‘Is that why a rubber was used, to avoid actual contact?’ Leroy was trying to formulate a mental picture of the killer. ‘There was no trace of semen, only latex residue and lubricant.’
‘Partially.’ O’Neil nodded. ‘We cannot assume that the anal trauma is caused by penile penetration. This is probably the result of a prolonged attack using foreign objects.’
Leroy leaned forward stretching his aching back. ‘Maybe he thinks this is safe sex.’ He said sardonically
‘He also didn't want to leave any semen, anything which could be used to trace him. So, we can assume that maybe he might have some sort of criminal record or may have had a D.N.A swab taken at some time, although again this is purely speculation. Something…some trauma which happened to him is probably what is motivating him now.’
‘Must have really pissed him off.’ Leroy said. ‘One dead and one missing is quite a statement.’
‘Harboured grudges fester, it's usually better to vent your anger when you are initially aggrieved.’ O’Neil sat back in the chair and rubbed the tension away from her neck.
‘Again, this is a sign of repression which is now coming to the fore. He is probably quite intelligent. Research and history show most multiple killers have an above average Intelligence Quota, many have no fear of God or religious belief though conversely there are a few examples who believe that they are doing God's work. Because all the victims are male so far, I think we can assume that he has no grudge against women.’
‘No Oedipus complex, that makes a change. If he's not homosexual and gets along with women, then maybe he's married?’ Rick offered.
‘That's not uncommon; in many cases spouses have no idea of their husband’s activities. Records show that some murderers often have a wonderful sex life. These attacks are not sexually motivated, this is purely to do with power, it's almost territorial. The male asserting himself.’
‘Well, I think I have to assert myself now.’ Leroy said standing up. ‘Otherwise Lia is going to assert her foot into my black ass.’ He cricked the knots out of his neck.
‘Early start please, gentlemen. I too have a home to get to, and the sooner we catch this guy, the sooner I get to see it. 8am here?’ Agent O’Neil lifted the files and shuffled the papers, tapping them on the desk, before slipping them in the folder. ‘Could I have a copy of the Polaroids of the victim, Detective Montoya?’
‘I think if we're going to be working together for some time then formalities could be dropped.’ Rick smiled and passed O’Neil the photographs.
‘Well, you can call me Georgina.’ Georgina smiled back and offered her hand.
‘Hello, Georgina.’
‘Hello, Rick.’
‘Before we go, I need the bathroom, could you point me in the right direction?’
Rick opened the door and pointed to a door adjacent. ‘Go through that door, along the corridor and it's at the end, just before the elevator.’
‘Thanks.’ Georgina O’Neil picked up the folder and her small handbag and headed out toward the toilet.
‘Call me Rick.’ Leroy teased his partner.
Rick smiled. ‘We’ll, it’s an improvement on the latex handshake.’
Narla moaned a slight protest, more of someone who was being slightly annoyed than anything else, but she was in too much of a slumber to wake. Charles shifted his knees around Narla’s ribs, the mattress shifted slightly to support his weight. He called her name; the reaction was next to nothing. Then placed his hand against her face and stroked her cheek. She didn't flinch. He ran his hand down her neck, encircling it briefly with the span of his hand, his touch light, enjoying the sense of power he was holding. He opened his hand and let his palm rest on her breast bone, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed the breath of someone in a deep, deep, sleep. His hand moved sideways to the left, his fingers trailing lightly over her erect nipple, before moving on to her right breast, cupping the small breast, enclosed under his hand. Laughing to himself, Charles wondered what she would make of it if she was conscious now. How she would react if she woke and found him straddled over her. Both of them naked. The temptation to have sex with her was unbearable. A thin trail of semen had leaked on to Narla's stomach. Charles entered her, she was dry but it seemed to add to his excitement, he moved inside her gently. He moved back and forth very gently, lubricating her with both of their juices until he came. Narla moaned as his hot semen rushed inside her, but she did not wake. He climbed off her. The bed rocked gently, still she did not stir. Charles slipped on his jockey shorts and put on his white towelling robe, then picking his Polaroid camera up from the dressing table, took a photograph of Narla, laying naked on the bed. He pulled a thin white cotton sheet over Narla, the semi-transparent material clinging erotically to her. He took another picture and left the room. Charles waved the photos in the air impatiently, prompting the images to develop faster, a smile forming on his lips as the silver halide image formed. As he walked down the hall, the door to Harley's bedroom opened and a bleary-eyed Harley stepped out rubbing her eyes.
