as did their attitudes to such activities. They brought with them a new enlightened style for a modern police force. The problem was that Harper couldn’t change and he was increasingly seen as out of step.
His career had suffered, and Harper had felt the control that he’d enjoyed for so long slip away from him. He’d been beside himself with rage and frustration as known criminals walked free from his station after procedures hadn’t been followed. Sleight-of-hand lawyers constantly unearthed irregularities in the treatment of suspects.
One explosive disagreement with his superiors had stood out from the rest. It followed a vigorous interview with a street mugger who’d been caught kicking the shit out of an old woman because she wouldn’t let go of the bag over her shoulder. Harper was heard to shout at his boss.
‘Doesn’t anybody care that the bastard did it?’
‘That is not the issue here,’ was the cold, monotone response.
‘Well, sir, I beg to differ. It’s a major fucking issue to me.’
There was no doubt that Harper felt a good deal better for replying as he did, but the resulting suspension from duty took the shine off it. He was reinstated two weeks later when the mugger failed to turn up to corroborate his complaint. In fact, he failed to turn up anywhere at all, not at his apartment, nor his place of work. Nowhere. Without him it was easy for Harper to cry victimization and his pasty-faced boss had to eat lots of very public humble pie. The complaint was quashed.
The other cops at the station never questioned where the mugger had gone nor had his disappearing act come as a great surprise to anyone. Harper hadn’t touched him personally, but had leaned on certain members of the criminal fraternity to do themselves a favour. This was food and drink to Harper, his own version of the force’s new enlightened techniques.
Lucas looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. The remaining two boxes contained murders nine, ten, eleven and twelve plus the interview notes, analysis, statements and hypotheses. All based on a nightmare three years old.
Lucas didn’t open them. He’d seen and read enough for one day. He lifted the telephone.
‘Hi, this is Lucas, get me FBI headquarters Quantico.’ He replaced the handset and waited. Within seconds it rang.
‘Hello, this is the FBI. Can I help you?’
‘Yes, this is Lieutenant Edmund Lucas of the Florida State Police Department. I’d like to talk to Jeff Charmers. And, before you ask, I am aware of how late it is.’
‘May I have your identification number please?’ asked the operator. Lucas gave his ID.
‘Won’t keep you a moment.’ The line echoed and buzzed as the code was processed. After a while she returned. ‘Putting you through, Lieutenant.’
‘Jeff Charmers.’ The voice was bright and alert despite the hour.
‘Jeff, this is Lieutenant Ed Lucas of FPD. I’m sorry to call you so late.’
‘That’s okay. It must be urgent.’
‘Yes it is. We need to reopen an investigation into a serial killer who murdered twelve people three years ago. The case had been closed and the killer presumed dead, but we’ve found his fingerprints at the scene of a crime. Your department was involved with the previous case, and we need your expertise again.’
‘What was the name of the killer?’
‘He was given the code name Mechanic,’ Lucas replied.
‘Okay, I’ll get to work on it straightaway and someone will be with you first thing in the morning. I’ll fax you with timings and arrangements.’
‘Thanks.’
The wheels were now in motion. But the more Lucas knew about the case, the less he felt in control.
10
Mechanic sat with both hands clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip. The car was pulled over to the side of the road , its lights and engine turned off. This was the worst place to be, out in the open. Mechanic was a sitting duck.
‘Worked it out yet, sucker?’ Daddy’s voice echoed around Mechanic’s head, each word designed to paralyse with fear. The attacks were relentless and came without warning. Mechanic popped the cigarette lighter into the dashboard, heating up the element. It was the only thing to hand which could inflict serious pain.
Mechanic’s head shook from side to side, eyes tightly shut. ‘It’s too early, I’m not ready.’
‘Screwed up this time, chump,’ the voice mocked. ‘It’s not good enough, it’s really not good enough.’
‘Can’t go on. It’s too soon.’ Mechanic’s eyes opened and saw a pale, tortured face reflected in the rear-view mirror. This was desperate. The final morsels of control were slipping away. Mechanic frantically tried to retrieve the lighter from its holder, fingernails digging around the edges.
‘I say now. Do it now,’ Daddy’s voice thundered.
‘No. No, I can’t.’ Mechanic pulled the lighter from the dash. The coiled metal glowed red in the dark and Mechanic felt the heat just inches from the soft flesh of the inner arm.
Ready for the searing pain to break Daddy’s hold.
It was no use. Mechanic’s resolve crumpled and the lighter was replaced in its holder. Mechanic stared straight ahead into the distance. All control was gone.
‘I suppose there are loose ends. Work left unfinished.’ The words dribbled from Mechanic’s mouth, eyelids fluttering as if struggling to stay awake.
‘You suppose right, chump. But have you worked it out yet? Have you worked out how you got the wrong fucking house?’
‘I wasn’t ready. I told you I wasn’t ready.’
