Текст книги "The Gift of Death"
Автор книги: Sam Ripley
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
13
‘Fuck,’ said Josh as he picked up the newspaper. The Sunday edition of Times featured the story as an exclusive on the front page, along with the headline, ‘GROTESQUE GIFTS LINKED TO GLEASON, DEAD SERIAL KILLER’. The story was bylined Cynthia Ross and was illustrated with photographs of Kate, Cassie, Weislander and a large image of Gleason himself staring out of the page.
Two nights ago, February 9, Jordan Weislander, prosecutor in the office of the state’s district attorney, opened the icebox in his Pasadena home to discover a human tongue. Investigations by the Times have revealed that he is the third person to receive a grotesque present of human body parts since the beginning of the new year.
Over the past two weeks, three people closely connected with the notorious Bobby Gleason serial killer case have received similarly chilling gifts. On January 25, Kate Cramer, the forensic artist who created an accurate likeness of Gleason – an image that led to his arrest – was taking photographs at her beach house in Malibu when she spotted a baby in the water. Despite trying to revive the 15-month old – identified as Sara-Jane Gable, daughter of a Los Feliz couple – the baby was pronounced dead at the scene.
On February 2, Cassie Veringer received a package of human fingertips at her apartment in Venice Beach. Ms Verginer would have been the last murder victim of Gleason – the notorious serial killer whose reign of killings lasted from 1992 until 1997 – had she not escaped from his vehicle and fled to safety. Before her daring escape Cassie, blind as a result of juvenile glaucoma, managed to feel the face of her attacker and it was with her help that Kate Cramer successfully created such a detailed portrait of the serial killer. Gleason’s other victims were Teresa Collins, 17, Frances Silla, 19, Elizabeth Ventura, 18, Tracey Newton, 18, and Jane Gardener, 20.
Despite repeated requests neither the LAPD nor any of the three persons directly involved – Jordan Weislander, Kate Cramer or Cassie Veringer – would comment on this story.
As this newspaper reported only a few weeks ago, it is ten years since Gleason was arrested. Police sources would not comment on whether the publication of this recent article has any bearing on the new developments.
Bobby Gleason was arrested in January 1997 and he was sentenced to death a year later. However, in July 2000, Gleason, 49 – who was on Death Row in San Quentin State Prison – was discovered dead in his cell He had committed suicide.
He threw the paper across his desk. That’s all he needed, some kind of fucking media circus. And true enough, two minutes later Karen Cain – the media spokeswoman for his division – was on the phone relating the dozens of requests from journalists asking for more information. He told her he would draft a brief statement.
‘But what about a press conference?’ she said. ‘You know that’s what these guys want. They want to see you up there, and they want to talk to Weislander, Kate Cramer and Cassie Veringer.’
‘No way,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to allow Kate Cramer and Cassie Veringer to be eaten alive by a pack of vultures.’ He took a deep breath as he assessed the situation. ‘Look, it’s against my better nature, but if needs be, I’ll take the press conference.’
‘But Cramer and Veringer are off limits? You sure? There’s nothing like a spot of female vulnerability to get people’s attention.’
God, she made him sick. At times he thought she was just as bad as some of the corpse-feasting crime reporters out there.
‘Afraid so.’
‘Okay, I’ll get back to you. And no new leads I can give these hungry babies?’
‘Not yet,’ he said, finding it difficult to retain his composure. ‘But I’ll see what I can come up with. Also, can you find out how Cynthia Ross got the story?’
‘She’s one tough lady, she might not tell me much, but I’ll try.’
‘Great. Speak later.’
As he cut the line he wondered whether sometimes he was doing his job for the sake of the entertainment industry – for the viewers of the news networks, the readers of supermarket tabloids, the internet geeks obsessed by conspiracy theories – and not the safety of the general public. He didn’t have the time to think about that at the moment. He had serious work to do.
He clicked on the secure link and scanned down the list of names on his computer screen. There were five men who had served time with Gleason in San Quentin and who had since been released: Lee Tomlin, Harry Lomax, Michael David Federline, Charles Garrison and Robert Dean Hornbeck.
Tomlin, a 45-year-old black man, was a petty drug dealer and small time pimp; Lomax, 31, had been sentenced for internet fraud and identity theft; Federline, 37, had committed a series of indecent assaults on young women; Garrison, 52, subjected his wife to regular beatings until, on the last occasion, he had nearly killed her; and Hornbeck, 48, a former high school teacher and summer camp leader, was a paedophile who couldn’t keep his hands off young boys.
