Текст книги "The Gift of Death"
Автор книги: Sam Ripley
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
17
The sun was beginning to set over the mountains as Kate and Cassie drove towards Hollywood. The sky split into fissures of bright yellow, bruised purple and burnished orange, and the light cast upon the hills in the distance seemed to turn the rocks a blood red. By the interchange of Hollywood and Vine hordes of tourists meandered up and down the sidewalk, some hunting out the hand and foot prints of their favourite celebrities, others moving with an aimlessness approaching catatonia. Los Angeles had a lot to answer for, thought Kate to herself, selling as it did the empty promise of the American dream through the medium of motion pictures. Perhaps mass entertainment was just as bad as organised religion.
Certainly her father used to think so – it was one of the topics guaranteed to light up the dinner table. ‘Escapism turns folks’ brains into mush,’ Saul would say. ‘Oh, don’t be such a prig,’ her mother would reply. ‘What’s wrong with taking people out of their lives and giving them the chance to dream?’ Dad said he could list a dozen or so reasons, and so the argument would start.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Cassie from the passenger seat.
‘I was just thinking about my dad. He hated the entertainment industry.’
‘But your mother used to –‘
‘I know, I know,’ she laughed. ‘I think it was one of those life-long differences of opinion that kept their relationship going.’ She thought of her own relationship with Josh – her former relationship with Josh, she corrected herself – and the things they used to argue about. No, she wasn’t going to allow herself to go there. She had promised not to think about him.
‘You said that you were a photographer now. Is that for a magazine?’
Everyone assumed that. But she’d learned not to be offended.
‘No. I show my work in galleries.’ That sounded so pretentious. ‘I mean, I take photographs that my gallery then sells.’ Even though her work had been written about – and highly praised – in critical journals, she was careful not to define it as art. Well, at least not to other people. ‘It’s in Santa Monica. The Sansom. Have you heard of it?’
‘No, sorry.’
Suddenly Kate felt foolish. Why on earth would she have heard of it? What a stupid thing to say. But she felt apologising would only make it worse.
‘In fact, I’m meant to be working on a series of photographs for a new exhibition.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Waves.’ The answer sounded trite, pathetic. ‘Waves as they swell, as they grow and as they break and die.’ That didn’t sound much better.
‘That’s what you were doing when -’
‘When I found the little girl. Yes.’
The two women fell silent. Kate thought about the parents of Sara-Jane. She wondered how Susan was getting on. Perhaps she’d recommend a doctor for her, after all. But Susan would probably feel as offended as she herself had done when Dr Cruger had suggested she see a shrink. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. In fact, she hadn’t yet done anything about finding another doctor for herself. That was another thing on her list.
‘I think we’re nearly here,’ said Kate, turning down onto West Sunset Boulevard and then onto Tamarind Avenue.
She glanced in the rearview mirror as she parked. The constant presence of the unmarked car, with the two protection officers, made her feel a little safer.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this?’ asked Kate. ‘There’s no need for you to come in with me.’
‘I think I’d like to,’ said Cassie, forcing a weak smile. ‘Really I would.’
‘If at any stage you want to leave, just let me know and we’ll go. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
They walked arm in arm down the street until they came to an apartment building that looked like it had been built in the thirties or forties. The kind of place, Kate thought, that used to house aspiring actors and actresses who had travelled from Kansas or Alabama or Portland or wherever in search of fame. She remembered the story her father used to tell of a woman born in London who came to New York and then LA in the hope of becoming an actress. After one failure too many she had climbed up to the Hollywood sign and thrown herself off, killing herself instantly. She had been cremated in the cemetery that stood at the end of Tamarind Avenue, the other side of Santa Monica Boulevard. Saul often used to take her to Hollywood Forever cemetery and show her the graves and niches of the stars in the hope that the repetition of such sorry tales would squash any ambitions she might have had to become an actress.
‘Here we are,’ said Kate, running her finger down the series of names by the door. ‘Apartment 312.’
She pressed the buzzer and waited. A moment later the door opened and the two women stepped into a nondescript stairwell, furnished with a table covered with free-sheets and fliers and a couple of mountain bikes. Across the hallway there was an elevator so narrow it looked as if it could only hold two people. Kate looked at it with suspicion and fear, the light of its call button an evil red eye.
‘It’s only two flights up. Do you mind walking?’ asked Kate.
Kate guided Cassie up the stairs and along a narrow corridor that, on one side, opened onto and overlooked a central courtyard.
