Текст книги "The Gift of Death"
Автор книги: Sam Ripley
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
19
Kate couldn’t sleep. Every time she was on the point of abandoning herself to the darkness something made her jump, jolting her back from the promise of forgetfulness. There was no point. She wasn’t going to rest. And she still felt nauseous. She sat up in bed and switched on the light. She checked her cell. It was 1:14. She had three missed calls. An envelope symbol flashed on her screen. She hit the voicemail button. It was from Josh. For a moment, as she heard the sound of his breathing, she hoped he was about to say that Jules was a mistake, that he wanted her back. Then he started to speak.
‘You can’t just leave it alone, can you? Jesus Christ, Kate, what were you thinking? And taking along Cassie? Don’t you think both of them have been through enough?’ He paused as he swallowed his anger. ‘Anyway, when you get this message, call me. I’ll be up late. We’ve got to talk.’ Another pause. ‘Hope you’re okay. Bye.’
She felt a rush of shame flash through her. Perhaps bringing together the two women wasn’t the best of ideas. After all, Cassie and Roberta had both lived through hell. Then her temper kicked in. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? He wasn’t the one who had found a dead baby. He wasn’t the one who had taken delivery of a package of fingertips. Neither had he been raped and nearly killed by a fucking psycho. She reached for her phone and dialled his number.
He answered immediately.
‘Josh, it’s Kate.’
‘You got my message? Honestly, Kate. What the hell do you think –‘
‘Oh, just leave it. You’re full of shit, do you know that?’
He sounded shocked, hurt. ‘What the –‘
‘Can’t stand it when you’re not involved, can you? Hate it when you can’t play Mr Hotshot Detective. When you’re not at the centre of it all. Well, let me tell you there’s a world out there that exists very happily without you.’
‘Kate, I don’t know what’s got into you, but –‘
‘I’ll tell you what’s got into me. I’m angry, Josh. Angry that I had to find a dead baby girl floating in the ocean. Angry that I couldn’t breathe life back into her little cold body. Angry that Cassie opened a box to find a terrible present. Fucking fingertips, for Christ’s sake. I’m angry that that bastard used his daughter like a cheap whore, snatched away her teenage years, and that she’s still being made to suffer, seven years after his death.’ Her voice started to break up, as her words degenerated into sobs. ‘And I’m – angry – with – with you.’
His voice was quiet, tender. ‘Listen, Kate. Do you want me to come over?’
She wiped back the tears with her hand.
‘No, you wouldn’t want to do that. Obviously you can’t.’
‘It seems you’re upset. And –‘
‘Aren’t you at home? What about Jules?’
He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘She’s asleep. But I can –‘
‘Don’t bother. I think it’s best if we don’t see each other at the moment.’
‘But Kate –‘
‘It’s for the best, Josh. Really, it is.’ She took a deep breath, as she tried to regain control of her emotions.
‘And what about the child?’
‘What about it?’
‘Will I be able to see it?’
She bit her lip to prevent the tears from flowing. ‘I’m – I’m not sure. Yes, I guess so, in time. Anyway it’s still very early days. I’m only – ’
‘Kate – why did we ever –‘
‘Let’s not talk about that now. I don’t think I could bear it.’
‘But promise me, whatever happens, you won’t push me away completely. I don’t want that child to grow up without a father. I know what it’s like not to have a dad. And I can tell you it’s not much fun.’
‘Okay, Josh. Okay.’
There was a pause. ‘What did Roberta say? Anything that might be useful?’
‘Not much in terms of new information. I think she feels guilty about what happened. She even said that at times she thinks perhaps she should have carried on living with Gleason.’
‘What?’
‘If he had carried on abusing her then none of the other girls would have been killed. It would have saved a lot of suffering.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I know.’
‘But Kate. I know you like to go off and do your own thing. And I know there’s no point in me telling you not to. But promise me you’ll be careful.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Outside her bedroom Kate could hear someone move down the corridor towards the library. Perhaps her mother could not sleep.
Josh cleared his throat. He wished he didn’t have to tell her. ‘And there’s something you need to know. It looks like we’re dealing with two killers.’
