Killing the Shadows

‘More than is healthy, I suspect,’ Fiona muttered. Towards the bottom of the list was a site that she knew infuriated most of the law enforcement officers she knew. Officially, Murder Behind the Headlines was run jointly by a journalist in Detroit, a private eye in Vancouver who was reported to have had a murky past in the CIA, and a postgraduate in criminology in Liverpool. Given the depth of detail they managed to come up with on sensational murder cases, Fiona suspected there were a few serious hackers involved in putting together the site. Not to mention a very large base of anonymous contributors who enjoyed the prospect of sharing whatever privileged information or hearsay they encountered. Several attempts had been made to close them down on the basis that they were making public information that allowed scope both for copycat killings and for false confessions, but somehow they always seemed to resurface with ever more sophisticated graphics and gossip. Fiona sincerely hoped that the more faint-hearted relatives of the victims never logged on to Murder Behind the Headlines.

Seeing where her cursor had paused, Kit groaned. ‘Gossip central,’ he complained.

‘You’d be surprised how often they get it right,’ she said mildly.

‘Maybe so, but they always leave me feeling like I need a bath. And they can’t write for toffee.’

Fiona couldn’t resist a smile as she connected to the site. ‘Never mind the morality, feel the semicolons,’ she said ironically. When she was prompted for her area of interest, she typed, ‘Drew Shand’. In the top left-hand corner of the page that unfurled before them, the same photograph of Drew brooding handsomely into the camera appeared. This time, however, the text was very different.

Scottish thriller writer Drew Shand has been found murdered in the historic heart of the city he lived in and used as the background to his first gruesome novel, the award-winning Copycat. His mutilated body was found just behind St Giles Cathedral, only feet away from the pavements pounded daily by millions of tourists. So far, no suspects have been arrested.

MBTH hears from a source inside the investigation that there are some very spooky coincidences connecting Shand’s own death and the graphic violence he turned to good commercial effect in Copycat. The plot of his serial killer novel centres round a contemporary re-creation of the celebrated Whitechapel Murders—a sort of Jock the Ripper gorefest.

The original Jack the Ripper’s fourth victim was found by a policeman on his beat. So was Shand’s fourth victim. And so too was Shand.

The police surgeon at the time of the White-chapel Murders, Dr Frederick Brown, reported that:

The actual cause of death was haemorrhage from the left carotid artery.

Each of these grim facts was annexed by Shand for his novel. And according to our source, they were all present in the murder of the writer himself. Apparently one of the murder squad detectives called to the scene of the crime had read Copycat and was immediately struck by the similarities. It was only when the police surgeon itemized the injuries and the detective went back and checked both with Shand’s book and accounts of the original Ripper case that the police became convinced that they were dealing with a Copycat copycat.

Apparently the theory doing the rounds at police HQ is that Shand was into hardcore S&M sex. They reckon that made him vulnerable to a perp who had fixated on his book and wanted to try it out for real. Shand was apparently a creature of habit—his daily routine is outlined on his website for all to see. So it wouldn’t have been too hard for the hunter to track him down and, providing the killer was Shand’s type, it would all fall into place. And of course, the easy thing about killing somebody who’s into S&M is they think you’re only playing when you tie them up. Doesn’t matter that, like Shand, your victim works out down the gym every day, because he’s trussed up like a chicken all ready for you.

One other detail—the cops think he was killed somewhere else then brought to the body dump, unlike both the Whitechapel Murders and the slayings in Copycat. But Shand’s flat was clean, so they’ve no idea as yet where the murder actually took place. One thing they can be pretty sure of, though—somebody’s got a helluva cleaning job on his hands.

REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON

MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES

Kit whistled softly. ‘That is seriously creepy shit.’

Fiona logged off. ‘You’re not kidding.’

‘So what’s your take on it?’

‘Probably much the same as yours,’ Fiona said. ‘He clearly planned his crime to mirror the circumstances of one of the murders in Shand’s book. Which in turn mirrors one of the original Ripper murders, apart from the gender of the victim. That he’s succeeded so accurately indicates a high degree of control and organization. His intelligence therefore is likely to be significantly above average. He has a highly developed fantasy life and would probably use violent pornography to support that. He would be unlikely to respond well to authority, so if he had a job it wouldn’t be commensurate with his intelligence, which in turn would be a source of irritation to him.’ She pulled a face. ‘But saying that is simply a matter of playing the probabilities.’

‘But what about his relationship to Drew? Is he a stalker, a jilted lover, or some sort of fucked-up wannabe acolyte? What do you think?’