‘Remember, she’s likely to be as distressed as you are,’ said Kate, stopping on the corridor and squeezing Cassie’s hand a little tighter. ‘By the sounds of it, Roberta’s been trying to forget her father just as much as you have.’
‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like to live with that monster,’ said Cassie, almost in a whisper. ‘Let alone be the daughter of such a man.’
‘It’s good that she agreed to see us,’ said Kate. ‘But she knows something is wrong and I suppose she wants to find out more. I think she also feels a certain gratitude towards Bill Vaughan. She knows that he spared her a great deal of heartache. When I mentioned on the phone that I had worked with him on the case she seemed to open up.’
They continued to walk along the corridor until they stood outside 312. They pressed the bell and a moment later the door opened. Kate had never met Roberta before and she was immediately struck by her. A slight creature she looked more like a girl than a woman. She had light auburn hair, pale skin and a few oat-coloured freckles around her nose and mouth. She smiled as she stretched out her hand to greet her callers, but Kate noticed that there was a sadness in her light blue eyes.
‘Hi, I’m Kate Cramer and this is Cassie. Cassie Verginer.’
‘Hi, there.’ She looked down to the ground, as if she were a little ashamed. ‘Come on in. Sorry everything is a bit of a mess, but I’ve only just finished work.’
Roberta led the way into a sparsely furnished lounge consisting of a blue Futon and an old wooden rocking chair. She caught Kate looking at the storage crates in the far corner of the room.
‘I’ve been here for two or three months, but I still haven’t had time to unpack. Sorry, there’s not much room, but please sit down.’
Kate guided Cassie towards the sofa and then took a seat next to her.
‘Would you like some coffee? Tea? Juice?’
‘We don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said Cassie.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ve got some coffee on the go anyhow.’
Roberta disappeared into the small kitchen to make the coffee while Kate and Cassie remained sitting in silence. A few moments later Roberta returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits.
‘I really admire your kind of work,’ said Cassie. ‘When I was losing my sight I had the most wonderful care from the nurses at the clinic. Not just with physical things, you know, but in terms of support. It must be terribly draining, though.’
‘Yes, it is, at times,’ said Roberta, sitting down in the rocking chair. ‘Of course there are moments when you think it’s just too much, and it is tiring, but the rewards are high. Obviously I’m talking about the personal rewards, not the financial ones.’ She gestured around the apartment with a thin smile of apology.
‘Did you always want to be a nurse?’ asked Kate.
‘I’m not sure. But I do remember dreaming about being nurse when I was a little girl. I would dress up in a little outfit my best friend’s mom made me and pretend that I was helping someone get better. For some reason, in my head it was always a lady who was ill. Of course now, I realise what I was doing was trying to bring my own mother back.’
‘You never knew her?’ asked Cassie.
‘No, she died giving birth to me.’
‘And you were brought up by your father?’
‘Yes, and my older brother, Ryan,’ she said, looking down. There was an embarrassed silence. ‘I know on the phone you said I might be able to help with something. You mentioned Mr Vaughan’s name, but he passed away some time ago, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, ten years ago now.’
‘He was a nice man,’ said Roberta. ‘Sometimes I think how differently my life would have turned out if I’d had him for a father, instead of –‘
‘It’s about your father we need to speak to you about,’ said Kate.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just over three weeks ago I found a baby girl floating in the sea outside my house.’
‘Oh my God.’ Obviously she hadn’t read the piece in the Times.
‘About two weeks ago Cassie was sent a package containing a number of human fingertips.’
Blood seemed to drain from Roberta’s thin lips and her already pale face turned a ghostly white.
‘And then Jordan Weislander – who led the prosecution against your father – found a human tongue in his icebox.’
‘What? Why?’ Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Obviously, the link between Jordan, Cassie and me is – was – your father.’
Panic invaded her eyes. ‘You’re not trying to suggest -?’
‘No, no. It’s not that.’
‘But then who -?’
‘We think it could be someone your father went to prison with. Maybe somebody he helped when he was inside. Or it could be some psychopath who feels some kind of affinity with Gleason. Sees him as some kind of hero figure or whatever.’
‘God forbid.’
‘But we just wondered if there was anything – or anybody – you could think of. Any kind of link or motivation?’
‘No, no. Nothing. As you know I never saw my – him – since the day I left for college.’
‘And there’s nobody from your childhood that could be behind this?’