‘What?’
‘Although the cases are connected by Gleason, we think that whoever murdered Garrison is not the same person who killed Sara-Jane Gable, not the same person who sent Cassie those fingertips.’
Josh explained Curtis’ theory.
‘It certainly makes sense,’ said Kate. ‘But I don’t understand what could possibly link them together.’
‘Perhaps there’s no logical reason.’
‘That doesn’t make your job any easier.’
‘Too right.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. That’s the scary thing. I don’t have a fucking clue, Kate.’
She wished she could take his head in her hands and wrap her arms around him like she used to do. But that wasn’t about to happen. Not now.
She willed herself to think, not to feel. She was about to ask a question about the other men who had spent time with Gleason in prison when Josh whispered her name.
‘Kate. I still care, you know that, don’t you?’
She could not speak. ‘I’ve got to go now. Let’s talk soon.’
‘Just one more thing, quickly. I’ve got to give a press conference tomorrow, about the case.’
‘Okay. What you gonna say?’
‘Just the facts. And make an appeal for information. You never know, we might get some kind of lead out of it. But I don’t want to get into Garrison’s death. I want them to concentrate on helping us find this sicko first.’
‘Probably a good idea.’ She hesitated. ‘Also, I wanted to tell you that I’ve been approached by Cynthia Ross.’
‘I hope you told her what to do.’
‘Well I did – until I found out she knows I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’
‘Josh – I don’t want my pregnancy to get out into the public domain. After everything that’s happened –‘
‘Yeah, sure. I agree. But –‘
‘So I’m going to talk to her – just to keep her on my side. She’s agreed not to mention my condition if I do.’
‘And you believe her?’
‘I know she’s untrustworthy and a liar, but – ’
‘As long as you know what you’re doing.’
‘Well, not really. But when have I ever.’
Josh laughed. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow. ‘Night.’
Josh hung on the line, expecting her to respond, but she cut the connection. If she had stayed talking to him she didn’t know what she might have said. She couldn’t trust herself. She got out of bed and walked over to her window. She opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside. The night air was warm, the smell from the garden below sweet and sickly. The moon cast its silver glow over the land outside, creating strange shadows. The city glowed in the distance, an amorphous chaotic mass.
Two killers – maybe more – were out there somewhere. One of them wanted to scare her, hurt her, maybe even kill her. And what about Cassie? What would they do to her?
She knew that outside her mother’s house was a police car. That her every move was monitored and that with the cops’ protection it was unlikely she would ever come to any harm. But how long could she continue like this? She wasn’t going to live in fear. That wasn’t her style. She would have to do something.
She felt a flutter inside her. Surely it was far too early for it to be the baby, wasn’t it? The baby. She tried to think ahead to a time after she had given birth, tried to imagine herself holding the child in her arms. She closed her eyes, willing herself to picture the scene. But there was nothing there but a dark emptiness.
20
She woke early after a fitful sleep, eager to dispel the nightmarish visions from her mind. Gleason was standing by her bed, watching her. She tried to move, but she was paralysed. She opened her mouth to scream but no matter how hard she strained her voice she couldn’t make a sound. He smiled as he stepped nearer towards the bed. He reached out to touch her. She tried to snake away from him, but she remained stationary. Then she felt his long fingers caress her stomach. The touch terrified her. She felt like she was going to swallow her tongue. He began to run a long fingernail down from her abdomen towards her thighs. She felt a spasm of pleasure, a knot of tension, as he began to work his fingers around her. And then a shooting pain that tore into her. She looked up from the bed to see Gleason standing there with her tiny baby, baptised in blood, that he had cut out of her.
She would wake, terrified, then fall back to sleep only for the dream to play itself out again.
At 6:30 am she had had to rush to the bathroom to be sick. Jesus, when was the nausea going to end? Afterwards, she felt drained, but grateful to be awake. She took a shower to wash away the sickly sweat that had drenched her during the night and dressed quickly. She checked on Cassie, asleep in one of the guest rooms down the hall, and slipped out of the gates of the house as the sun started to rise. The police officer stationed outside in the unmarked car wound down his window as she approached.
