by Rob Ashman
‘That exactly fits the bill for our guy, given what I’ve read.’
‘Yep, he fits it well.’
‘What about his motive?’
‘Now that’s tough to call. Serial killers have been known to have such wacky reasons for killing, it’s difficult to predict. Take David Berkowitz. He killed because he said his next door neighbour’s dog told him to, and Herbert Mullin believed that he had to kill to stabilize the San Andreas fault. The precise nature of the motive we might never know, but we can make educated deductions. Motive is usually divided into five categories. The first is Visionary, where they believe they are compelled to murder by God or the Devil or voices in their head. The second is those who are Mission Orientated. These tend to think they are ridding the world of certain groups of people, like homosexuals and prostitutes. They actually think they’re doing good in society. The third is Hedonistic. These kill for the rush of it, for excitement, for lust or sex. Murder is a total turn-on for them, they really get their rocks off on it. The fourth are those who kill for Comfort. These tend to be women who kill for money or lifestyle reasons. The last category is the Power and Control freaks. These will more often than not sexually abuse their victims prior to death and it’s being in control that really matters, not necessarily the ultimate killing.’ Jo stopped. She felt she was giving a lecture and that Lucas’s mind had wandered off. But he was hanging on her every word and soaking it all up. She continued, ‘Another example of how screwy this can be is the famous case of two female killers who killed five people in a nursing home because the first letters of their Christian names combined together to spell the word MURDER. They were caught before they could complete their sick game of Scrabble. Motive is very difficult to predict.’
‘Okay, I get that it’s difficult, but what is the likely scenario for our guy?’ Lucas asked.
‘In each case the victims are families with Mechanic murdering the husband and children but leaving the mother alive, though badly beaten. That would suggest a pathological hatred of fathers and siblings. Something must have happened in Mechanic’s past to instill such feelings. Maybe abuse, either sexual or violent, or it could have been generated through neglect. It could be due to a whole host of reasons, but one thing is for sure, it’s driven by a hatred of fathers, brothers and sisters.’
‘Is that what Galbraith deduced?’
‘Yes, it was, and it perfectly aligns with the pattern of kills. It was also my view at the time. Now that I’m taking a fresh look at the cases, it still fits.’
‘What’s behind putting the bodies in the car? That’s a weird twist.’
‘I’m not actually sure. It’s why the case was given the code name Mechanic. One of the people on the team said the killer must have liked garages. I agree it’s a freaky thing to do, but it’s obviously significant.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Two reasons. The first is that it takes time to do it. Once he’d made the kills, you’d think the murderer would want to get the hell out of there. The second is that the longer Mechanic remained in the house and the more he acted out his elaborate fantasy, the greater the chance that he would leave behind forensic evidence. He must have known this, so the fact that he went through such a protracted ritual with the bodies, it must have had real meaning for him.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘That’s the big question. One theory is that the symbolism denotes them leaving, as if they’re in the car ready to go. This could signify abandonment. Maybe Mechanic was deserted by his father or siblings in the past. It was never something we got a firm handle on.’
‘Yeah, I can see how that figures. So what makes these people kill? Are they born or are they made?’
‘Probably a little of both. We all harbour fantasies of doing serious harm to someone who has hurt us, but we don’t carry it out. That’s because we have a social and personal framework which prevents the fantasy from being put into practice. In serial killers this framework is missing. There’s nothing to prevent thoughts which should stay as fantasies from being played out for real.’
‘So we’re all serial killers at heart.’ Lucas was being flippant.
‘That’s one view.’ Jo was deadly earnest. ‘There’s a common belief that serial killers follow the same basic model. A trauma occurs in their early life which causes a fracture in their personality. This will normally produce a feeling of disassociation in the individual to help him cope with the event. This inevitably leads to low self-esteem which the killer tries to overcome with elaborate fantasies. These become more and more violent and are fuelled by a facilitator of some description. The most common facilitators tend to be drugs, alcohol and pornography. The pattern escalates and the individual eventually carries out the fantasy, and so the cycle repeats itself.’
‘Why did Mechanic stop for three years?’
‘I have no idea. There could be many reasons. Maybe he was convicted of another crime and sent to jail. There are well documented cases where the killer learns to overcome the compulsion to commit murder through other means, such as finding a branch of pornography that meets his need so he doesn’t have to kill for kicks. It might be that Mechanic was ill and unable to continue. But, given the long time lapse, that’s unlikely.’
As they drove, the questions continued and the answers flowed. Lucas often interrupted Jo to seek clarification of previous points, as if his mind was playing catch-up with the deluge of new information. She was patient with his eagerness to find out more and had an answer for everything he asked. Jo Sells’ doctorate was well deserved.
They arrived at the Mason house and Lucas reluctantly opened the car door. He could have stayed talking to Jo all day. The seventy minutes they’d had together wasn’t nearly long enough. Lucas felt they could have driven all the way to San Francisco and he’d still have had more questions. The more questions she answered, the more questions he had. She was easy to talk to and had been patient with his schoolboy curiosity – and his schoolboy misunderstandings.
‘Thanks, I appreciated that,’ he called to her over the roof of the car as he got out.