‘What do you mean?’ Tears started to form in her eyes.
‘I realise this is difficult for you to talk about, Roberta. And I’m sorry. But it really is extremely important.’ Kate took a deep breath. ‘Roberta, I know about the abuse. Bill Vaughan told me. God only knows, it must have been awful for you.’
Roberta nodded her head as tears began to form in her eyes.
‘But was he the only one? Your dad, I mean. We know what he was capable of.’ Kate swept her hand through her silver hair. ‘Do you remember him bringing any of his friends to see you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, Roberta. I really am.’
‘No, it’s okay. Honestly.’ Her face was creased by pain now, as if each of the questions was a stab in her heart.
Cassie stood up and, using her hand to guide her, moved across the room towards Roberta. She reached out her hands and gently placed them on Roberta’s shoulder and neck.
‘Hush,’ said Cassie. ‘It’s all in the past now. He’s gone.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, looking up at Cassie’s blank eyes. ‘I’m sorry for what he did to you.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Kate. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’
‘Sometimes I think if only I had stayed at home with him then none of it would have happened.’
‘You can’t think like that,’ said Cassie.
‘Then he wouldn’t have needed to seek out those other girls. All those lives taken. What a waste. If I had stayed with him at least it would only have been one life, my life.’
‘Do you have any surviving relatives?’ asked Kate, in an effort to change the direction of the conversation.
‘An aunt in Oklahoma, my mom’s sister,’ she said. ‘We speak on the phone and send cards, things like that. But apart from that, no, no-one.’
‘If anything occurs to you you’ll let me know, won’t you?’ said Kate, drinking the last of her coffee and standing up.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Roberta, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m sorry not to be of more help to you.’ She stood up from the rocking chair to face Cassie. ‘But it was good to see you. Difficult, but good. At least I know he didn’t ruin your life completely. You’ve survived. That’s wonderful.’
Cassie thought of the nightmares, the blackness that grew inside of her like a mutant child, but she pushed it from her mind.
‘Yes, I’m a survivor,’ she said, and smiled.
She touched Roberta’s face, and felt a wetness on her hand. She ran her fingers down her cheek to her jaw. She remembered the feel of Gleason’s pock-marked skin and the rough contours of his face. Father and daughter shared a similar bone structure, the same square face, high forehead and strong jawline. An irrational fear clawed the back of her neck. Then she felt a sense of pity. Imagine what it must be like, she thought, to look like the mass murderer that was your father. Much better to be one of Gleason’s victims than his daughter. She felt a sting of guilt inside her.
‘Goodbye,’ said Cassie, squeezing Roberta’s hand. As she left she regretted she had not wished her good luck too.
18
There was an air of expectation in the investigation room. Harper had scheduled an urgent meeting to discuss the Gleason case and its poisonous fall-out. He had his own theory – something he had been discussing with Jennifer Curtis – but he wanted everyone present to share the information they had gathered over the last 48 hours. He looked at his team and felt a sense of pride. They were, he knew, the best in the business. But would they be able to work out what the fuck was going on? A wave of anxiety, compounded by an overwhelming tiredness, swept over him. He took another swig of his black coffee and cleared his throat.
‘Okay, Lansing,’ he said. ‘What have you got?’
Lansing stood up and addressed the room.
‘As you know I flew up to San Quentin and spent a day interviewing the governor, staff and some of the inmates.’
‘And?’
‘It seems that during his time there – those two years between 1998 and 2000 – Gleason was very much a loner. Of course, he was confined to his cell for most of the day, but when he was allowed out he didn’t seek company. It seems, from what I can gather, that most of the other prisoners were afraid of him. One of them, a,’ he looked down to consult his notebook, ‘a man called Lee James – who by the way was one tough guy – described Gleason as pure evil. I asked him how he knew this and he said that he could just sense it. Bear in mind that James had spent most of his adult life in prison – he was a serial rapist – but even he said he was afraid of Gleason. Said there was something about his eyes, like he was looking into the face of something that was not human.’
‘And what about these other men? Garrison? Lomax? Federline? Hornbeck and Tomlin? By the way, Helen, they’ve all been located now, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Officers have been sent out to bring them in. I’ll let you know when they are in custody.’
‘Thanks, Helen. Lansing, about Gleason and his fellow inmates.’