Charles slipped the Polaroid’s into his pocket and placed the camera on an occasional table, which held one of the six telephones house strategically around the house.
‘Hello cup cake, what's wrong?’
‘I had a nightmare.’
‘Did you darling?’
Harley nodded. ‘Can I kiss Mummy goodnight?’
Charles crouched down to her eye level. ‘She's asleep, you wouldn't want to wake her up, would you?’
Harley shook her head. Charles picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, a squeal of delight emitting from her tiny lips. Charles carried her to her bedroom and plopped her onto the bed, before tickling her unmercifully. Laughter and shouts of delight filled the air until Harley pleaded for mercy. Her legs and arms thrashed trying to push her Father’s fingers away from her. Charles pulled the quilt up over his daughter. ‘Ssh, you’ll wake mommy.’ He put his finger to his lips bent forward and kissed Harley's forehead, she responded by kissing his lips. Her lips were cold and over wet, her arms clung around his neck and she hugged him tightly.
‘I love you, cupcake.’ He kissed her lips gently and almost immediately she closed her eyes to go to sleep.
Six
To Stephen England it was just a voice in the dark. He did not know who his kidnapper was; he did not know the man who had inflicted terrible pain on his body. He had never met the man whose incessant ramblings he had to endure for hours, between bouts of physical and sexual assault. It had just been his misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, what he would do now not to have worked late that night, what he would give to have left with Lorraine, his secretary. What he would do now to live his life to the full, as if every day were his last. But he didn't leave. He carried on working. Stuck at the computer, transferring and swapping files with other collectors. Now all he wanted was to die.
‘He’ hadn't been there for ages. Maybe, Stephen thought. ‘This is to be my fate, left to die alone in the dark.’
Infections were beginning to set in to Stephen's wounds in his mouth, buttocks and internally. His own faeces an enticement to the flies. His wounds an invitation to the nest of maggots laid there. He pulled at the ropes using what little strength he could muster. The knots cut in tighter re-opening the raw skin. The pain was of little consequence. England screamed and pulled and screamed and pulled and screamed. He didn't know if it was his imagination, but the rope around his right wrist seemed to have gained a little slack. He stopped moving and concentrated all his effort, energy and thought on the one loose rope. If he could have seen the damage to his wrist, he would have stopped. The skin has ragged away, leaving the tip of his wrist bone exposed. He let his arm rest against the mattress; then gave an almighty jerk, followed by another, and another. Pain was replaced with hope. The canvas hood over his head started to restrict his breathing. His actions grew more laboured. The oxygen content in the hood dropped and was replaced
with carbon dioxide. Images flashed through his head. The beginning of pain induced, oxygen deprived, hallucinations. He tried one last tug at the rope and to his surprise his arm came free, then he passed out.
Rick dropped Georgina back at her motel and finalised the next day’s agenda before setting off to take Leroy home. Leroy and Rick talked on the short drive. Rain started to splatter on to the windscreen and the low rumble of shifting clouds above warned of a turbulent night ahead. Rick shifted the gear stick in to fifth, and turned on the wipers, the rain smeared like grease, temporarily obscuring his vision. Leroy now in the front passenger seat sat back and closed his eyes, confident of his partners driving ability.
‘So, what do you make of Miss Frosty Pants?’
Rick glanced at Leroy briefly, before returning his attention to the straight road ahead. ‘I think you’re pissed because she hasn't given you the green light.’ They both laughed, knowing it to be true.
‘You know something really bothers me about this case, we’ll be able to ID the body real easy so why does he give remove the teeth and lips?’
Leroy stared ahead unfocused. ‘Not only does this guy not expect to get caught, he's so sure of himself that he gives us enough information to build a case that he must know would involve The F.B.I. It don’t make sense?’
‘D'you think he has a grief against the Feds?’ Rick slowed the car down and turned right in to a small road, which housed two tiered wooden structured houses.
‘I don't know... killers seem to operate to their own agenda. Maybe he wants to spice things up by adding a chase element. Who knows?’
The car pulled to a halt outside a large wooden house, the main structure painted white with a small lawn that led slightly uphill to the porch. A light was burning in the main room. Leroy smiled. ‘Lia's waiting.’
Rick watched a bolt of lightning light the sky in the distance. ‘Storm’s coming.’