‘It was a shoddy screw-up. Have you worked it out yet, chump?’ Daddy was pressing hard, wanting answers.
‘Not sure. Need to go back and look. Need to do it right.’
‘Then turn the car around and go back to work. Daddy’s not pleased. You need to please Daddy.’ The voice in Mechanic’s head died away into a distant recess.
Slowly a thin smile formed across Mechanic’s lips. The gear shift was slammed into drive, the engine gunned into action and the back wheels spun in the gravel. The back of the car slewed around and Mechanic lurched back onto the road, pulling hard on the opposite lock to straighten up. The lights flashed on and the car sped away.
Two hours later Mechanic stood in the living room of a beachfront property. Any doubts of poor preparation were long gone, this was definitely the right house. It was shrouded in darkness while the occupants slept. Vertical strip blinds swayed back and forth, the night air drifting through them. The patio door was propped up against the frame, allowing the sea breeze to blow in.
Mechanic enjoyed this part the best. Standi
ng breathlessly still, allowing eyes to become accustomed to the greyscale colours of the room at night, listening to the sounds of the house cooling down after a long day baking in the Florida sun. The floorboards were settling, the refrigerator softly humming and the air conditioning unit cutting in. Mechanic soaked up the atmosphere, relishing what was to come next.
Comfortable with the background noises, Mechanic moved through the house. Standing in front of the TV, Mechanic crouched down and removed a black glove to press a naked thumb into the centre of the screen. Mechanic replaced the glove, skirted the leather sofa and stepped through a large archway which led down a long hallway to the bedrooms.
After several paces Mechanic stopped, listening to an unusual noise. What was it? Someone turning over in bed? Someone throwing back the quilt to cool off?
Shit, someone was getting up.
Mechanic moved back through the arch and stepped to the side, pushing hard against the living room wall and dropping to a semi-crouch position. The sound of feet padding on carpet was growing louder. Questions rushed around Mechanic’s mind, the training kicking in. Will they turn a light on? Is it a man or woman? Is it a child? Mechanic heard the door knob twist and the noise of the carpet pile brushing under the door as it opened. Someone was coming down the hallway. All questions disappeared as Mechanic focused on the next few seconds. There was no need to think, just to act. Pure instinct.
Mechanic’s right hand swung in a fierce upward arc smashing Dave McKee full in the throat. The backhanded strike connected hard, forcing McKee’s head up and back. The sound of cracking bones filled the confines of the archway as the vertebrae in his neck jumped out of position.
These were the only noises to be heard from the attack since McKee’s smashed larynx failed to work. His head reflexed back to its normal position and his knees buckled. Air rushed from his mouth and he emitted a gargling noise as the blood ran down his windpipe. McKee’s hands were wrapped around his shattered throat and his head sagged to one side. Mechanic pivoted on the left foot and stepped back away from him. With gun drawn and levelled at McKee’s head, Mechanic waited.
The seconds ticked by. Dave McKee’s weight became too much for his lower body to carry and his knees hit the soft pile of the living room carpet. His eyes protruded from their sockets in a cartoon-like stare, his hands still clutching at his smashed throat. Poised in front of the choking, kneeling figure, Mechanic squeezed the trigger.
The mild spit from the silenced gun was always such an understated announcement of the complete devastation that followed.
A small ridged hole appeared in the centre of McKee’s forehead. The back of his head exploded sending splinters of bone along the hallway, hitting the floor, ceiling and both walls. The force of the bullet lifted him from his kneeling position and laid him flat on the soft carpet. Mechanic stepped back against the living room wall, waited and listened. There were no more sounds. No one stirred.
After several minutes, Mechanic stepped around the large red stain on the carpet, holstered the gun and unclipped a fourteen-inch rubber baton. Thanks to her husband’s unexpected arrival in the hallway, finding Hannah McKee was a piece of cake. Their bedroom door was still slightly ajar.
Mechanic slipped silently inside.
11
The early morning sun splashed leafy shadows across the block stone frontage of the station as Lucas swung his car into the parking lot. While driving to work, he’d pondered the irony that such a blissful, welcoming morning could herald what Lucas was sure would be a blissful bitch of a day. He bounded up the front steps, his mind clear and crisp. He was confident that he could handle whatever the day threw at him. Twice in his career he had seen others in his position fall apart when tasked with such a prominent case. They had both lacked clarity and had consequently drowned in their own confusion. That was not going to happen to him.
Lucas nodded good morning to those he met on his way to his office, passing the main fax machine as he did so and tearing the waxy paper away from the top tray. It read:
From: Jeff Chambers
To: Edmund Lucas
As per our telephone call, expect Special Agent
Dr Jo Sells to arrive am today.
Regards
Jeff
Director of Behavioral Science Unit
FBI Academy, Quantico.
Lucas read it and continued to his office, calling into the incident room first. Bassano was removing the contents of the boxes from the night before and creating incident boards for each of the murders. However bleak the pictures had looked earlier, they were even more harrowing once they’d been pinned to the boards in the first flush of morning sunshine.