‘I asked around and everyone told me the same thing. Gleason did not talk to anyone. He made it his business not to make friends, or acquaintances even. Jim Abend, the governor, reiterated this. I asked him about what James had said – about Gleason being the embodiment of evil – but he dismissed it. ‘Nine out of ten of the men in my prison are evil,’ he said. ‘What other word can you use to describe their behaviour?’ He then called in one of the guards, Henry Dean, who has been working at the prison for the last 15 years. Dean told me that Gleason did not speak a word to him during the two years he was there. Not a good morning or a goodnight. And he never saw him talking to any of the other prisoners, including the five men on our list.’
‘Did he get any visitors? Letters? Packages?’
‘According to the records no-one came to see him during his time there. He received no letters and no packages. And as far as drugs are concerned he was clean, apparently.’
‘And his death?’ asked Jennifer Curtis. ‘They are sure it was a suicide?’
‘The governor seems certain,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘It was Dean who found him. He went to unlock Gleason’s cell early on the morning of July 7 2000 and walked in to find it dripping with blood. Using a razor blade, Gleason had cut his wrists and the carotid artery in the neck, which explains the mess. On one of the walls, above his bed, he had started to scrawl the words NO REGRETS. But by the time he had gotten to the second R he must have lost consciousness.’
‘Jesus,’ mumbled Curtis under her breath.
‘There was, of course, an inquiry after the death, but they couldn’t trace how the razor blade got into the prison. They interviewed their inmates but nobody owned up. Why would they? My impression is that the prisoners were pleased Gleason had killed himself. For whatever reason he freaked them out.’
‘And there was no indication he was about to do it?’ asked Curtis.
‘No, nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t give any clues or leave anything behind to explain his actions apart from that half-completed scrawl written in his blood.’
‘And the funeral?’ asked Harper.
‘It was arranged by the Evergreen Group, a bereavement home often used by the prison. After the post-mortem Gleason’s body was released and he was cremated on July 17. I checked with the funeral home about who attended. Apart from those who were there in an official capacity – Dean, and a couple of other prison employees, and the staff of Evergreen – there was only one other guest. Ryan, Gleason’s son.’
‘Who’d never visited him in prison?’ It was Harper again.
‘Apparently not. Dean told me that at the cremation Ryan was besides himself. Sobbing. A real wreck. Felt guilty that he’d never been to see his dad, he said. Dean heard that Ryan was never the same again. Took to drink and drugs in a big way. Which I suppose explains his death. I spoke to the sergeant up in Riverside County who was called to the scene. It seems Ryan drove his truck off a deserted road in the mountainous terrain somewhere between Moreno Valley and Banning, and into a 300-foot-deep canyon. When the post-mortem was done his body contained a high level of alcohol. So it seems like -’
‘Gleason not only destroyed the lives of his victims,’ interrupted Helen, in a bid to make herself heard. ‘He fucked over his children too. I spoke to Roberta this morning again. I could tell she was trying to hold it together, but since her visit from Dr Cramer and –‘
‘Excuse me?’ said Harper.
‘You know you asked me to check in on her. Well, I –‘
‘Yes, but you said she had been paid a visit by K – Cramer?’
‘Yes, along with Cassie Veringer. I thought you must have known about it.’
Harper did not say anything. Anger burned inside him, but he couldn’t let his team witness how he was feeling. He would have to talk to Kate later. What the fuck did she think she was doing? She’d always been like this. Curious to the point where sometimes it became a danger to herself. And what was she thinking dragging poor Cassie along, as if she hadn’t enough problems to deal with besides being forced to introduce herself to the daughter of the man who had almost killed her. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.
He looked over to a handsome man in his mid-thirties with silver wire framed glasses and thinning brown hair.
‘Reeves, what’s the latest with the forensic reports?’
‘Fibres have been examined. DNA has been tested. Everything has been fingerprinted. But all the different analyses point to one thing – an absence of forensics.’
‘You can’t be telling me you found nothing? Still?’ Harper’s voice began to rise. He was still angry with what Kate had done. ‘I can’t believe it. There was no forensic evidence whatsoever?’
‘Obviously there was forensic evidence – hairs, skin, blood, bodily fluids and so on – but only so far as it matches the individuals already mentioned. For instance, from under the fingernails of Sara-Jane we found some skin that matched the DNA of her parents. In Dr Cramer’s house we found some hairs from Sara-Jane. In Cassie Veringer’s apartment we found her blood, her skin, and in Jordan Weislander’s home there was –‘
‘I get the picture,’ Harper said. ‘So you think whoever is behind this sick game knows what they are doing?’
