Текст книги "Collecting Cooper"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

I look up articles about Natalie Flowers. She was reported missing almost three years ago, but the police didn’t look into it. According to the articles, Natalie cleaned out her bank accounts and packed up all her clothes and moved out of her apartment, telling her flatmate she had somewhere else to be. There were no suspicious circumstances. Her parents reported her missing, they pleaded in the media for their daughter to come home.

Eight years before that Melissa Flowers, Natalie’s sister, was raped and killed by a police officer. Melissa Flowers was thirteen years old, an unlucky number for some, especially unlucky for her. I can still remember the case. It wasn’t an officer I knew, but I knew all about him after the fact. There was no investigation because he confessed to the crime within an hour of doing it, confessed with a note and by putting a bullet in his head, his body found next to the young naked girl. The note had an apology, it told what he did but didn’t say why. It stunned the whole country. I think whatever happened that night with Cooper Riley, Natalie Flowers died and Melissa X was created. She walked away from her old life and started a new one. Either something inside of her snapped, or something inside of her lit up with the excitement of what she had done and needed more. Three years later she would murder Detective Calhoun while the Christchurch Carver filmed her, and she would go on to kill others. Maybe when Cooper attacked Natalie, whatever had started to break when her sister had been killed finally snapped. She was no longer Natalie. She became Melissa, and Melissa wanted revenge for what that officer had done. Is there a connection to the men Natalie has killed, other than the uniforms? Did these men remind her of the man who murdered her sister?

I read the rest of the articles on them both and there are no answers. So I start to look for the connection between Cooper Riley and Nurse Deans, and before I can find anything there’s a knock at the door. It’s the sketch artist. We sit at the kitchen table, and he goes to work and I keep thinking about Cooper Riley and Pamela Deans, I keep trying to figure out a way they can connect, and keep coming up with nothing.

chapter twenty-four

Cooper Riley hasn’t killed six people like he told Adrian, but six sounded much better than the truth—which was one, but this isn’t about the truth, this is about escaping from a man who’s purely delusional. Technically, having killed only one person doesn’t make him a serial killer even though he has a second one all tied up waiting for him, so in that sense he wasn’t lying when he first told Adrian he wasn’t a serial killer. He guesses that now he is, because now he’s up to two.

He really did want to help the girl who saved him, but the missing camera may be in the hands of the police, they may have seen photos of him with Emma Green, they may have searched his office and found pictures of him with Jane Tyrone. He needs to find that out before going to the police, and if he walked out of here with the girl, what could he say to her to keep her quiet until he knew for sure the police didn’t know he was a killer? The moment they escaped she would be calling for help. It was unfortunate, but he couldn’t take her with him. It was too risky.

The blade is deep inside the girl’s stomach. Her eyes are wide and he can see all sorts of thoughts running behind them, the foremost one her regret at unbolting the door. She’s no longer struggling. Blood rolls along the edges of the blade and warms his hand, and in the thrust he gave the knife to enter her he has managed to cut himself, his hand jarring forward and dragging the web of this thumb along the sharp edge. He lets go and repositions his grip on the handle. It’s getting slippery.

Seven minutes left.

He presses his body weight against her, holding her against the wall. There are tears in her eyes and her face is red. She is losing a battle she no longer even has the strength to fight. With his free hand he pinches shut her nose, and at the same time crumples the end of the straw into his palm. Her eyes grow wider, her face redder, veins stand out in her neck and her forehead. Her eyeballs, he really believes, are in jeopardy of popping right on out. It’s something he’d be curious to see happen, but at the same time he thinks it would gross him out. Something inside her nose clicks loudly. Then her mouth opens, the lips tearing, glued skin hanging from them like tiny leaves, the straw dangling from her bottom lip like a cigarette as blood splatters across her chin. She inhales loudly but her lungs don’t even fill before he twists the knife, any air sucked in immediately rushing out.

He doesn’t want this to take much longer, and it doesn’t. Her eyes are asking the question she cannot.

“Because it’s who I am,” he tells her, then, when that isn’t enough, he carries on. He feels as though he needs to. “I’m sorry,” he adds, and he thinks he means it.

