Tick Tick Tick (10 page)

The stench of blood fills my nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe; Mack just stands there, his pupils dilated in horror. It’s obvious that someone has used exceptional strength in decapitating the victim. I can tell that the blows were slanted upward from the chin by the slashing cuts on his old coat, the protruding bones that gape from his neck and the large, yawning hole around the spine. Strangely, I recall a lecture on dismemberment that I was at way back with an eminent professor. He said that the interval of consciousness after the head is severed was disputed. In France, in the days of the guillotine, some of the victims were asked to blink their eyes if they were still conscious after the blade fell. Some reports stated that the eyes blinked for as much as thirty seconds. How much of that was due to involuntary nerve action was of course a matter of speculation, but then no one really knows until you’ve had it done yourself. So, was Frankie already dead before the execution took place? Dear God, I hope so.

My lucky lady FME is back with us today, but I don’t think either of us is in the mood for flirting. She’s finishing up the routine tests when she sees me.

‘This is getting to be a habit,’ I say, still admiring her lithe frame.

‘One I could do without,’ she replies. I know she doesn’t mean any offence.

‘Please tell me that he was he dead before the cut.’

‘I’d say by the bruises on the snapped hyoid, and the bruising around the tissues at the top of his neck, that he was still alive when he severed the head.’

Jesus mother of God
, I think… tick, tick, tick.

‘What about the bruises, same size as we’ve had before?’

‘It looks like it, but I’ll be able to measure them more accurately at the morgue and compare them to the others there.’ I simply nod my acceptance.

‘Any ideas on what he used?’

‘From the cuts I’d say that this was an axe or a meat clever.’

Great, now the son of a bitch is starting to change his techniques. We’re motioned out of the room so that forensics can get on with their grid search. What’s the old saying? No one enters a crime scene without leaving some trace of his presence, and without carrying away some trace of the crime scene. I have a feeling that this swine hasn’t read our manual.

We do a quick scout around the house, trying to concentrate on what doesn’t lie – the evidence. But all we come up with is the shopping bag dumped in the hallway, which indicates the killer was already in and waiting for Frankie when he got home. There goes the theory about the meter guy. I ask forensics to double-check the door and all the windows, any opening of any kind that this bastard could have got through; maybe we’ll get lucky this time.

The forensic video guys are taking in every scene, every frame of the house. We can’t do much more until they’ve finished up, and by the looks of it, that’s going to take all day. The local neighbourhood is being canvassed, but somehow I already know that this isn’t going to bring in any new leads. I nod to Mack to leave; I’ve never seen the old man move so fast in my life.

Mack sucks in the fresh air for a change just as the media starts to arrive. Time to get the hell out of here. I can’t help but think of the daughter. Jesus, what a way to have to remember your father. There’s no way that this picture is going to blur with the ages of time. Might as well go get the meeting with Grimes over with. This time I just know the Doberman will be sitting on my desk, waiting for me with bared teeth and spitting drool.

Turns out I’m right.

CHAPTER 10

Grimes is stalking around my desk, pacing like a man demented. His cheeks are flushed with rage, the sweat has dribbled from his brow down onto the grubby white collar – the marks of a man under huge pressure from the big chiefs at the top.

‘Get your arses into my office now,’ he barks.

Both Mack and I know we’re in for a bollocking that isn’t our fault.

‘So what you got now?’ he yells. ‘Any brainwaves from my number one murder detectives?’

Do I detect a note of sarcasm there?

Mack pipes up. ‘I definitely think it’s a serial.’

‘No shit,’ he replies. ‘Go to the top of the class.’ He drums his fingers repeatedly on the desk, agitation festering through him.

‘This time he was definitely waiting inside the house,’ I say.

‘Proving what?’

‘That either he knew the old man and had a key, or he sure knows how to open a door using something else.’ 

‘Any prints?’

‘Nope, nothing. Forensics were doing a grid sweep, but the lumanol and usual searches so far had turned up nothing. No hairs, no prints, not one single fibre that looked out of place.’

‘What about the daughter?’ Now his fists are clenching, and I’m getting a little nervous.

‘She only had one key, and kept it with her on her own chain all the time. No one would’ve had a chance to make a copy.’

‘Any riddles arrived for you yet?’ I haven’t thought about it, my mind has been too filled with memories of an old man whose life has just been brutally cut off.

‘I haven’t checked my mail.’

‘I have,’ he replies. ‘Nothing there.’
Jesus, you wouldn’t want to have any secrets here
, I think.

‘How about at home?’

‘Connie would’ve phoned.’ I’m still pissed off that he went through my mail.

‘So let me get this right – so far we have three dead bodies, all with a trophy taken, all victims were as clean as a whistle, no priors, no debts, good friends. No one knows or heard anything. We haven’t got a goddamn clue how the son of a bitch is getting in or out, but when he does he doesn’t as much as sneeze.’

Mack snipes back, ‘That about covers it.’

‘Bullshit,’ Grimes replies. ‘Everyone leaves something.’ He talks like we’re two novices and it isn’t going down well.

‘All we have are the riddles, and no one has come up with any solid solutions to them,’ I say.

Mack is getting pissed off. ‘How about our beloved GCHQ? Any joy from them?’ he asks, knowing what the answer will be.

‘I’ve been on the phone to them all morning and all I’m being given is the fuckin’ run-around.’ A bead of sweat drips down onto his nose, then further to his lips; he lashes at it with his tongue.

‘How about a profiler now?’ I’m risking my life, I know. This time, he sits back heavily in his chair, slumped as though all the air is seeping out from him.  For a moment I feel a pang of sympathy, but only for a moment.