The car wipers swished away the rain, which was now pounding tympani of sound on the metal roof.
Lia was curled up asleep on the sofa, tired of waiting for Leroy to come home.
The sound of thunder rumbling seemed distant and remote to Stephen England as he lay in the dark. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious and barely any idea how long he had been conscious. His mind had snapped into sharp clarity like the click of a switch. He moved his arm and began to remember. He was able to wriggle his fingers, lift his arm; move his hand. He fumbled for the edge of the canvas hood and started to pull it up, the coarse roughness of the material rubbed painfully against Stephen's swollen lips and mouth. He tugged it over his mouth, the effort sending sharp sensations of pain to his wrist. All the time he tried to remain focused, keep his concentration. One last tug and…darkness. The room was black. Despondent, Stephen lay there, hoping his eyes would soon adjust, but there was no light for them to adjust to. He began pulling at the rope, trying to get some slack so that he could pull his other hand free. Time in this void was meaningless but it took Stephen a further exhausting hour of pulling, tugging, and manipulating until quite suddenly and without warning his other hand slipped from its restraint. Stephen England sat crying tears of joy for ten minutes hoping he was only minutes from freedom. He shuffled backwards, trying to sit up and free his ankles; excruciating pain ran through him. Raw and open festering wounds protested against the sudden movement. The knot appeared to be some sort of slipknot, the more that he pulled against it, the tighter it constricted, much like a noose. England fumbled with the rope, his fingers slow and painful, but the ropes eventually slackened, and he was able to pull one foot free and then the other. Again, the sheer effort exhausted him. Closing his legs together caused him to cry out, agonising pain mixed with the lack of use, bringing further unwelcome sensations. Still laying on his front Stephen England pulled himself forward to the edge of the mattress and he tried to stand. He crawled forward, waving one arm ahead of him, trying to feel out any unwanted obstacles, until his palm jarred off a wall. He pulled himself up using the wall for support and leaned awkwardly using his shoulders. His fingers searched for a door or light switch as he rolled against the walls. The relief felt when his thin bony fingers felt the square plastic mount with its oblong rocker switch was as great as when earlier he freed his hand. The light blasted in his eyes, sending him reeling, falling to his knees. The hard floor jarring through his frail body, England's hands automatically shielded his face trying to block out the light that he was so anxious to see. Slowly he peered through tiny slats in his hands made by his fingers. He could see the mattress, he tried not to focus on the indignity of the excreta but tried to take in as much information as his disorientated mind could absorb. There was a hammer, the one -he guessed- used on his mouth.
Over in the far corner was a wooden workbench, with an electric drill and a jigsaw. There was a roll of rope, still wrapped around its central core and many other tools. In the centre of the floor was what looked like a trap door. A set of dumb bells and weights were lying against the far wall. To his right, a flight of stairs rose upwards. Stephen tried to stand; he hobbled back to the mattress and picked up the hammer. The weight dragging his arm. The fatigue-sapping effort of lifting it almost overwhelming. The stairs beckoned, sirens of freedom, hypnotising him. His foot stepped on the first runner and using the handrail he dragged his body up, ready for the second step. The door at the top grew closer and closer. His heart quickened, releasing endorphins blanking out his pain and giving him fresh impetus. He stood at the top and pulled down on the handle, now breathing hard, the air passed through his battered mouth, the sharp sensation of pain increasing his awareness. The door was locked. Rage quickly dispelled disappointment as he swung the hammer at the metal handle. The hammer sank in to the soft aluminium. He hit it again and again, until the handle folded to pulp. He crashed down on it one final time as the handle clattered to the floor. He pushed against the door; still it would not budge. His renewed energy began to drain and along with it any hope of escaping, he threw the hammer with frustration at the door making a small indent to the metal surface. Stephen trudged down the stairs, on the verge of giving up. He glanced at the workbench and spotted the array of power tools. The drill or the jigsaw would surely make easy work of the door, but he needed a long extension lead to reach it. He pulled open one of the drawers inset in the workbench. Twenty or so Polaroid photographs slid forward. Violent, graphic images of terrible deprivation. A variety of young men tied naked to the mattress, suffering obscene degradation. Implements of suffering and torture inserted into them. Close-ups of their bloodied toothless mouths. The reality that he was not the only victim began to dawn to Stephen, that he was only one of many unfortunate young men, started to sink in. The one fact that he was certain of was that if he didn't escape, he was dead. The next set of photos confirmed this to him. The blank staring lifeless eyes, the