‘Right guys – hey, listen,’ said Josh, standing up and shouting across the investigation room. ‘We’ve been sent the names from the prison and I’m copying it and sending it to each of you right now.’
His black eyes narrowed as he bent down to send the email. He had been working for two weeks now without more than an hour of sleep a night and the effects were beginning to show. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, razor burn had spread across his neck like a nettle sting and his skin looked pale and gaunt. But he couldn’t allow himself any slack now. Although he had tried his best to be objective the investigation had become something of a personal battle, one he had to win; after all, the alternative was just too painful to contemplate.
‘Okay, as you can see we’ve got five names, men who may have been associates of Gleason in San Q,’ he said, addressing his team. ‘By the way, before I go any further, I presume all of you are up to speed on the Gleason case?’
The question was, of course, rhetorical – he prided his team on the quick acquisition and accumulation of information – and it was met with grunts of affirmation and the nodding of heads.
‘Great. So I want a full background check on each of these individuals as well as a current address. As you know, this case is urgent, so as soon as we have addresses I want them brought in for questioning. We can’t let this one slip away from us. As everyone knows, three people all connected with Gleason have been sent threatening packages, and in the case of Dr Kate Cramer, who was the lead forensic artist in the case – well, she discovered a dead baby girl floating in the sea outside her house.’
Although this was not news to the team it was still met with expressions of outrage and disbelief.
‘The perpetrator is obviously willing to kill,’ he continued. ‘And so it’s most likely he’s killed before.’ He looked across the room to Dr Jennifer Curtis, the specialist psychological profiler on his team. ‘Would you agree, Jennifer?’
A tall, slim and beautiful black woman stood up and addressed the room.
‘That’s right, sir,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘From all indications I would say, without a doubt, that we are dealing with a psychopath, someone who has, most probably since he was a child, felt no concern or empathy for anyone or anything. He views people – babies, even – as nothing more than inanimate objects that he can manipulate at will. I thought it would be a good idea to go back to the police records of each of these individuals concerned and scour them for any signs of psychopathic or sociopathic behaviour. Obviously, since they have all ended up in prison it’s likely that most, if not all of them, will have experienced behavioural problems of some sort – problems at school or work, feelings of isolation and alienation, addiction to drugs or alcohol. But I want to look for signs of disassociation as well. The person who is doing these things no doubt feels superior to the rest of mankind. He thinks, to a certain extent, that he is some sort of god, and the rest of us are his little playthings.’
‘Get all the original police interviews and court transcripts on each of these five men and see what you can find.’
He turned to another member of his team, a stocky black man, who he knew happened to be gay, and who, in the course of a number of investigations, had proved himself to be an expert interviewer and interrogator.
‘Lansing – I want you to go to San Quentin and interview the governor and staff and other inmates and see if you can discover any more about Gleason and his connection with these men. Did Gleason have any confidantes? Who were his friends, if that sick fuck had the capacity to make any? Did he have any enemies? Did he do any deals in prison? Take drugs of any sort? Who came to visit him? Did he receive any letters? Okay?’
‘Right, sir,’ said Lansing. ‘I’ll fly up there tonight.’
‘Great. What’s the latest on the daughter, Roberta Gleason? Helen, did you manage to get hold of her to check to see that she is okay?’
He looked over to a pale, drawn woman who was wearing a pink fleecy hat. He knew that Helen Holt had been diagnosed with breast cancer and that the hat hid a patchy scalp, the result of chemotherapy. He had pleaded with her to take more time off work, but she was insistent she was well enough to carry on. The treatment had left her weak, but it had seemed to be effective. What she needed, she had told him, was something to keep her mind off her illness; this case, he was sure, would certainly do that.