‘Okay, I’ll call HQ; see if they can spare us anyone. You two pull your fingers out and get me some goddamn answers before I nail your backsides to the nearest desk.’

We both leave in disbelief. Is he going soft on us, or is he actually starting to take our side? He’s actually going to get a profiler in … wonders will never cease.

‘You got any ideas?’ asks Mack.

Normally I’d say forget about the victim, don’t even bother looking for a suspect, just concentrate on the only thing that can’t lie; the evidence. But in these cases – we don’t have any.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I walk out, leaving Mack looking confused.

I gently unlock my flat door, remove my shoes and jacket and softly pad through. Connie is standing under the kitchen window, light from the street lamps flickering over the golden tresses which fall in soft waves down her back. Her dressing gown is a claret red silk that highlights the flecks of colour in her eyes. The endless legs are still well tanned from a recent working holiday in Jamaica, where she managed to correctly profile David Evans, a local black youth who’d been killing and raping local girls, and running rings round the local police – that was until she got there.

Her skin is like that of a newborn child, so soft, without a blemish or a freckle. Honest to God, just the sheer sight of her puts a smile back on my face. She wanders over to me, pulling me in for a kiss.

‘Hey babe, it’s good to have you home,’ she whispers.

I kissed her back hard, the urgency of feeling her warm soft lips is almost too much to bear. I can feel her moulding into me, pressing against me, and I want to take her right there and then, but the damn phone rings instead.

‘Downey?’ says Mack.

‘Yes.’ I groan, as she slides against me, irritation flicking across my eyes.

‘That you?’ Jesus, he’s only known me for about twenty years, doesn’t he recognise my voice by now?

‘What is it?’ I snap.

‘Forensics have just been on the phone, not one damn piece of evidence anywhere. I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Brilliant, make my day pal.’ Connie has got bored and wandered off to the lounge. Shit, I can feel the throbbing between my legs; I’ll have to take a cold shower instead – just bloody brilliant. ‘Say hi to Betty for me.’ I slam down the phone not waiting on his response. I feel bad about it.

I take the shower and prowl back through; now she’s sitting at the desk making notes, still trying to solve the riddles.

‘So how good are you at profiling?’ I ask.

‘Put it this way, luck has nothing to do with my success,’ she replies. That’s my girl.

‘Have you got one for me?’ I smile, trying to look enticing and probably failing miserably.

‘Do you understand any of the basics of profiling?’ She looks at me like I’m a child.

‘Nope – go on, enlighten me.’ She sighs, takes a large gulp of her wine and starts.

‘The first thing to consider is the crime scene… was the body placed or discarded? In your case, although I don’t know about all today’s events – the bodies were placed. An invitation for you to look, come and admire his handiwork. Always consider whether the scene is primary or secondary.’

‘What do you mean?’ I start to pay more attention to her.

‘Has the body been moved? Look around the surrounding areas, again this doesn’t apply in your case. So you then have to deduce motivation from behaviour, investigating the nature of the killer’s behaviour in relation to all the physical elements of the crime.’

I nod like I understand, but actually I feel like a first year student at one of her lectures.

‘In your case, the killer was motivated by sex, greed and control. He took the victims as a means of showing how easy it is, he raped or sodomised them, to fulfil his sexual fantasy, and then he placed the bodies as an open invitation for you to get a real good look at what exactly he wants you to see. Then he takes a trophy as a means of reliving the whole experience at a later date, but also just to prove to you that he can. Then the riddles, these I think are meant for you and you alone as you’re renowned in the murder investigation team as one of the best.’ I smile and let her continue. Was it really a compliment though?

‘Since you’re so smart, he’s decided to play a game of cat and mouse. Guess what, you’re the mouse. So if you’re so goddamn clever, you’ll figure the clues out, which may or may not lead you to him.’

‘What do you mean – may or may not lead me to him, surely that’s the purpose?’ Perhaps I truly was thick after all.

‘Not necessarily; you might solve the clues, but he might also disappear into the night. Also, if the clues are all sent after the murders, how are you going to know who’s going to be next? You won’t, and with no forensic evidence, you just can’t catch him.’

‘You’re telling me he can’t slip up?’

‘I never said that – usually ninety-nine per cent of all killers slip up at some point, you know that. But what if he’s the missing one per cent?’

‘You just know how to take a good man down.’ I see the glint flicker in her eye.

‘Well, I’d like the chance.’ She smiles sweetly.

‘How about getting me a profile?’ I throw down the photocopied documents on Frankie’s case.

She smiles. ‘You do know what you’re proposing is totally illegal.’

I haul her to her feet and yank off her robe. It falls softly to her feet and she’s naked underneath, all tanned, silky skin and full breasts.

‘Oh what I propose is totally illegal,’ I say, pulling her back down to the floor.

She laughs.

I never hear the phone ring – but God, I wish I had.

CHAPTER 11

Passion consumed us for most of the night. I couldn’t get enough of her, so after we hit the bedroom, I pounced on her several times; perhaps it was the pent-up tension needing release, but this morning I feel like I can barely walk. Still, I’m not a man to complain, and neither had she. As I wander into the kitchen for a slug of orange juice, something catches the corner of my eye. The fax machine – something had come through in the middle of the night. I take one look and nearly punch the nearest wall. How did the son of a bitch get my home phone number, which is the same as my fax; like any good policeman who frequently deals in murder will tell you, we’re always unlisted, so how does this bastard know everything about me? I grab some latex gloves and a bag, and slowly pull the fax from the machine.
Here we go again
, I think.

To Whom It May Concern: perhaps Frankie Bush.