What Lies in the Dark (8 page)

Were there more out there? Had he killed Shannon to stop them from getting too close? Her death had brought chaos to the station, no one was willing to revisit the site. Had she stumbled across something? There were victims out there, there had to be. But trying to get another search organised was met with open hostility and anger. Fletcher was not respecting the dead. But then he knew what number that had been embedded in Shannon’s hand. They didn’t. They had found number 2, Jane Doe 217; number 22, Fran Lizzie Taylor; number 28, Stella McQam; unknown number, Adelina Sasha and now, the left hand of Shannon Leona had revealed the number 30.

Sometimes Aaron Fletcher wishes he had chosen a different career, one which allows him to sleep at night without feeling guilty.

Shannon’s death had made the news more dramatically than Adelina’s. Someone had reminded them of Fran Lizzie’s death and hinted that maybe all three deaths were connected. Not to be outdone, someone else also reminded them of the death that hadn’t even made the news yet – the prostitute Stella McQam. Rumour-mongers were plagued with questions, had Shannon, Adelina and Fran also been posing as working girls? Not to darken the honourable Leona’s name, but maybe she had been working undercover? Or over the covers? Had the girls known each other? A secret government connection? The hidden Charlie’s angels? These questions were usually met with anger, even from Fran Lizzie’s father, who used to be a mild tempered man. Jack Sasha had stopped answering his phone. Steve, Fran’s boyfriend, left the city, and Robert Leona filed harassment charges against anyone who dared to knock on his door, even against those who used to be his co-workers. The shocking aspect of a Special Constable being brutally struck down in the line of duty made even national news. The police station was swamped with calls from the indignant, demanding to know more.

The news coverage means that Shannon Leona cannot be buried peacefully. Her family are torn between honouring her, with a large open funeral that anyone she had known or helped could attend. But this also meant that He could attend, He could be picking out someone else, there at her funeral. The press and police force would also be there, trying to find a good story, keep the peace, most people would be there to gape, not to care. Or maybe a quiet little cremation which only close family could attend. But then Shannon may be forgotten this way, her death losing its meaning. Shannon’s mother drank a bottle of gin a day during the decision-making battle. Robert Leona started smoking again. No one was coping well. Robert felt conflicted between leaving his wife to suffocate in the dirt or to burn. He had seen her, insisted on seeing her. Didn’t want her to spend a minute longer in the Morgue, wants her to come home, to be safe. He has heard of cases, of tombstone
vandalism, of killers returning to graves and can’t face it, can’t face him taunting her again. He is torn between tears and anger until finally they decide that she should come home. She will be safer at home. Shannon hated fuss, had always hated fuss, even their wedding was simple. Her dress had been brought on sale, nothing could be flamboyant. Robert knew his wife well, she had never wanted to be a victim and he could not stand her being remembered as one. Finally, they agreed on a small ceremony, allowing the police force to honour the fallen, no cameras, no press, no well-wishers.

Then just as quickly it is over. The phone keeps ringing. Little notes and cards are still pushed through his door. Robert knows they will stop after a while, they will give up and circle the next tragedy. The ashes of his wife are now safe, hidden away from the scavengers. He sits alone in his empty house, his hands clutching a carefully worded note from one Mrs Jennifer Taylor.

The rumours have twirled into the air, and they are everywhere, twisted into every conversation, every thought. Everyone has a theory on who the murderer might be. Everyone has a theory on what he has done to his victims. Although no official police statements have been released, the public are aware that the police are appealing for information on several different murders – murders, the rumours insist, that are definitely linked. The numbers slashed into hands has so far remained a secret, but everyone knows that the bodies have been mutilated in some way. Some insist that their hearts have been taken, some argue that it was their fingers, others say that’s absurd, the murderer was definitely taking pieces of their hair. Everyone seems quietly confident that this murderer is definitely a male, perhaps between the ages of twenty to thirty. They speculate that he is a man of a broken home, his wife has probably cheated on him and bled him dry in a bitter divorce. Now, as a result, he is an inferno of rage towards women in general. Others scoff at these theories. He is a drug addict, killing for jewellery and purses, most surely. Some are still convinced that all four women were secret prostitutes and their pimp was wiping them all out.