pale bodies, some missing hands or feet, one with entire limbs cut away, lying in a pool of his own blood. Panic and revulsion now began to motivate him, fearful that at any moment he could return. England threw the pictures, scattering them through the air, across the floor and opened the next drawer. Tin boxes housing nails and screws and various oddments but no extension lead. Stephen slammed the drawer shut, instantly regretting his action as the vibration jarred through his right wrist, he grabbed it with his left hand trying to sooth the pain and block out the image of the porcelain white bone exposed through the raw skin. One more drawer to go, the bottom one. Deeper than the other two; this offered hope. England opened it, closing his eyes through fear of disappointment. The fear confirmed; the drawer was empty. Despair swept through him. He looked around for the lead but there was no sign. With the door no longer an option for escape, Stephen's eyes fell upon the trap door in the centre of the floor. The door looked as if it opened into something below. He wandered around the room, bouncing off the walls looking for a control panel or lever to open the hatch. His eyes darted around the room. Hanging on the wall opposite was a bright orange, nyl
on rope, and just behind in a recess was a lever mounted on a panel. England grabbed the rope with renewed energy and headed for the lever. He pulled down with all of his strength using his left hand. The effort nearly lifting him off his feet. The lever protested mildly and then eased downwards. Stephen looked at the trap door. It was open....
The storm moved closer; the rain heavy, almost tropical.
Roads started to flood, torrents gushing down, filling storm drains taking debris, stones and earth with it.
Lightning flashed illuminating the bedroom. The air was heavily charged with electricity and sticky.
The voice inside grew louder.
‘It's time, do it now!’.
The relentless splatter of rain against the window enforcing the voice, hammering home the message. Thunder exploded overhead, followed swiftly by the electro static crack of white phosphorescent lightning. He sat down. He was the one with the power, he was in charge, they couldn't question him. He made sure that they couldn't question him.
'Now' was the right time.
A klaxon wailed, the distress warning nearly sending him into apoplexy.
Stephen England sat on the edge of the abyss, his legs dangling into dark space, suddenly the sound of a wailing siren added impetus to his escape. He could hear running water below but could not see how far it was to the bottom. He lifted the hammer and let it drop in to the blackness, waiting to hear it land. The clatter of metal against concrete followed by a splash a second or so latter assured him that the drop was no more than fifteen to twenty feet. He secured the rope from the banister and let it fall in to the hole where the trap door was. Stephen guessed that there was at least forty foot of rope, hopefully, more than enough. It sounded like the end of the rope hit the water, but he couldn't be sure. With no flashlight, no clothes and time running out until he returned, Stephen knew he had no option but to grasp the rope using what little strength he had left and try to climb down into the chasm. With a deep breath, he launched himself forward and hoped to have the strength to support his own weight. He swung sideways bouncing off the wall and held on tightly while waiting for the rope to steady. He tried to remember the correct way to climb down a rope, curling the rope under his foot, up his leg and across his thigh, so that his foot supported most of his weight and not his weakened arms. Slowly he started to lower himself into the unknown. After about ten feet he noticed the temperature began to drop, he looked up, the light above him was now inviting, below was only darkness and uncertainty. The further down he went the colder it became, the sound of the water increased. It sounded fast, rushing. England hoped it wasn't too deep; the prospect of having to swim was not one he relished in his current state of health. He kept looking up, expecting to see him at any moment towering over the entrance above him. To his surprise his foot suddenly felt the water and he allowed his arms to take most of his body weight. The water was cold, but fortunately not freezing, hypothermia was hopefully not going to be one of the conditions to add to his long list of ailments. He lowered himself to his waist, his feet were still unable to touch the ground. England’s arms finally gave up their hold and he sank under the water. Instinctively he took a huge gulp of air before being submerged. Even though the water was cool it had a calming effect on Stephen. It supported his body, encompassing him in a womb like protective environment. If he died now -he thought- it would not be too bad, there would be none of the pain or suffering that was the fate of the other men in the photos. His body bobbed back to the surface and the instinct for survival quickly dispelled any thoughts of morbidity. England took a huge gulp of air and started to tread the water. Lights above his head flickered on and off before finally settling and illuminating the tunnel. The question now was, which direction to go in? Forward, to the left, right or backward? Cold air blew against his face, chilling his skin but giving him the answer. Forward it was.
Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 3