She nodded, ‘That’s okay. We can go over it again if you want.’ He smiled another thank you and made his way to the front door with Jo following.
The key fitted snugly in the lock and the mechanism opened with a solid clunk. The door swung open and Lucas went inside. The house was strangely quiet compared to the last time Lucas was there. He ushered Jo into the hallway.
The blinds were closed, but shards of bright light danced across the rooms as the breeze from the open door swayed the strips of material back and forth. The effect made it difficult to focus on the interior. Lucas closed the door to prevent the onset of a migraine.
‘Okay. Talk me through what you know,’ said Jo.
‘Mechanic approached the property from the beach and cut open the pool netting to gain access. He taped the netting back in place, levered the patio door from the runners and placed his thumb in the middle of the TV screen. That much we’re certain of, but afterwards it becomes less clear. He made it look as though the property had been burgled, took a number of items and left. So we can only conclude that Mechanic had a change of heart and chose not to kill the Masons after all.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Jo. ‘The Masons don’t fit the profile.’
‘What?’
‘I said, the Masons don’t fit the profile.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, look at the photos.’ Jo went to the large decorative table which had an oversized lamp on it. Surrounding the base were eight photos of Celia and her husband, Charles, on various holidays and family events.
She held one up and turned it to face Lucas. ‘Look, no kids. Mechanic has always gone for a traditional family unit: mom, dad and two children. These people didn’t have kids. It doesn’t fit.’
‘So why would he go to the trouble of breaking in? From what you told me in the car, Mechanic would have meticulously p
lanned this because he’s an organized killer. He would have known they were just a couple.’
Jo sank into one of the sofas, shaking her head. ‘This is screwed up. This killer is a real detail merchant. He would have rehearsed everything in his head before he made his move. The only thing I can think of is that something went wrong. He made an error and ended up here at the Masons’. Once he gained access, he saw the pictures and realized he was in the wrong place.’ She shook her head again. ‘But that doesn’t figure.’
Lucas listened intently, the grey matter working at warp speed to make sense of what Jo was telling him.
‘Are you saying that he just got the wrong house?’ Lucas asked, with more than a hint of challenge in his voice.
‘What other explanation can there be? The Masons are so obviously not his target group. He got in here, came to that conclusion and made it look like a burglary to cover his tracks. It’s the only logical explanation I can think of, but it’s so out of character.’
‘It’s plausible, I suppose,’ Lucas said. ‘But it’s a major departure from the clinical performance you described to me earlier. Why leave a print for us to find? That’s careless.’
‘Maybe he panicked and somehow messed up. I know I’m making assumptions here, but I’m just trying to figure out what might have happened.’
They looked at one another in silence, each willing the other to make sense of the situation. A loud knock at the front door snapped them out of their state of mutual confusion.
‘I’ll get it. It’s probably Bassano. I asked him to meet us here,’ Lucas said.
He opened the door to a tall, middle-aged man who clearly enjoyed the Florida sunshine just a little more than he should.
Lucas allowed his eyes to adjust to the bright light. ‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘I was supposed to meet my friend early this morning to go fishing, only he didn’t show.’ The man spoke in a very clipped and earnest fashion. Maybe ex-military, Lucas thought. The stranger continued, ‘He isn’t answering his phone so I wondered, since you’re police, if you could maybe do something. It’s not like him at all. He lives for fishing.’ He stared at Lucas.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re in the process of conducting an investigation here, so my advice is to call the station if you’re worried about your friend.’
‘But can’t you do it? I can’t raise anyone at his house and that’s really odd.’ He was not to be put off.
‘Sir, I can understand that you’re concerned about your friend. If you’d like to call this number …’ Lucas groped around in his wallet and handed him a card.
‘But that’s just plain stupid. Why would I want to call these numbers when you’re here already? Why can’t you help?’
‘Sir, we’re in the middle of an ongoing investigation. Please call one of the numbers on the card and explain the situation to them. They’ll be able to ...’ Lucas let his sentence tail away as he started to close the door.
‘But you’re a police officer.’ The man was shouting. ‘What’s the point of calling the station when you’re here? You could do it right here, right now.’
Lucas was about to exert the last few pounds of pressure to shut the heavy front door when something in the way the guy said the last four words made him stop. He slowly reopened it.
‘What do you mean, I could do it right here, right now?’
‘My friend lives in the house next door to this one. His name is Dave McKee.’
15
Mechanic’s head was feeling slightly fuzzy. It was always the same the morning after, like coming down from a massive high. The surge of endorphins meant that even the background pain from Mechanic’s burned and lacerated stomach didn’t feel so bad.
The late morning sun poured in through the big picture windows which overlooked the park. The air conditioning kicked in, ready to do battle with the July Florida weather: ninety-three degrees, ninety percent humidity with scattered showers. The apartment was well furnished, neat and tidy and the smell of polish hung in the air.
Mechanic got out of the bath, dried, put on a bathrobe and walked to the kitchen looking for coffee and anything sweet.