‘Everything okay?’ said Naylor.
‘Yes, officer. Fine, thanks,’ said Kate. ‘There’s just something I need to do. At the beach house.’
‘Do you want me to take you?’
‘No. I think I need some time alone.’
‘Okay. I’ll be on your tail.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Ms Veringer?’
‘She’s still sleeping inside.’
‘Okay. I’ll let Jurganson know,’ he said, nodding in the direction of another unmarked car stationed across the road.
Kate shivered as she stepped into her car. She started the ignition and pulled off into the empty street. As she drove she tried to assess the situation. Either she could remain trapped in this prison of fear – enduring exhausting nights haunted by horrific dreams and a prospect of her future days shadowed by the cops – or she could take the initiative and do something about it. The latter scared her, terrified her, but what was the option? At least she would actually be doing something to bring this nightmare to an end – not only for herself, but for Cassie too.
But what on earth could she do? She knew Josh wouldn’t let her help with the investigation. Why should he? What could she achieve without that sort of inside knowledge? She didn’t have the technology, or the expertise.
If she did nothing she knew it would be tantamount to giving in. She may as well have a sign on her forehead saying, ‘Kill Me’ and a scrawled message on her stomach saying ‘And my baby too’. Josh was good at his job – he was one of the best in the force – but she had a feeling that that was not going to be good enough. Whoever they were dealing with here was clever, clever enough not to leave behind forensic traces. And what was it Josh had said about the two killers? He had admitted that he didn’t know what to do.
‘And neither do I,’ she said to herself. She thought about turning around at the next interchange. She could go back to her mother’s house, and make them all a breakfast of pancakes and berries. But then what? Nothing would change. She would still be a victim. And that, she had promised herself, that wasn’t going to be her fate.
She pressed down hard on the accelerator. She checked the mirror. Naylor was still behind her. She drove down Santa Monica Boulevard, where traffic was already building, onto the 10 before joining the Pacific Coast Highway. The sight of the ocean stretching out before her unnerved her. She hadn’t been down to the sea since that day.
As she neared the beach house she began to feel fear pricking at the back of her neck. Her mouth was dry. She knew there was nothing inside the house that would hurt her, but she was still afraid. She pushed memories of that awful morning from her mind. Yet there was something else that unsettled her. Something that made her breathing shallow and her skin cold.
She pulled off the highway and drove down the track towards the sea. She got out of the car and smelt the salty ocean breeze. A wave of nausea threatened to rise inside her. She walked down the wooden steps to the beach and watched the swell, trying to imagine a time before all this happened. In the night she had decided she would have to cancel her exhibition. She would call the gallery later that morning and let them know. Sure, they would be disappointed, but she had no choice. Perhaps, if they were willing, she could postpone it. But at the moment she couldn’t imagine being centred enough to take photographs of anything, let alone breaking waves. In fact, every time she saw the sea crashing on the shore she would think back to that moment when she had caught a glimpse of the baby out there in the water. In that instance her life had changed. Suddenly, her work seemed pointless, stupid even.
She heard the bang of a car door behind her. Her heart jumped. She felt her eyes widening with fear.
‘I’ll just wait here,’ shouted Naylor, getting out of his car. ‘Unless you want me to come in with you?’
‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’
She cursed herself for being so easily scared. ‘Get a fucking grip,’ she mouthed to herself, as she unlocked the door.
As she stepped inside the house she wondered whether she could ever move back here. Her parents had bought it in the sixties, with the proceeds from one of her mother’s films. Which one was it? The Dream Denied? Her mom had always known how much she had loved it and after her father’s passing she had insisted on signing it over to her. But how could she live in a house that had been contaminated with death? Even if she had it professionally cleaned and completely redecorated she would never forget the trail of people who had invaded her home that day. A shiver danced up and down her spine as she remembered the series of events of that morning. How could she feel joy at getting pregnant after what had happened?
No, she wasn’t going to think about that. She had something she had to do.
She walked through the living room towards the back of the house, down some stairs to a lower level until she came to an internal room that did not have a window. It was her darkroom.