She dropped into one of the chairs by the window and stared out at the city. When her answer came, she spoke slowly, feeling her way from sentence to sentence. ‘That is without doubt the most interesting question, Kit.’ She gave him a quick smile. ‘Hardly surprising that it was you who asked it. That the murderer fixated on the book and copied its crimes isn’t particularly remarkable. Often killers who display their victims’ bodies ritualistically are replicating images they’ve seen in pornography or in some situation that was particularly meaningful to them. But most sexually motivated killers would be satisfied with wreaking their havoc on any victim who broadly fitted their fantasy. To have chosen to hunt and destroy the creator of the very fiction that fuelled his desire to kill is curiously personal. And in a crime where depersonalizing the victim is often crucial to the process, it’s distinctly unusual.’

Kit ran his hands over his scalp, his face a mixture of amusement and exasperation. ‘It’s always got to be a lecture with you, hasn’t it? You still didn’t answer the question.’

Fiona grinned. ‘I sort of hoped you hadn’t noticed. If you pushed me on it, I’d probably plump for a stalker who has become obsessed with Copycat. But that’s purely speculation.’

‘So is Murder Behind the Headlines, but it doesn’t stop you reading that,’ Kit pointed out. He got up and wandered round the room. ‘It’s a bit freaky, isn’t it? The thought of somebody following Drew around like a shadow, invisible till the last moment when he shows himself. You never think of anything like that when you’re writing. That some nutter is going to read their life story into your words.’

‘You’d probably never write another book if you give that possibility space in your head,’ Fiona said. ‘Other people’s madness is not your responsibility. Come here, give me a hug.’

He crossed to her and gently pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. She turned her face up to his. ‘There are other ways of taking your mind off things, Kit,’ she said softly as his lips came down to meet hers.

Inside the city walls of Toledo, the evening paseo was in full swing. Around the Plaza de Zocodover, people strolled in couples, families and groups, taking the evening air and catching up on the business of the day as they moved between pools of yellow light. Restaurants, many half-empty now the height of the tourist season was past, served dinner to tourists and locals, greeting their regular customers with smiles and the small change of social intercourse. The bars were doing a thriving trade, their tables full inside and out as older clients enjoyed a digestif with their coffee and the young men checked out the women gossiping and giggling in their separate groups. It was a sharp contrast to the dimly lit alleys and narrow streets that radiated out from the plaza, linking it with the rest of the city.

In one of the cafés on the edge of the square, Miguel Delgado smiled across at the Englishwoman who worked behind the reservation desk at the Hotel Alfonso VI. Two nights before, he’d engineered an encounter where he’d tripped over her handbag and knocked over her drink. She’d been with friends, so she’d suspected no ulterior motive when he bought her a drink to replace the one he’d spilled. Tonight, though, her friends were absent. For the price of another drink, he could make the down payment on his next act of revenge.

He swallowed the last of his café solo and folded up his newspaper. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he crossed to her table, inclined his head in a small bow and smiled. ‘Buenas tardes,’ he said.

The woman returned his smile, without a trace of uncertainty. Minutes later, they were deep in conversation. Delgado was back in business.

13

…On a professional note, I heard last night that Blake has done a deal with one of the Sunday tabloids. You know the kind of thing—my life of hell as the falsely accused Hampstead Heath killer. And on the strength of that, he’s gone off to Spain, allegedly to get away from all the pressure. Of course, we’ve been keeping tabs on him, albeit at arms’ length, and according to the travel agent, Blake has rented a villa outside Fuengirola for the next month. At least you’re far enough away in Toledo not to stand any chance of walking into a neighbourhood café and finding him propping up the bar. Let me know when you’re coming back and we’ll get together for dinner.

Love

Steve

Fiona cleared Steve’s e-mail from the screen. She’d get round to replying later. It was thoughtful of him to pass on the news about Drew, but she didn’t want to be distracted from the task in hand by thinking about Francis Blake right now. While she waited for Berrocal to arrive, she double-checked that she had plotted her crime scenes correctly on the map. Just as she finished, Berrocal strode through the door, full of apologies for keeping her waiting. ‘So, what do you have to show me?’

The map of Toledo was monochrome on the screen, the streets and alleys black lines over the off-grey background. ‘This is how it works,’ Fiona explained. ‘I started off with the street grid. Last night I entered the locations of the events that interest me.’ She omitted to mention the news from England that had stirred memories, turning her sleep into exhausting restlessness. She wasn’t looking for Berrocal’s sympathy, nor, more importantly, did she want to give ammunition to anyone who might suggest her work failed to come up to the required standard. So she mainlined the cartons of industrial-strength coffee that the junior detectives had deposited on her desk and tried to keep the weariness out of her voice. ‘First of all, the vandalism cluster.’