Her eyes roll up and then she sinks to the floor. This is different from the other girl who died. This way is more enjoyable, and it’s the way he always wanted to do it. There is nothing sexual here, and he misses that, but that hasn’t made the experience any less rewarding. The last girl died while he was gone. She just gave up. He can’t help but wish he knew what his peers would say, not only other killers, but those who study them too. What would they say about a man whose need is so strong he kills the very woman who set him free and could possibly help? That makes him a step above any other killer. It makes him brilliant. If he could tell them, he’d say it wasn’t just a need, it was also about semantics. He couldn’t take her with him. He has to kill Adrian. Camera aside, his personal life has to stay personal—any talk of him being a serial killer could end up having the police dig deeper than need be, and then it’s all over for him, then he may as well have stayed down here because at least it would have been safer than real jail.

He looks down at the woman. There are tattoos on the insides of her arms and needle marks on the insides of her elbows. There’s something about her that makes him think she’s a prostitute, that her body has been polluted with the needs and anger of hundreds of men. Her blood has flecked onto his face. He wipes at it with the back of his arm. His shirt is covered in dark red patches. Annoyed, he plucks the wet material away from his body, and when he lets it go it clings back to his stomach. The blood is already cooling down. He looks at the cut on his hand. Jesus, all that blood mixing with his wound—fuck, he’s going to need to take a shower. The way things are going, he’s going to get out of here, get his life back, only to find out he’s just become HIV positive or has hepatitis, or maybe he’s struck the jackpot and has AIDS.

He makes his way to the top of the stairs. He puts the webbing between his thumb and finger into his mouth and pinches down softly with his teeth, tasting the blood. He sucks it into his mouth then spits it onto the floor. He holds his ear against the door. He can make out classical music. There is some natural light showing around the edges of the door but not much. He puts his hand on the handle. It’s unlocked. He has four minutes left. Maybe longer. He slowly opens the door and the music gets louder.

The corridor looks the same as the last time he was here three years ago, back when he had ideas of writing a book that people were going to care about. Movement. Out from the shadow of one of the other doors. He knows what’s about to happen, just as he knows he has been played, that he has been fooled by a man who is nothing but a fool, and before he can move the pain hits him, a blinding pain that makes his entire body shut down and he drops like a rock, his mind trying to move his arms and legs but all the wiring in between has been switched off. He watches Adrian come over and can do nothing as he crouches down and holds the rag over his face. The sweet chemical smell, the taste, and then there is nothing.

chapter twenty-five

Friday morning and the rain is still hanging about. There’s some fresh bacon and eggs in the fridge, courtesy of my mother, I manage to burn the bacon but not the eggs. I’m feeling tired, last night after the sketch artist left I spent three hours online looking into the pasts of Pamela Deans and Cooper Riley and eventually finding a connection thin enough to tear, a connection involving an abandoned mental institution. I turn my cell phone on and check my messages. There are three, two from Donovan Green, and one from Schroder. Schroder tells me there were no bodies found in the fire and that the fire department is of the belief both fires were set in the same manner. Schroder goes on to say he has been unable to get a warrant for Cooper Riley’s medical records from three years ago on account of medical records being one of the hardest things to be given.

From the clouds outside you’d never know we’d just come through a heat wave. Rain is pouring from the gutters of my house into the garden, and the roads are overflowing, water rushing toward drains mostly blocked with leaves. I want to start my day by driving out to see my wife, I want to hold her hand and escape the world for an hour, but it’s not going to happen and, strangely, I’m okay with it. I don’t feel guilty at not seeing my wife, but I feel guilty at not feeling bad about it.

I switch on the TV and eat my breakfast in the living room, watching the morning news. Emma Green’s disappearance has finally become newsworthy. The story about her lasts ten minutes, and then it mentions Jane Tyrone, the girl on the memory card who disappeared five months ago, around the same time the Christ-church Carver was being arrested. I looked her up online last night and read the articles about her when she disappeared. She made the news for two weeks and hasn’t been mentioned since until now.