She stepped into the room, bare and simple, with a long metal trough that ran along its right hand wall. She thought back to the times when she would come home from a day’s work at the laboratory, tense and anxious, and how she would immediately relax when she came in here. She loved the ritual of turning out the lights and sitting in darkness as she teased the spool of film from her camera. And the ritual of washing the strips in chemicals, the rinsing and then, her favourite of all, the magic of the fixing solution, when the image would gradually appear to her.
At the back of the darkroom was another room, more of a large cupboard really, which held the remnants of her former life. She knew what was inside and she hesitated. She felt her throat tighten as she turned the door and pushed. A dry mustiness invaded her nostrils, causing her to sneeze a couple of times. She wiped her nose on her sleeve as she reached for the light switch. The bulb flickered for an instant before it came on.
Arranged around the wooden shelves were a number of clay heads, images of the dead that she had brought back to life. Lifeless eyes stared out at her, reminding her of the cases she had tried to forget. No matter how hard she had tried to push them away the memory of creation remained in her hands.
Under each clay sculpture was a label. Here was KEELINGWARD, HOWARD; PATRICK, BENJAMIN JOSEPH; WREN, CATHERINE; JOHNSON, JENNIFER, names that she had only come to know after she had pieced their faces back together. Before their remains had come to her they were unknown, lost, unclaimed. But she had been able to give each of them an identity, fashioning likenesses out of what little remained. Without her – or at least without people like her – they would still be without names; individuals lost, sometimes unloved, existing in a kind of limbo, a nothingness situated somewhere between sudden death and due remembrance.
The sculptures on display were victims. She had chosen to store the reconstructions of career criminals, rapists and serial killers out of sight in a series of cardboard boxes. Those monsters did not deserve to be seen.
She moved a step ladder and placed a foot on its bottom step when she thought she heard a noise from outside. She felt her heart race. She listened hard. It was just the crash of the waves. Nothing more. She built up a slight sweat as she lifted a couple of boxes out of the way. She placed the ladder underneath the shelves and started to climb. She would only need to raise herself to the third or fourth step in order to reach up to the shelf. That was if her memory served her correctly.
She pushed herself upwards, gripping the sharp metal edging of the shelves as a support. She ran her hands over the rows of boxes arranged on the shelf. She was certain the case would have been filed under his, not her, name – Gleason, not Veringer. Killer, not victim.
She reached out and took hold of the box, pulling it towards her. Steadying herself, she climbed down the ladder and put the box on the floor. She looked at it for a moment before picking it up again and carrying it into the darkroom.
She placed it on the trestle table and eased off its lid. She pushed her hands down into it and felt the form inside. Was that a curve of the lip she was touching? She pictured Gleason forcing himself on those girls – on poor Cassie – and then remembered a fragment of the dream. The one where a clay tongue was pushing itself into her mouth.
Instead of relinquishing her hold – she wasn’t going to wuss out now – she gripped it tightly and brought it out. A life-size bust of Gleason, the image that she had formed with Cassie’s help. She turned the clay model towards her and compared it to the man. Not a bad likeness at all. In fact, she had to admit there was something uncanny about it. There was the high forehead, the square jaw, the large, straight nose, the deep set eyes, the pock-marked skin. Cassie had also felt the ear stud in his right ear and the distinctive scar that ran from the right temple down across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. In addition to the physical resemblance she had also managed to capture something of his soul, or perhaps the lack of one. The model stared out at the world with the same indifference, the same cold blankness that she had witnessed in Gleason.
She carried on looking at the clay model, thinking perhaps that it might offer up some sort of a clue. But Gleason in death was just as uncommunicative as he had been in life. The only time she thought she gained an insight into his character was when Cassie was giving evidence and talking about what he had done – how he had degraded her – that night. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she related how he had sodomised her. Kate had looked over to Gleason to see a sly smirk playing across his face.
‘You bastard,’ she said to herself. ‘You fucking son of a bitch.’
She reached out to take a swipe at the model, only stopping herself at the last minute, hitting her fist on the table instead.