She tapped a couple of keys and the screen came alive in an irregular spread of radiant neon colours, from sea-green, grading through blues and purples to red. There were only two small blocks of red, both to the west of the cathedral and the Plaza Mayor. ‘The program assigns different colours to different degrees of probability. The perpetrator of the acts of vandalism I’ve identified as a cluster is most likely to live within the boundaries of those red blocks,’ she told him, pointing to them with her pencil.

‘Very interesting,’ Berrocal said softly.

‘Don’t ask me how it works. The maths is way beyond me. I leave that to the techies. All I know is that it does have a frighteningly high degree of accuracy.’ She cleared the colours from the screen. ‘Now, this is the picture we get from the muggings.’ Again, the screen pulsed with vibrant colours. This time, there were three red blocks. One of them appeared almost identical to the larger of the two on the previous display, while the other two were more northerly.

‘I think the reason for these two is that the location of the crimes was circumscribed by where our mugger knew there were likely to be late-night victims,’ she continued, pointing to the aberrant blocks of crimson. ‘But look what happens when I amalgamate both sets of results and we look at the vandalism and the mugging together.’

Fiona clicked the mouse a couple of times. Now the larger of the original two red blocks was the only bright-scarlet patch on the screen, the others fading to deep purple. ‘If I were a Toledo police officer looking to clear up these instances of vandalism and mugging, I’d focus my attention on people who live right there, around the bottom end of Calle Alfonso the Tenth.’

‘Fascinating,’ Berrocal acknowledged. ‘But what happens when you consider the murders too?’

‘It’s far from clear-cut,’ she admitted. ‘We’re looking at two instances, which is a very small base to work with. And, as I said to you before, because these crime scenes have historical rather than specifically personal significance, that could distort our results.’ Again she cleared the screen. ‘On their own, they don’t provide us with anything like pinpoint accuracy.’ This time, there was no small red block, just a jagged purple mass that covered most of the west of the old city and spread like a port-wine birthmark out towards the suburbs.

‘However, I’m working on the principle that my theories of crime linkage and the escalation of violence are correct. Now, if I’ve got it right and these three groups of crimes have all been committed by the same person, then when I add the murder sites to the other two series, I should still have my red block in more or less the same place. But if I’m wrong, then the resulting picture will show a significant distortion.’ She looked up at Berrocal and gave a wicked grin. ‘Ready?’

‘The suspense is killing me,’ he said.

Fiona hit a couple of keys and the screen reconfigured itself. The red block was still there, though not in quite such a strong shade. But the purple areas had spread and become noticeably more blue. Fiona circled the red block with the end of her pencil. ‘It doesn’t significantly distort the key area. Which indicates that the person who committed the murders could well be the same person as the vandal and the mugger. But you see this purple zone?’

Berrocal nodded. ‘That’s the fallback zone, is it? If he’s not in the red zone, he might be in the purple?’

‘That’s right. Now, the way that has changed with the murder input may not mean much in itself, given how specific he is about the body dumps and given that the places where he displays his victims are central to the nature of his crimes. But I’m tempted to go out on a limb here and suggest that he might possibly have moved house in between the muggings and the first murder.’

Berrocal frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘It doesn’t matter how high-tech a system is, there’s still room for gut instinct when it comes to interpretation. I’d defend myself by saying that I’ve used this geographic profiler a lot now, and I’ve developed a sense of what the pictures mean that goes beyond what’s in the manual. And there’s something about the shape of this that makes me wonder if we’re looking at a change of address. I’m sorry, I can’t be more scientific than that.’

‘So what we have learned is useless.’

‘No, far from it. If he has moved, it’s been relatively recent. Between the last of the muggings and the first of the murders. There must be civic records that would reveal who lives there and if anybody’s gone in the last couple of months. I could be wrong, he could still be living there. But if I was the investigating officer here, I’d make it my first priority to look at residents inside the red block who have moved out.’

‘You think he moved to make it harder for us to find him?’ Berrocal asked.

‘No, I don’t think he was planning that far ahead. And he may not have left his home from choice. He may have been forced out because the building was being developed for some tourist-related business. He’ll have seen this as a terrible provocation. If that’s what happened, it could have been the factor that tipped him over the edge into murder. He’s been nursing his hatred for a while now, judging by the length of time these earlier offences cover. Perhaps this tourist development has been on the cards for a long time and he’d been fighting it. Then finally, he lost. And he decided to take revenge on the people he thought were to blame.’ Fiona leaned back in her seat. ‘I know it might sound far-fetched, but as psychopathic motives for murder go, it’s as coherent as any. And it makes sense of these events in a way that conventional theories of sexual homicide don’t.’

‘The way you explain it is certainly logical,’ Berrocal acknowledged. ‘Can you print these maps out for us? I’d like to get started on this line of inquiry as soon as possible.’