It was odd the way sugar played such a major part in the recovery process the morning after. But sugar it needed to be and lots of it. Mechanic put four Pop-Tarts in the toaster and set the kettle to boil before sitting at the breakfast table to bask in the gentle glow, smiling broadly.
The fuzzy head didn’t matter, it would soon clear. The important thing was that last night was a job well done. The screw up the previous evening wasn’t important. The success of last night had erased it. The crucial thing for Mechanic was that the mistake had been corrected with such style.
The Pop-Tarts sprang from their glowing red slots. Mechanic lifted them onto a plate and devoured them hungrily. Sugar rush.
Once they’d been demolished, Mechanic refilled the slots with another four and made coffee while the answering machine blinked an impatient red from across the room. Mechanic tried to ignore it to concentrate on the hot sweet black liquid steaming in the cup, but it just blinked on and on demanding attention. The fuzzy feeling subsided as the sugar coursed around Mechanic’s body and the excitement of a new message took over.
Mechanic rushed into the bedroom and returned with a small leather-covered book. Sitting by the phone, Mechanic hit the play button.
The tape rewound in the machine. It whirred and spooled back to the beginning. This was a long message. Eventually it stopped, clicked and started to play.
‘Hi, my name is Kaitlin, we’ve spoken briefly before. If you recall, I saw your advertisement and thought I’d get in touch again.’ The voice was high pitched and tentative. There was a long pause. ‘I was really interested in what you said on the poster.’ Another long pause. Then Kaitlin’s words came out in a rush. ‘I really got what you were saying. It was as if you were talking directly to me. You understand what’s going on and what it’s like. I feel as though you’ve been there too and I’d like to talk with you, I think you could help.’ There was a pause before she suddenly said, ‘I’ll give you a call another time.’ And with that, Kaitlin hung up.
Mechanic sat in silence. This one was promising. The choice of location had paid off. It was always beneficial to think these things through and carefully target the next victim. After all, it would not serve Mechanic well to have a blanket campaign. No, careful targeting was the answer.
There were indications that this one could be good. Mechanic replayed the message and ticked off the mental checklist. She only gave her first name, a sign that this was a covert call. Kaitlin probably wasn’t even her real name, but that didn’t matter. The hesitations and pauses signified someone who lacked confidence, who was confused about what to say. Vulnerability was key. The poster had struck a chord with her and the chances were that she hadn’t spoken to anyone about getting in touch. She sounded frustrated at the end of the message, as though she had built herself up to make the call, only to be disappointed when Mechanic wasn’t there to take it. Then there was the killer line, ‘It was as if you were talking directly to me.’ That was a fantastic phrase. Kaitlin was hooked, completely hooked.
Mechanic made notes in the small book and closed it with a satisfied grin. Message left 8.30pm. She’ll call back, she’ll definitely call back. A knot of thrill and exhilaration built up in Mechanic’s stomach.
Just one final check. Mechanic lifted the receiver and dialed *69 to get Kaitlin’s number, but it had been withheld. She would call back. Mechanic hit the button on the answer machine to wipe the message tape clean before getting dressed, still nursing the cup of coffee.
No sooner had Mechanic reached the bedroom door than the phone rang.
16
Lucas was back at the station, looking deep into a cup of lukewarm black coffee. He felt drained of energy. The morning at the McKee’s had rushed by in a blur of hectic activity and had taken it out of him.
When the guy at the Mason
house had said that Lucas could do it ‘right here, right now’, the realization went off like a firecracker in his head. Ignoring his visitor, Lucas ran to the back of the next-door property. Sure enough, he found the netting had been cut and taped back in place. Across the pool he could see the patio door propped up against the frame.
Inside the house he found Hannah McKee tied up and lying on the floor. A pool of congealed blood stained the bedroom carpet where she’d been beaten into unconsciousness. She was still alive, but in a bad way. Lucas was relieved when the ambulance arrived quickly, her injuries were way outside his abilities to help. The garage contained the sickening theatre of Dave McKee and his two children buckled up in the family car. Dad in the driver’s seat with the kids in the back. Each one had been shot through the head.
Lucas stood in the corridor which ran from the bedrooms to the living room. The walls, floor and ceiling were splattered with brain, blood and bone. He imagined Mechanic squeezing the trigger and the core of carnage erupting from the back of McKee’s head. The gun must have been silenced because everyone else was in their rightful place when the fantasy played itself out in cold reality. There’s never an adequate professional shield to protect you from the crushing horror of young death. Lucas felt it weighing heavily on him.
He got the wrong house, he thought.
Jo Sells stayed at the property and waited for Bassano to arrive. She wanted to immerse herself in the crime scene, while Lucas went back to the station. He needed time to think.
Lucas was staring out the window in his office when Bassano burst in. ‘Sir, I think I know why Mechanic went to the Mason house the previous night.’ He spread a large street plan of Ridgeway Crescent and the surrounding area onto the conference table.
‘But I thought you were at the house,’ Lucas said, puzzled.
‘Never mind about that,’ said Bassano impatiently. ‘Okay, let’s retrace Mechanic’s steps on the night he broke into the Mason property. We’ll make a few assumptions but I don’t think I’m far off.’ Lucas nodded his head for him to continue.