The description I gave the sketch artist is shown. The problem is it’s very generic, not all of the details have come from me, but from other witnesses; the dope smoker and a woman at a nearby service station where Adrian filled up two cans of petrol. The shading and the frown of the arsonist makes him look like a killer, but the killer looks like my next-door neighbor and everybody else’s next-door neighbor. After they show the sketch, they show some footage from the service station of a man stepping out of Emma Green’s car and paying for petrol. The problem with service station footage is that it’s the same quality of film used to shoot Bigfoot, but what it does do is give a more accurate description of height and weight of the man who took Cooper Riley.

I clean up the dishes and come back into the living room. The news has ended, replaced by a breakfast show. A woman in her forties is dressed like a woman in her twenties, she’s sitting on a bright red couch all relaxed with her arm propped up along the top of it, and sitting opposite her on another bright red couch is a man in a pin-striped suit with slicked-back hair and teeth so white there must be some supernatural element involved. The man’s name is Jonas Jones, and I used to run into him a lot when I was on the force. He’s a psychic who tries to scavenge information from the police department so he can make what he likes to call his in-tune psychic readings. You know there’s something wrong with the country when somebody green-lights the kind of show tailor-made for Jonas Jones—this one a reality TV show where psychics, including Jones, solve crimes. Not once have any of their insights led to an arrest. They like to hold clothing or keys or puppies that belonged to the victims, they like to sit in a dim room with a few candles, they close their eyes and tilt their heads slightly and crease their brows as they connect to a different plane of consciousness before spewing forth their predictions, putting on a show, never giving a damn about who they are hurting, each of them about as psychic as a brick. Jonas Jones has earned a pretty good living from this sham. He wrote a book, then another, and somehow people keep buying them, not caring that he’s exploiting real victims and their real pain, capitalizing on those who have died at the hands of somebody else. The author bio overlooks the fact that ten years ago Jonas Jones was a used-car dealer who filed for bankruptcy after two sexual harassment lawsuits were filed against him.

I turn up the volume.

“. . . police can only do so much, which is why there’s always going to be a need for people with skills such as myself,” he says.

“I have to say, I love the show, it always gives me goose bumps seeing you work,” she says, “and I especially love your new book,” she adds, leaning forward before sweeping her hair back and giving him the look a hungry man would give a pizza.

“Thank you, Laura, that’s always nice to hear,” he says, his teeth flashing at her. “It’s available now and if you buy it today through my website you’ll receive a ten percent discount, or twenty percent if you buy two. It does, as you well know, Laura, make a wonderful gift.”

“It certainly does, Jonas. I know if I had a man in my life I’d certainly be buying one for him,” she says, and it doesn’t take a psychic to see she’s interested in him. “It appeals to everybody.” I roll my eyes and can’t decide between reaching for the remote or a vomit bag, and during my indecision she throws another line at Jonas and it’s an interesting one. “Now, you were telling me before the show you know something about Emma Green, the young Christchurch girl that’s gone missing.”

“Yes, yes, a very sad case I’m afraid.”

Well that’s the only thing he’s ever gotten right.

“Christchurch is becoming renown for that kind of thing,” she tells him. “In fact, the police now refer to the city as ‘Crime’ church.”

“As well they should,” he says, and that’s the second thing he’s gotten right. He’s on a roll. That means I should hear him out.

“What can you tell us about Emma going missing?”

An image of Emma Green comes up on a big screen in the background. She’s smiling. There are extra arms and shoulders to the sides, friends or family cropped out of the picture. The photo looks recent. There’s some generic greenery behind her, a tree or some shrubs.

“Not missing,” he says, “she was abducted.”

“And you think she’s still alive?”

Jonas looks glum at the same time still managing to show his teeth. It’s a look he must have practiced in the mirror, back when he was selling used cars and telling his customers there was nothing he could do about the faulty water pump on the car they just bought. Copies of his book are standing on a small coffee table between him and his host, a bunch of flowers behind them, everything arranged just so.

“Unfortunately no,” he says, playing the percentages. That’s what psychics do. They read the situation and go with the statistics. A young girl goes missing in Christchurch, then the statistics say she’s been abducted. They say she’s dead. And assholes like Jonas Jones come along and use that to promote their new book. The plane of consciousness he’s on with these in-tune readings of his has his bank balance on it too. I turn off the TV before he can say another word.