‘I paid a visit to her home in Hollywood, but she wasn’t there,’ she said. ‘I left a couple of messages on her home phone and her cell, but they went unanswered. Finally, I went to her workplace, at Cedars-Sinai, where I found her. She told me that she had been out of town for a few days, staying with a friend in Vegas.’ She flicked through the pages of her notebook until she found the summary of the interview. ‘Although she was in the middle of her shift, she talked to me in her break. She seemed genuinely shocked when I asked her about her father. She told me that she had tried to forget about him and that he had deserved to die in prison. She couldn’t forgive him for what he had done. After leaving home at 18 to go to college she never saw him again. There’s obviously still a lot of anger there and I -’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Helen, but I think it’s necessary to share with you certain details of the Gleason case that were never made public at the time, for reasons which will soon be obvious. Most of you will have heard of Detective Bill Vaughan, who headed up the case, and who sadly passed away before seeing Gleason sentenced. According to his notes, Roberta was systemically abused by her father during her teenage years.’
‘And why wasn’t he prosecuted?’ asked Jennifer, a note of anger in her voice.
‘Soon after Gleason was arrested Bill Vaughan went to interview Roberta. She told him that Gleason had abused her until, at the age of 18, she left home to go to college. That was in 1992, the same –‘
‘– the same year that the attacks started,’ said Jennifer. ‘So Gleason, after losing his daughter, began to hunt out replacements.’
‘That’s right,’ said Harper.
‘The sick fuck,’ said Jennifer. ‘But I still don’t get it – why didn’t the state prosecute Gleason on grounds of abusing his daughter?’
‘After Gleason was arrested – as a result of the facial reconstruction provided by Dr Cramer, and his last victim – Vaughan thought that the case against him was so strong, the evidence from Cassie Veringer together with the forensic matches would guarantee a death sentence. And, of course, he was right.
‘From reading Vaughan’s notes it seems that he felt sorry for Roberta, who was already in a vulnerable state. She told him that she couldn’t face testifying against her father. She had escaped the past and wanted to build a new future for herself, a future in which she hoped to help others as a nurse. She worried about the stability of her mental health, especially if she was forced to stand up in court. Vaughan knew that, as a professional, he should report her evidence so that the state prosecutor should decide on the best course of action, but he chose not to.’
The room fell quiet.
‘I know what Vaughan did was way out of order, and as a fellow detective I have to condemn him for that, but as a man I admire him. He knew that Roberta’s testimony would not add anything to the strength of the prosecution’s case. After what Roberta had been through he didn’t want her to be Gleason’s final victim.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Helen. ‘And that certainly helps explain a lot of things. I wondered why she looked so haunted.’
‘But she’s okay?’
‘Yeah, apart from the obvious distress about being reminded about her father she seemed to be fine.’
‘What did you say about why you wanted to speak to her?’
‘Just that it was a routine inquiry, which of course she didn’t believe. So then I told her there were certain things that I couldn’t talk about, which she seemed to understand.’
‘And she’s received nothing suspicious?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Good, and it would be great if you could keep a friendly watch over her.’ Harper ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘So it seems Vaughan’s decision was the right one, after all.’
Jennifer’s eyes narrowed slightly as she said, ‘You think that if he had forced her to give evidence then she would have received something nasty in the mail?’
‘Maybe, yes. So at least it saved her that trauma.’ He checked his watch. ‘Okay, that’s enough for today. The first priority is finding these five men. Agreed?’ Again Harper did not wait for an answer. ‘Any other questions?’ There were none. ‘We haven’t got much time.’
14
Fucking coward. The chickenshit, yellow coward. He knew he shouldn’t think those kind of thoughts, use those kind of words, but wife beaters were the lowest of the low. Beneath contempt.
He stared at the bald-headed man sitting on the bar stool and imagined what he could do to him. How good it would feel to take hold of a brick and slam it into his skull, reduce it to a bloody pulp. If he did it hard enough, he thought, he could even break the bone and destroy the white brain matter beneath.
‘You want another?’ asked the bartender.
‘Sure,’ said the man on the bar stool.
‘You just travelling through?’
‘Could say that.’
‘Thought so. Haven’t seen you in here before. You live in LA?’
The man nodded slowly, took a sip of his bourbon, and then looked down, a gesture that clearly signalled an end to the exchange. Since his release from the state prison he had perfected the art of non-communication. He stared at the TV screen in the corner of the dark room and pretended to watch a football game. All he could think about was his kid, Danny. Tomorrow was his 13th birthday. Another birthday he wouldn’t see his father. It just didn’t seem fair somehow to be denied the right to see his own son. Sure, he could understand why he wasn’t allowed to make contact with Sharon. Why would he want to see that whore anyway, he thought. He should have finished her off when he had the chance. But a boy needed his father, especially at that age. The forced separation from Danny had been much worse to bear than those years in prison. And now? Why was he still being punished for a crime that he’d served time for? Like he said, the system was full of shit.