Outright accusations so far have been silent, but the bookies do have a few favourites. The Krill is still the biggest contender, leaving his house in the middle of the night, unseen. The surveillance on his house has been increased, more and more people are trying to see the evil behind the black-out curtains. There are other rumours, of course. Some think the school’s headmaster may be a dark horse. Some parents never quite got the right impression of him, something just not quite right about him, there is something sinister about the smile that hides behind his owlish glasses
and that cold clammy handshake. Fat Crack is the two to one shot, since most of the theories involve drugs in some way. And where there is a drug, there is Fat Crack. But then how can that mass of disorganised blubber even convince a woman to say hello to him let alone meet him in an abandoned warehouse, field or alleyway? Sometimes those who are pointing fingers rarely consider logic or reason. The main problem though is that people are scared. They are extremely scared. They know for sure there have been at least four women, at least four, there could be more. Every female could be in danger, every male could be a suspect.

The police station has set up special hotlines, one for each of the fallen women, broadcasting appeals for information. Has anyone seen anything suspicious? Anyone with blood-stained clothes? The phones ring and ring, hundreds of calls pounding through the lines, demanding information and attention.

“This is ridiculous, I have kids who want to play in that park!”

“Madam.” The patient officer begins wearily.

“Just tell me this! Why haven’t you arrested the The Krill yet?”

“Please stop wasting police time.”

“You don’t understand, The Krill is just a nickname the local kids gave him, I don’t know his real name, he lives at …”

“She tasted so good … I think you would taste good too, Officer.”
The officer is momentarily stunned as the prank caller gives a wild giggle then hangs up the phone.

No one really has any useful information. Fletcher and Bullface have had more people added to their team, useless people as far as Bullface is concerned. They are looking into every little piece of detail. The search for Adelina’s elusive jogger friend continues. Fran Lizzie had not complained of anyone stalking or threatening her. Fran’s case is hardest, no one suspicious had been acting strangely nearby. No one had seen her leave with anyone, and she had not complained of
any enemies or any stalkers. Jane Doe 217 was also pretty hard, the bones belonging to victim number two could not even yield a name. Not enough teeth for dental records, no DNA match, no family concerned. The only chilling evidence that this case provides is that this killer has been operating, undetected, for anything up to five years. This, in Bullface’s eyes made the idea that there could be more victims, twenty-five other victims, still hidden out there more definite. But no one was willing to search. Stella’s friends had provided little information, Stella saw a lot of different men, yes, some rough ones, yes, but it was all eyes down, no questions asked. The friends have promised to report any threatening men to them, but Bullface somehow doubts they will, they can’t afford to hurt their custom. Most of the police force has been cleared now, but the air of suspicion and anger is still deep at the station. It will be a long, long time before officers start trusting each other again.

They seem to be following all the wrong leads, Fletcher decides grimly. It has to be done, they have to exhaust every possibility, every testimony. Exhaust everything so that nothing can come back in court. Nothing can be brought up to establish plausible doubt. Even if that means tracking down every single suspect, knocking on every door within a radius of each of the murder sites, of each of the victim’s homes, each of the victim’s places of work. It takes days and months and more days. September has faded into October and so far no arrests. Fletcher knows they will find nothing now. There is nothing now.