‘In my professional opinion, yes. He – or she – has taken a number of precautionary measures to prevent us picking up on their DNA or anything that may link them to –‘
‘Sorry to interrupt, Reeves,’ said Helen, quickly looking up from her computer screen, ‘but I’ve just been sent some information that could relate to the digits sent to Cassie Veringer.’
‘What is it?’ asked Harper, bluntly.
‘The information is from the local police in Guerrero Negro, Baja. They have just found a body of a young woman in some dunes – the Dunas de Soledad. Missing three fingertips.’
‘Fuck,’ said Harper. ‘Sounds like the work of our guy, alright. Get onto them straight away and see what else they have in way of information. If they’ve identified the body or if they have any more forensic information.’ He suddenly felt guilty for the way he had spoken to Reeves. ‘But going from what Reeves has just told us it seems unlikely.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Helen.
Harper felt now was the time to share his information. He started to walk around the room, slowly.
‘As you know since the last time we were all here together one of the men we thought was a potential suspect – Charles Garrison – was murdered on the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Bludgeoned to death with a stone or a rock, it seems. That’s not to say he wasn’t the one. He could have murdered Sara-Jane and killed that young girl in Baja. Indeed, he may have sent Cassie Veringer that package and cut out the tongue of that homeless man and then snuck into Weislander’s home, before finally becoming a victim of crime himself. However, although that sounds like some kind of justice I think it’s highly unlikely.’
He paused and turned to Jennifer Curtis. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Curtis?’
The two of them had been discussing the crimes, going over and over them. Harper knew something wasn’t quite right. They had been making one fundamental mistake from the start. The revised theory, however, was even more disturbing.
‘Yes,’ she said, standing. ‘And from my experience it seems we are dealing with two different types of crime here. Let’s start at the beginning. Dr Kate Cramer finds a dead baby outside her house. Cassie Veringer is sent a package of fingertips. Then Jordan Weislander finds that tongue in his icebox. They are all warnings in a way, symbols of things that could be taken from them if the killer or killers so wished. And all the recipients of these grotesque gifts were intimately involved in the search for, arrest or prosecution of Gleason.’
‘Yes, I think we’ve established those facts,’ said Helen, slightly piqued that Curtis was on her feet and enjoying the audience.
‘Okay, so moving things forward,’ said Harper, aware that the relationship between the two women was hardly a smooth one. ‘Curtis, can you explain the way these crimes were committed? Perhaps that will help us see things a little more clearly.’
‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘It seems as though each of these crimes was executed in an extremely cold, clinical manner. Sara-Jane Gable was taken from her cot and left to drown in the ocean. When Dr Cramer found her there was not a mark on her small body. Interestingly, from looking at the incision marks on the fingertips that were sent to Cassie Veringer and from those on the human tongue sent to Jordan Weislander it seems like there were incredibly precise. In all three cases we are talking about a criminal mind which is not only calculating, but clinical as well.
‘Now look at the case of Charles Garrison, whose blood and brains were found scattered around the scene. That crime was committed in a fit of anger or passion, almost an orgy of violence, if you will. There was nothing distant or clinical about that attack.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Helen.
Harper stepped forwards once more. ‘What we think – and it’s only a supposition at this stage – is that although all of these crimes seem to centre around Gleason, perhaps they are not the work of one man.’ He paused again, and swallowed. ‘We think this bears the hallmarks of two very different killers.’
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as each member of Harper’s team tried to take in the implications of the suggestion. Harper realised that one murder investigation – even with the help of the latest hi-tech forensic techniques – was hard enough. Now, suddenly, they were expected to try and solve two complex investigations, both of which had elements that overlapped with the other. It wasn’t as easy as just trying to separate two mixed up jigsaw puzzles. That would have been hard, but it was achievable. No, this was something quite different. It was the vague, seemingly unknowable common ground between the two sets of crimes that worried him. If there were two killers at large – and the more he thought about it the more he became convinced that what Curtis said was true – then did they operate together? What was their motivation? And what bound them to Gleason, a man who had been dead seven years? As he tried to find the missing link his brain began to cloud. A shot of pain hit his left temple. He couldn’t take any more in today. He had to get some rest.
‘Let’s call it a night,’ he said. ‘I think we could all do with some sleep.’
Before going back to Jules, however, he had to speak to Kate and find out what on earth she thought she was doing. Why couldn’t he simply forget her?