He looked at his watch. He would have to be getting back on the road. He’d been making the same journey from LA down to New Mexico for the last three years now, always at the same time of year. He’d drive for nearly 700 miles, often through the night, until he reached Albuquerque. There, he’d park at a safe distance from the house, take out the binoculars and watch. He’d do his best to hold the binoculars steady, but when Danny came out of the house his hands would start to shake. He’d cuss himself, tell himself to hold still, but it didn’t make a difference. Those few snatched, jumpy images would have to satisfy him until the same time the following year. He’d often thought about leaving a card or a present on the doorstep, but he was wise enough to realise that not only would Sharon move to a different address, perhaps even a new state, but that he’d almost certainly be risking re-arrest under the terms of his parole.
As he finished the last of his bourbon he heard a chair scrape across the tiled floor. The only other customer, a man wearing a black baseball cap pulled down over his face, picked up his copy of the Times, stood up and left the bar. Perhaps he was like him, a man with something to hide.
He caught the barman’s attention and settled his bill.
‘You got a long drive ahead of you?’
‘Kinda.’
‘Well you take care now.’
He nodded and stood up, steadying himself against the bar.
‘You sure that you’re okay to drive?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re the boss.’
He walked out of the darkened bar into sunlight so bright he had to shield his eyes. As he fumbled for his car keys in his pocket he heard the sound of a car engine nearby. He squinted through the sunlight to see the man with the baseball cap sitting in the driver’s seat.
He pressed the central locking device and his car came into life. He’d drive for another four or five hours and then take a break, by which point he would be nearly at Albuquerque. He didn’t need to piss, but if he did he knew he could just pull up on the side of the road to relieve himself. As he got into the grey, mid-range saloon he thought back to the Beemer he used to have when he lived with Sharon. Now that was what you could call a car, not like this piece of mediocrity. With the Beemer every drive was an experience; but there was nothing more to this heap than functionality – fine for getting you from A to B but driving it gave him absolutely zero pleasure. As he thought about the change in his circumstances – the loss of his home, his job, his son – a surge of anger threatened to envelop him. All because of that bitch. She had deserved every punch in the face, every swipe across the cheek, every teeth-shattering bang of the head against the wall. He was still convinced she had been fooling around. But that, apparently, was no defence. If only he had lived in Europe – where was it they had ‘Crimes of Passion’, France? He was sure he wouldn’t have received such rough treatment there.
He took out his shades and started the car. He hit the CD player and started to drive along the straight, almost empty road. Thoughts of snatching a glimpse of Danny the next day kept him going; that and the rage he still felt about the past. After about half an hour he noticed a strange rattling noise in the engine. A moment later the car became enveloped in a shroud of steam and a matter of seconds later he came to a standstill. Before stopping he managed to steer the vehicle off the road and onto the dusty ground.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he shouted, as he got out of the car, banging the door shut. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuckin’ piece of shit.’ The Beemer had never had a fault in four years.
If he didn’t get the car started and get on his way he wouldn’t make it to Albuquerque on time to see Danny on his birthday. He scanned the highway, but there were no other vehicles in sight. He took out his cell. There was no reception.
He walked over to the front of the car and opened the hood, burning his fingers as he did so. Steam continued to spew forth from the engine like a little hell.
Then, in the distance, he thought he could see a car on the horizon, speeding towards him. He squinted. Yes, he was sure of it. He would hail them down and hope they either knew how to fix a car or had a cell that worked out here.
As the car approached he stood in the middle of the road and started to wave his hands. He felt like a fool, like a character from a movie, but what else was there to do? Was the car slowing down? Yes it was, and he had to do everything in his power to remain calm, to stop himself from jumping up and down.
‘Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ he said, as the car pulled over. It contained the man he had seen in the bar, the one with the black baseball cap.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ the man said, getting out of the car and striding over.
‘Thank fuck you stopped. Looks like my piece of shit of a car has overheated. I wondered if you knew anything about how to –‘
‘Sure do,’ he said the man. ‘It’s your lucky day.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s right. I’ve got everything here in my hold to fix you up.’