I sit back down in front of the computer and go through the same information I found last night. Pamela Deans was fifty-eight years old, and for the last three years worked at the Christchurch Public Hospital. Before that, she spent twenty-five years working at Grover Hills, a mental institution built outside of Christchurch during the First World War. Joshua Grover was a businessman who made most of his money importing mining equipment into the country back when people were flocking to the south island searching for gold. Grover had three sons, the oldest was nineteen years old when he killed another schoolboy. The problem was Grover’s son had the mental capacity of a five-year-old. Back then there was no room for sympathy in the justice system, and Grover fought hard to keep his son alive but failed, and for the first time since making his money Grover found there were some things that couldn’t be bought. What he could do was make a difference. Within months of his son being hanged, he petitioned for and finally won the right to build a mental institution where people like his son could be contained. He was granted the right, as long as the institution was well outside the city limits where the mentally ill could be swept under the carpet. Over the years it became one of a handful of institutions, all of them flourishing until, over the last few years, one by one they were shut down, the costs too high and the funds to run them put to use elsewhere by the city council, money spent on trees, on roads and recycling, money being spent trying to solve the teenage drinking epidemic rather than being spent on keeping the mentally dangerous at bay. Patients were kicked to the curb and told to fend for themselves, many with nowhere to go, all of them with instructions that no matter what, they must keep taking their medications. They spilled back into society, those who went on to kill would wind up in jail, but of course it was always too late, the damage was done.

For a quarter of a century Pamela Deans worked with these people, and then three years ago Grover Hills closed its doors and hung up a Closed for Business sign.

For nearly thirty years Cooper Riley has studied serial killers and murderers. Along with psychology, he has taught about them at Canterbury University for fifteen years. Some of the cases he speaks about happened here in Christchurch. He studied people who were mad, and Pamela Deans looked after people who were mad.

The connection this morning is just as thin as last night—but it’s all there is.

I ring Emma Green’s boyfriend, tell him that I don’t have any news yet about Emma, and then ask him if he knows anything about Grover Hills.

“Like what?”

“Have you heard of it?”

“Yeah, it closed down a few years ago, right?”

“Right. Has Professor Riley ever mentioned it?”

“Not really. I think it’s something he covers in later years if you start moving from psychology to criminology.”

“Do you know if any classes in the past took any field trips? Anything like that?”

“I doubt it,” he says, and I doubt it too. Nobody would take a class field trip to a mental institution. “He’s missing, right? Professor Riley? Somebody took him and burned down his house.”

“Yes.”

“It’s connected to Emma?”

“Yes.”

“Did he kill her?”

I think of the photographs, Emma Green naked and bound in a chair but still very much alive. “You sure he never mentioned Grover Hills?”

“It’s only my first year with him, and we’re only two weeks into it, and we’re only doing psychology one-oh-one, not criminology. You should ask one of the other lecturers, or a past student, or you should get hold of his book.”

“His book?”

“Yeah. There’s a rumor Professor Riley was writing a book about killers in Christchurch. You know, the crazy ones, sociopaths and multiple killers. He’s an expert in that kind of stuff. If it’s true, he’d be writing about people who might have ended up in Grover Hills.”

“Where can I get a copy?”

“You mean if there really is one? See, that’s part of the story. He never got it published. It was kind of a joke for some of the students. Professor Riley acts like he knows everything there is to know, but he couldn’t get a publisher to sign him up. We figured that meant he didn’t know enough.”

“Do you know anybody who’s ever seen it?”

“No. But I don’t even know if he really wrote one. Could just be one of those urban legend type deals. But if he did write one it must be on his computer or something, right?”

“Right,” I say, thinking about the lump of plastic his home computer has become.

After I hang up I call Schroder. He lets it ring half a dozen times before picking up.

“Look, Tate, I’m glad you called,” he says. “I’ve been thinking hard about this, and the way things are running now, it’s best you leave things to me. I know it’s about finding Emma Green, but it’s also about getting a conviction. Having you running around, that puts any conviction at risk.”

“I thought you were going to keep me in the loop.”

“It’s beyond that, Tate.”