‘Morning chief,’ said Bassano gulping black coffee from an enamel mug. ‘This is a right cluster-fuck.’ Bassano was renowned for his cheery greetings.
‘It sure is.’ Lucas couldn’t have put it better himself. ‘Just a few words before the dogs of war descend on us.’ Bassano stopped what he was doing and drew closer to Lucas. ‘I hope to God we went wrong somewhere in identifying the print and there’s a rational explanation of why a previously dead serial killer pays our state congresswoman’s daughter a visit. Because then we can all have our asses kicked for wasting time and resources and get back to the daily shit that we all know and love.’ Bassano smiled at the twisted summary of their predicament. Lucas pressed on, his voice no more than a whisper.
‘But until that happens, this is real. It’s the biggest case we’ve had to deal with, and it’s one where solving the crime is only part of what we have to deliver. Everyone is going to be looking over our shoulders to see how we’re progressing, and they’ll all know a better way of doing it – the press, the FBI, the politicians, and the public. So when we get the press involved I don’t want any own goals, no extra pressure by cocking up. Understand?’
‘Yeah boss.’
‘We need to cover a lot of ground fast. I want pace and lots of it.’ Lucas eyeballed Bassano who nodded his head.
Bassano spoke in a hushed whisper. ‘That’s what I meant, sir,’ he paused, ‘about it being a cluster-fuck.’
Lucas shook his head, turned and walked to his office.
Bassano was a good detective with an uncanny ability to join the dots. He had the knack of spotting what others would miss. However, a constant worry for Lucas was Bassano’s hopelessness when it came to field training. Despite his physical prowess, he was useless at the rough stuff and found it almost impossible to follow the most basic of training procedures. Bassano couldn’t grasp that there was a right way to do things which would help to keep him safe. Several times when they’d been through the basic capability tests, Lucas had despaired as Bassano’s report came through marked ‘fail’.
Lucas told him on more than one occasion that if he didn’t start practising what he learned in training he would end up dead.
Lucas reached his office to find the phone ringing. He picked it up: ‘Yes, Lucas here.’
‘Hello, sir. I have a Dr Sells to see you.’
‘Good. Send our dear doctor up to my office will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ With a click, the line went dead.
Lucas shuffled reams of paper together, shoving them in a desk drawer in a vain attempt to tidy his desk. He removed his jacket and tilted his chair back at a dangerous angle. He picked up a report which had failed to make it into the drawer and began reading. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come,’ Lucas barked. The door swung open and in walked his visitor.
‘Good morning, Lieutenant, my name is Dr Jo Sells from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico. I thought that an early start was in order under the circumstances.’ If it wasn’t for the close proximity of the back wall, Lucas would have fallen off his chair. He flailed around searching for words to say, at the same time trying to regain his balance.
‘Er, yes. Yes, I had the same thought myself,’ he replied. There was a pregnant pause. Lucas was at least in a stable position now, sitti
ng bolt upright, with both hands placed firmly on the top of his desk.
‘Weren’t you told to expect me, Lieutenant?’ Jo eyed him carefully. ‘You should have received a fax this morning informing you of my arrival.’
‘Yes, we were. I mean, I was. But the fax contained little detail. It just said ...’ The words died in his throat.
‘Don’t tell me it merely said Dr Jo Sells?’
‘Yes, it did.’ Lucas waved the fax in the air as if submitting evidence.
‘Lieutenant, the Jo is short for Josephine.’ Lucas could only manage a faint ‘Ah,’ she continued, ‘isn’t it a bitch when that happens?’
‘When what does?’
‘When you expect one gender and get another.’ She punched the words at him across the desk.
Lucas considered the question. He supposed that it very much depended on what you were expecting in the first place. If like him you were expecting a small bookworm of a man in his mid to late forties, wire-rimmed spectacles and hair swept over the top of his head from one temple to the other, then yes, it most certainly was a bitch. If, on the other hand, you were expecting a thirty-something, hazel-eyed, stunning beauty that you’re sure you dreamed of as a teenager, then no, it wasn’t.
Dr Jo Sells was everything her name and profession suggested she wasn’t. She wasn’t classically pretty, but her looks were striking. She was around five feet ten inches tall with long auburn hair pulled into a plait which swung between her shoulder blades. Jo always considered her height an advantage because it hid the fact that she was a well-built girl. At college she’d caught the training bug and swam, ran and rowed her way to a first class honours degree in psychology. Her punishing exertions disciplined her mind and shaped her body.
Eight years on she still had the bug and the figure to prove it.
To anyone who asked why she drove herself so hard, she’d look them straight in the eye and reply that she was addicted to the pain. This would have the effect of terminating that line in chat which was inevitably being pursued by a curious male. She stood before Lucas in a well-cut suit, oozing confidence and poise.