They still have a few leads but he just doesn’t see them going anywhere, the more credible leads have been exhausted and those remaining leads are just … petty. Fletcher does not even want to listen to the tips hotline anymore. That job is saved for whoever has been annoying him lately. It is just blank time, the long wait in the wait game, he knows the killer won’t strike just yet, there is too much paranoia, not even Brad fucking Pitt can convince a woman to go with him at this point. Too many people are watching, waiting for him and he knows it. In order to try and control the paranoia and panic, to reduce the number of
scared tearful phone calls, in order to reassure the public, more police cars have been brought onto the streets. Overtime has become mandatory but now there is just too much police presence on the streets. They have reduced the chance of there being more victims at the expense of actually catching this fucker. Fletcher’s head is a permanent throbbing mass, always tense with worry. He constantly grinds his teeth. There is a little positive outcome, the police’s stronger presence on the streets has meant they have caught three burglars, one would-be rapist and a drunk who is still insisting he has a right to visit his kids no matter what the judge says. But not the killer, he still remains in the shadows, a permanent threat to Claire and every other woman out there.

Brandi Parr is almost enjoying the work-place paranoia. Marcella has turned into a snivelling blob, whining to anyone who comes near about how afraid she is, how unsupportive her boyfriend is being. People are beginning to come up to Brandi now, making sure that she is OK. They are actually concerned about her, Brandi, the office weirdo. No longer are they making jokes about her parents being alcoholics or anything stupid to do with her name (Randy Brandi being the worst of the jokes.) But now they are actually concerned. All the single females in the office are being given special treatment, they are making sure no one has to go home alone. Marcella’s near emotional breakdowns means that the office is tip-toeing around them, trying oh so hard not to upset the potential victims any more. The quite cute intern Mike Jones has shown particular interest in Brandi’s safety, offering to escort her anywhere. Much of the conversation in the office centres around the tragedy of that poor police officer, brought down so young. How those girls just didn’t deserve to die. In death their every flaw is gone. No one talks about Stella as a prostitute, instead they say she was a pretty young woman who didn’t deserve to die. Brandi is enjoying the debates over a possible murderer, enjoying the rumours surrounding The Krill, enjoying gossiping about rumours no one believes
to be true. Suddenly her tame life isn’t so dull. She almost hopes they will never catch this guy.

Elizabeth Mitchell is also enjoying herself, in a way. Watching out for him has given her something to do. It is more exciting than watching her soaps day in and out (although they are still playing softly in the background.) She is planning an attack. She has been watching the house for weeks now and thinks she knows his schedule. She has the spare key that Old Arnie had given her before he died. The man living in Old Arnie’s house hasn’t appeared to have changed the locks or even put in a security system. Evil doesn’t fear evil is what her mother used to say. Elizabeth decides that she will enter the house, when he has gone. Miss Marple meets Mrs Mitchell. Super sleuth. She will go in and look for more evidence. Since the police aren’t doing anything, she will have to. She hadn’t trusted him, right from the moment he had moved in. The devil’s music blasts through the air, interrupting her thoughts. His rusty car slams to a stop and then he climbs out. Right on schedule, Elizabeth ducks behind the curtain to make another note on her clip board with a small amount of glee. She is going to get him, she is going to get him. Can hide from the police, may think you are free, but you can’t hide from me, she sings to herself softly.

October becomes November with little celebration. There have been no more murders, the city is beginning to settle down. But Bullface doubts that this killer is finished. The police station is still working in stern determination, they have to find this guy no matter what. Has he moved away? Some families have, with a
“if a special constable isn’t safe then who is”
attitude. They have loaded up and moved away, staying with relatives until their houses are sold. Has he moved with them? Following a specific target? It is possible, they are trying to keep the other stations informed, the computers have helped here. If a crime is committed in
certain areas of the world, with the DNA matching to the DNA found at the four different dump sites then they will be informed, Bullface hopes. Not that they actually had the perpetrator’s DNA. They have one hundred and ten different pieces of evidence with DNA on it, taken from four different crime scenes. All because he was killing in open areas, well-littered open areas, well-littered open areas that were just filled with DNA samples. Forty of these samples were female and so were considered to be very unlikely, that left seventy pieces. Maybe the perpetrator is one of them. Four of those pieces have been in the system for prior offences but the alibis had checked out. Hundreds of hours of police work have drawn up and then disqualified every possible lead – elusive bastard!