“And Natalie Flowers? Have you spoken to her parents?”

He sighs, and I think he’s about to hang up, but instead he carries on. “We’ve spoken to her mother. The father died a month after Natalie went missing. The mother says it was from a broken heart. She said that if nothing bad had happened to Natalie, then she would have gone to her father’s funeral, but she never did. You remember the Melissa Flowers case?”

“Pretty much.”

“Yeah. That took a toll on that family, and when Natalie went missing, well, you can figure out the rest. We showed her the images we had of Melissa X. She says it looks like her daughter, but it’s not her. She saw the photos in the papers last year and thought the same thing. I think she can’t get her head around the possibility of what her daughter was capable of, that’s why she can only see a stranger in those pictures. Look, Tate, if we do it your way then maybe we get the guy and we find Cooper and they take a walk because their defense attorney points out how a convicted felon was contaminating the crime scenes. We do it that way then I lose my job too and then I’m no good to anybody else that goes missing.”

“The connection between . . .”

“Jesus, Tate, let it go.”

“I’m trying to help you here.”

“No you’re not. You’re trying to help yourself. You feel responsible for Emma Green, but you’re not.”

“I . . .”

“I’m hanging up now, Tate. It’s for your own good.”

I start pacing the study, loosening up my knee. It’s still swollen but not as tight as yesterday. The rain has eased off and the gutters on the roads are no longer overflowing. There are patches of blue sky far in the distance. I understand what Schroder is saying, but it’s hard to give a damn when I’m trying to save Emma Green’s life. I’m talking short term and he’s talking long term. I’m talking about saving one girl and he’s talking about saving future girls.

There has to be a copy of Cooper Riley’s book somewhere. If he was working on it at home, then any trace of it there would be destroyed, but Riley seems the kind of man who would keep it backed up. Maybe it’s hidden on a flash drive somewhere taped to the back of a filing cabinet. Or, more likely, it’ll be on his office computer.

I step outside and there’s a warm wind flicking rain water from the trees into my face. By the time I get to the university all the dark clouds have disappeared, the sky out to the east is gray but in the west it’s all blue, the sun beating down on half the city. There are more cars in the parking lot since yesterday and more people around. Everybody seems more awake than the last few days. Though that might change, because the morning is getting muggier by the minute. In my lifetime I can remember Christchurch going above one hundred degrees less than a dozen times. It’ll hit ninety degrees ten times in a good summer, perhaps once in a bad one. Last week it kept closing in on one hundred and ten, and I get the feeling today isn’t going to be any different.

I park in the shade of a silver birch and leave my windows open a crack so the pressure inside from the heat doesn’t punch a hole in the roof. There’s a patrol car parked outside the psychology building. I walk past a set of double doors with a sign out front saying Psychology Loading Bay. Maybe they load crazy people into the lecture halls for the students to practice on. I make my way upstairs and keep walking past Cooper’s office, nodding toward the two constables stationed outside. When I’m out of the hallway, I call Donovan Green. I can hear pigeons up on the roof through the air vents, they’re loud enough that I have to jam my finger into my other ear.

“I heard about the photographs,” he says. “But the police won’t show me.”

“It’s for the best.”

“You were the one to find them?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you didn’t call.”

“I’m calling now.”

“We had a deal, remember? You were meant to report to me first, not the police.”

“That just puts Emma in greater danger.”

“At least she’s alive. I told you she was a survivor.”

“I think Cooper Riley being abducted may have saved her life,” I tell him, “but we just don’t know.”

I walk up and down the corridors of the psychology department until I find the server room. Inside I can see lots of computers all hard-wired together. I can hear the fans going and the air-conditioning unit inside keeping the room cool. There’s a guy inside so pale-looking he can’t know there’s a heat wave outside because he hasn’t stepped into the sun since turning thirteen. He’s about twenty now, with messy hair and long sideburns and I watch him and try to figure out how much money we’re going to need. I figure I’m going to need more than I have on me.

“So now where do we look?” Green asks.

“I have a lead, but I need some cash.”

“How much?”

“Five grand. Hopefully less.”

“What for?”

“I’ll explain when you get here,” I say, and I tell him where I am and hang up and wait.