‘I’m going to find you,’ she said through the pain of a smarting hand. ‘I’m going to get you, you fucker. Just you wait and see. I’m on your case now.’
21
As soon as he stepped into the room he was attacked by voices. The fifty reporters gathered in the media centre of the Parker building, in downtown LA, were all eager to get the story. Be the first. Even if some of their theories were way off the mark. If not downright insane.
‘Detective Harper? Can you confirm that this is the work of a satanic cult?’ shouted one reporter.
‘A site on the net quotes a source close to the investigation as saying that Gleason never died,’ said another, a line taken up by a third.
‘That the government kept him alive for experimentation purposes – a brain scanning program to look at the minds of serial killers – and that he’s now escaped. What are your thoughts on this?’
Karen Cain stood at the front of the podium and gestured for some kind of order.
‘Detective Harper will answer your questions in due course,’ she said, turning to him, ‘but first he’s going to read out a short statement. Detective Harper?’
As Josh took a sip of water he looked out at the mass of faces. He scanned his audience for one that looked if not friendly then at least familiar. He recognized the booze-reddened face of the veteran crime reporter Al Denning from the Herald. And there was Katie Williams from the news channel WSLA. And of course the beautiful Cynthia Ross herself. An image of her naked body flashed into his mind. It had been nothing more than a one night stand, he told himself. But what a night. Obviously he had never told Kate. He took another sip of water and then stood up.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman. As you know, my name is Detective Josh Harper, and I’m heading this investigation. I’m here today to try and enlist your help. We are currently seeking a violent serial offender who is extremely dangerous. I’d like to call on all of you to try and do everything in your powers to bring this criminal or criminals to justice.
‘As you may have read, on the morning of January 25 Dr Kate Cramer, former forensic artist who worked closely with the LAPD, discovered a 15-month baby girl in the water off Malibu. She tried to rescue her, she gave mouth-to-mouth, but the baby had already died. The child had been snatched from the home of Joe and Susan Gable.
‘On February 2, Cassie Veringer, a 30-year-old blind woman, received a package of human fingertips at her apartment in Venice Beach. We now know that the fingertips belonged to a one Alison Lowrie, a 19-year-old college student whose body was discovered in the sand dunes near Guerrero Negro, Baja California.
‘And then on February 9, Jordan Weislander, the state prosecutor, discovered a human tongue in his icebox at his home in Pasedena. Again I can name the victim. The tongue was cut out of 57-year-old Jackson Weekes, an African-American drifter who was attacked while intoxicated and sleeping in an alleyway downtown.
‘There has been a great deal of speculation about the case, but let me put the public’s mind at rest. It is beyond doubt that Bobby Gleason, the serial killer who preyed on young women of college age between the years 1992 and 1997, committed suicide in July 2000 while on death row in San Quentin State Prison.
‘Although these incidents are clearly connected to the Gleason case at this stage we are not sure exactly how they fit together. All we know is that each of the individuals were somehow involved in bringing Gleason to justice.
‘We are appealing for help and information. If anyone knows a friend, relative, or neighbour who could be involved with these crimes I would encourage them to get in touch with us, either by calling the 24-hour tip line at 1-877 LAPD. If you wish to remain anonymous you can use your cell and text the information to CRIMES or by logging into the LAPD website at www.lapdonline.org. I can assure you that tips sent using text or the internet will be treated as anonymous and confidential.’
He dropped his prepared statement on the desk and looked up at the crowd. Questions were fired like bullets across the room.
‘Look,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘Before questions I’d like to get a couple of things straight. This is not a TV show. It’s not a film. Sure, the case has more than its fair share of sensational elements, but it involves real people. People like you or me, your brother, sister, wife, husband, partner, whoever. I’d like you to respect that if possible.’
He felt like he was talking into a vacuum.
‘And as for some of the wilder, shall we say implausible theories, I can tell you now that we have no information that the case centres around a satanic cult. Nor was Gleason kept alive for scientific research purposes. Any other questions?’
Al Denning raised his hand.
‘Al, go ahead,’ said Josh.
‘Am I right in understanding that one Charles Garrison – who served time with Gleason in San Quentin – was murdered on his way to New Mexico earlier this week?’