‘Gee, you don’t know how grateful I am. What are you a mechanic?’
‘Used to be. One of the many things I can do.’
‘Well, aren’t I the fortunate one,’ he said, his mood lightening. He felt like he could talk to this stranger in a way he hadn’t talked to anyone in years. ‘You know, if you hadn’t come along I don’t know what I would have done. You see, I’ve got to get to Albuquerque to see my son. It’s his birthday tomorrow. He’s going to be 13.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t get to spend much time with him. He lives with his mom, you know? But it means a lot to me. Just to see him.’
‘I’ll just get the equipment from the car. What do you say is wrong with it? Over-heating, you think?’
‘I guess so. What with all this steam and all.’
‘Okay.’
The slim, well-built man went to the back of his car. Casually, he looked left and right, checking the highway for signs of other cars. Nothing. He listened for anything in the distance. Nothing. He reached into the hold and took out a large, red toolbox. Inside was everything he needed.
‘What’s your name?’
The man in the baseball cap hesitated for a moment.
‘I said, what’s your name?’
‘Steve.’
‘Hi. I’m Charlie. Pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand and was surprised that the stranger kept his black gloves on.
‘You don’t know much about engines then?’
‘No, not much. I used to have a Beemer, you see. Never went wrong. German efficiency, I guess.’
‘Guess so. Here, I’ll show you,’ he said, gesturing towards the engine, now mostly clear of steam. ‘It looks like a gasket has blown. You see here?’ he said, pointing towards a part of the engine. ‘It’s hidden by this other part, here. If you just bend down you might be able to see it better.’
Charlie bent his knees, feeling the girdle of fat around his middle, and leaned forwards slightly. What was he supposed to be looking at? He’d play along with Steve. If he wanted to give him a free lesson in car mechanics, then so be it. You never knew, it might even prove useful. He heard Steve unlock his tool case and bring something out.
‘So you think I might be back on the road –‘
The rock slammed into the side of his bald head, stunning him.
‘What the –?’ he shouted.
The second blow – the harder of the two – forced him to the ground in front of the car. He thought it was odd that although he couldn’t’ move – as he reached up to try and defend himself his hand lay flat by his side like a dead fish – he could take in what was happening to him. He noticed, for instance, Steve’s gloves sheathed in a black red liquid. A spray of blood had bloomed inside the engine. A mushy, sticky sound was coming from his head as Steve slammed the rock into him. He saw blood pooling beneath him.
‘You do know why I’m doing this, don’t you Charlie?’
He tried to shake his head, but the movement intensified the pain.
‘I always ask the same question, and never get the replies I think I deserve. It’s amazing how unaware all of you are. In your case, Charlie, I would have given you a bit more credit. After all, you’re not the typical welfare criminal, are you? In fact, once upon a time, before all that messy business with Sharon, you had quite a nice lifestyle going on, didn’t you.’
If Charlie felt any surprise he was unable to show it; one of his eyes had already swollen shut, the other remained immobile and unseeing.
‘It’s a shame about Danny, but personally I think it’s for the best. I wouldn’t want any son of mine growing up with a man like you. I know you said that it was provocation, that you did everything in your power to control your violent urges. But you nearly killed her, didn’t you? You slammed her head so hard against the wooden table in the kitchen that it collapsed, remember? And it seems you would have carried on if Danny hadn’t have started to cry.’
‘How do I know all of this? Let’s just say I make it my business to find out these kind of things. Yes, I realised you served your time in prison. But that was just punishment by man, not a just punishment by the Lord. You must have heard of the phrase, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. Well, that’s what is going on here. There’s one exception, of course. Sharon survived your vicious attack. You, I’m afraid, will not.’
He lifted the bloody rock and brought it down hard on the skull, shattering it. He struck repeatedly until Charlie’s head was nothing more than a mass of bone and blood, white splinters of skull ranged around and amongst a dark, sticky liquid. Were they globs of brain material splattered up the side of the wheel hub?
Charlie’s bruised and bloodied face looked like a grotesque gargoyle, the kind of creature one might find on one of the exterior walls of a grand medieval cathedral.
That was funny, he thought. He’d always wanted to go to Chartres, Orleans or Rheims. Or perhaps Canterbury, England, where he could make his own particular sort of pilgrimage. When this was over perhaps he’d treat himself to a trip there.