Fiona nodded. ‘No problem. I’m also in the process of writing a full report for you that incorporates all my reasoning. I’ll include a basic behavioural profile of the perpetrator.’

Berrocal frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of behavioural analysis?’

‘Taken on its own, I think it has limited value. But when you incorporate it with crime linkage and geographical profiling, it can be helpful.’

Berrocal looked dubious. ‘So, when will your report be ready?’

‘I should finish it today.’

‘Good. Then I can distribute it among the investigation team. First thing tomorrow, I’d like you to attend a briefing with them to answer any questions and deal with any objections?’

Fiona nodded. ‘I’d be happy to.’

Berrocal got to his feet. ‘And then I presume you will want to return to England?’

Fiona smiled. ‘You presume correctly. There’s nothing more I can usefully do for you right now, so I may as well go home.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll let you get on with your report,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said absently, her mind already on the next task. The sooner she finished this, the sooner she could start to think seriously about going home.

II

He never knew how long it would last. That was why he had to savor every moment of it, like a kid opening Christmas presents, unsure which garishly wrapped parcel held the gift that really mattered. The trick was to arrange it so that everything built to a climax. But sometimes it didn’t, and he hated that loss of absolute control, hated the rage that boiled through him when those sluts let him down, when they failed to hold out long enough for him to extract each single possible drop of pleasure from their pain. Death should be the final moment in the crescendo, not a sad diminuendo leaving the spirit dissatisfied.

That was why he worked with such dedication towards perfection. Experience had taught him that every stage released its own particular flavor, from the first moment he chose her to the final moment when he abandoned her. The secret was to plan. The taste of anticipation was almost as good as the spectrum of sensuality supplied by the execution of his perfect scheme. So too was the satisfaction of watching the small minds pitted against him as they struggled through their skirmishes with his handiwork into ultimate failure.

At first, his opponents had been as insignificant as the crickets that chirped the night away outside this safest of safe houses. Dumb sheriff’s officers who’d never investigated anything more complicated than a fucked-up raid on the local Seven Eleven had no chance of coming anywhere near him. He knew the chances of them even managing to complete a VICAP report and file it with the FBI were remote. All that paperwork, interfering with the consumption of Dairy Queen hamburgers and brewskis—no chance.

So puny a challenge couldn’t last forever. He’d known that. He’d bargained on that. He’d set himself up right from the start to beat the finest, so there was no real satisfaction in running rings round the morons who’d gone into small-town law enforcement because they didn’t have the stones to make something of their lives. They thought they knew their turf so well, but that hadn’t stopped him moving into their territory and stealing a woman from under their noses. His greatest triumph this far had come with number five. La Quinta was the daughter of the local sheriff in a small Nebraska town.

As usual, he’d removed her from her own home. Saturday night, and her parents had gone out to a benefit dinner for the local Republican candidate for the Senate race. The girl had opened the front door without a second thought as soon as she saw the Highway Patrol uniform. It had been laughably easy to knock her to the floor with a single blow to the face. Hog-tied, she’d spent the night in the trunk while he drove the interstate, fueled by adrenaline and nicotine.

By mid-morning, he’d been home. Surrounded by dense woodland, away from the possibility of prying eyes, he’d carried her indoors and gotten down to making her his slave. Shackled to a bench in his workroom, La Quinta had learned that pain takes many shapes and forms. The delayed sting of the razor cut. The blossoming of a burn from a smart to a roar of pain that spread inwards as the smell of barbecued flesh drifted outwards. The searing agony of flesh forced to accommodate more than it has room for. The sickening pain of a broken bone never allowed time to knit. The dull distress of a blow strategically aimed at the organs nestling beneath the skin. It took her days to die.

He’d enjoyed every waking moment.

Then he’d taken her back home. Not all the way home, of course. That would have been reckless. He drove her as far as the first bend over the county line on a quiet back road, then left her body sprawled across the blacktop for the next passing driver to crush beneath his unsuspecting wheels.

La Quinta had made them sit up and pay attention at last. He’d read enough to know what would have happened next. An urgent request to the Feebies, then a computerized search of the country to find matches. As soon as they realized he meant business, the machine would have kicked in. True to his prediction, the suits had arrived. And then, finally, she had flown in to face a flurry of cameras at the airport.

Now at last, the game was on.

Jay Schumann was in town. Dr Jay Schumann, the forensic psychologist who had turned her back on a lucrative private practice to become the FBI’s celebrity mindhunter. Jay Schumann, who had single-handedly restored the tarnished image of psychological profiling with a string of spectacular successes. Jay Schumann with those intense dark eyes that contrasted so sharply with her bright blonde hair, a photo opportunity who gave the suits a human face. Jay Schumann, whose glamor had persuaded her bosses that they should use her skills on the media as well as on the criminals.