Fuck. He’d made the connection.
‘Are you linking that crime with these incidents?’
The room erupted into chaos. Reporters, furious they had missed out on a possible hidden link, shouted their demands across the room. Finally, Karen Cain had to step in to try and restore some semblance of order.
‘As Mr Denning pointed out we did receive information about the suspected murder of a 45-year-old man. Name of Charles Garrison. Yes, it is correct that Garrison was in San Quentin at the same time as Gleason. But at this stage we are treating this as a separate murder inquiry. Detective Harper?’
Shouts of dissent echoed around the hall as Harper tried to speak.
‘From – from what we can gather, the modes of operation are extremely different,’ said Harper, raising his voice. ‘Garrison was bludgeoned to death in a brutal manner. We believe that whoever murdered him is not the same person behind the incidents involving Kate Cramer, Cassie Veringer and Jordan Weislander.’
Cynthia Ross stood up. She didn’t even wait for Harper to nod in her direction before she addressed her question.
‘Have you got any information about why these crimes are being committed now? Obviously, the stories about Gleason still being alive are nonsense, but for some people out there it is like he’s come back from the dead.’
Where was she going with this?
‘And your question is?’ said Josh.
‘Bill Collins, the father of Gleason’s first victim, always believed that the killer worked with an accomplice, a sidekick who escaped justice the first time round. I spoke to Mr Collins this morning and it is his theory that it is this person who is behind these crimes. That Gleason’s accomplice from way back is responsible and is still responsible.’
The room went ballistic. Jesus fucking Christ. It was exactly the kind of line that drove the media crazy. He could just see the headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers.
‘Please, if we could just have some calm in the room,’ said Karen.
Josh tried to speak, but couldn’t make himself heard above the madness. Then he noticed a movement at the back of the room. It was Kate. What the fuck was she doing here?
‘Oh my God, that’s Kate Cramer,’ said Rebecca Williams, turning to Cynthia.
‘No shit,’ said Ross, furious.
Kate had guaranteed her an exclusive, which she in turn had promised her editor. She’d better not try and fuck her over. She had information on her – information on Josh, too – material that she was prepared to use.
All heads turned as Kate made her way past the reporters and up to the podium at the front of the room.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ hissed Josh, as photographers jostled nearer to get a good shot of Kate.
She couldn’t tell him the truth – that she had a hunch that her presence at the press conference might help draw the killer out of the shadows – and so she ignored him and addressed the crowd.
‘My name,’ she said, trying to shout above the uproar. ‘Is Dr Kate Cramer. I’m here to talk to you about my role in the case. I’ll be making a brief statement, but I’m afraid I won’t be taking any questions.’ She looked at Cynthia and gave her a half-smile, hoping that that would be enough to let her know their interview was still on. The last thing she wanted was for Ross to blurt out to a whole room full of media that she was pregnant.
‘On the morning of January 25 I was by the sea near my home just off the Pacific Coast Highway, taking photographs. As I looked through the viewfinder of my camera I saw something in the ocean. At first I thought it might be a seal. But when I realised it was a child I immediately ran into the water and tried to save her. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts the child was already dead.
‘As you know I was the forensic artist who worked on the Bobby Gleason case. I worked with Cassie Veringer to create an accurate and detailed portrait of Gleason, an image that subsequently led to his arrest. It is my belief that there is somebody out there who has taken Gleason as their hero. That is the person who we need to find. If anybody has got any information about such a person then please, please get in touch with Detective Harper or a member of his team. Thank you.’
As she stepped down from the podium, reporters tried to manoeuvre themselves near to her, but she walked straight past, head down, out of the room. They followed her out of the Parker Center and down to her car, but to every question she answered no comment. In the safety of her car she opened her cell and dialled Cynthia Ross’s number.
‘We still have a deal?’
‘The interview?’
‘Sure, as long as you keep your side of the bargain.’
‘My editor’s waiting for the story. When can we talk?’
‘What about now? I’ll meet you at Coffee Sin on Wall Street in 15 minutes.’
