A Killing Mind, page 32
part #5 of DI Sean Corrigan Series
‘Not if you look for extreme sexual violence,’ Anna told them. ‘Look for allegations of wives and girlfriends being raped or seriously sexually assaulted.’
‘There’ll still be too many,’ Sally insisted.
‘Not if we eliminate the usual,’ Sean spoke up. ‘We’re not looking for drunken thugs coming home and abusing their wives or girlfriends – we’re looking for something that stands out. Our man’s most likely a professional – the clean-cut fitness-freak type. This is something that’s in his DNA – not something fuelled by booze or drugs. It’s worth checking.’
‘And given his manipulative nature,’ Anna added, ‘it’s possible he didn’t attack women he was in a relationship with. Instead he may have coerced them into doing his bidding. Convinced them his violent sexual behaviour was merely erotic and exciting, which would have worked for a while, but eventually they would have realized what was happening and left him or tried to leave him, which is where the police may have become involved.’
‘Could he still be in a relationship with someone he’s abusing?’ Sally asked. ‘Someone who’s too afraid to leave him?’
‘It’s possible,’ Anna admitted, ‘but this new level he’s gone to – I can’t help but feel he’d want to be on his own, to live out his fantasies undisturbed.’
‘He’s on his own,’ Sean agreed. ‘He needs the privacy.’
‘But what he needs even more than privacy,’ Anna continued, ‘is recognition and respect. That need seems to be his primary motivator. It comes across very clearly in everything he says.’
‘He’s said, more than once, that when it’s all over he’ll hand himself in,’ Sally reminded them. ‘Do you think he will?’
‘If it ever gets to the point where killing no longer excites him, then yes, he may do,’ Anna explained. ‘How else is he going to let the world know who and what he is? The circus that would follow – the court case, media coverage – it would all be very appealing to him.’
‘Then let’s offer it to him,’ Sally suggested. ‘Next time he calls, we tell him we’ll give him more exposure in the media than he could dream of, so long as he hands himself in.’
‘We’d be wasting our time,’ Sean dismissed it. ‘We can’t control the media and he knows it. Doesn’t matter when or if he surrenders himself, he’ll get all the media coverage he could dream of anyway. We need something else.’
‘Like what?’ Sally asked.
‘He craves respect from Gibran and others like him,’ Sean explained. ‘Sees himself as some sort of top dog.’
‘So maybe we can use that to trap him,’ Sally suggested.
‘Maybe,’ he agreed, hoping she would say the name on his mind before he had to. ‘But who?’
‘We don’t know nearly enough about him to set a trap,’ Anna cut them off. ‘It would be far too dangerous to try it without a better understanding of his state of mind.’
‘Anyone got a better idea?’ he asked impatiently. ‘He’s going to kill again, people. We need to try something different, even if it is dangerous.’
‘Let’s face it, we’re wasting our time,’ Sally told him. ‘Addis won’t sanction a sting operation unless it can be guaranteed to work. He won’t risk his career. It’s not going to happen. We should look into this domestic violence angle Anna talked about. It might give us some names to check out.’
‘Fine,’ Sean reluctantly agreed, ‘why don’t you get on with that. Everyone else should get back to checking CCTV and door-to-door and every other thing that needs to be done, because you can be sure he’s out there right now, looking for his next victim. He’s going to keep killing until it no longer thrills him. He’s making us look like fools.’
‘He has the advantage at the moment,’ Sally told him, ‘but that won’t last. It never does. There’s no need for us to do anything risky. We’re closing in on him, even though it may not feel like it. You know that.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Sean told her, ‘because this one’s only going to get worse. What we’ve seen so far – it’s only the beginning.’ His mobile started ringing. He checked the caller ID and saw it was Kate. For a second he considered not answering it, but the need to hear her voice and connect with something other than questioning detectives made up his mind. ‘I need to take this,’ he told Sally, who took the hint and left, followed by Anna.
‘Kate,’ he began. ‘Everything all right?’
‘There doesn’t have to be anything wrong for me to call you, does there?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You sound tense,’ she told him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Work,’ was all he said.
‘People daring to disagree with you?’ she joked.
‘Something like that,’ he smiled for the first time in a long time.
‘Try to understand not everyone can keep up with you,’ she reminded him. ‘Not everyone knows you like I do.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, they don’t.’
‘Are you really all right?’ she asked again. ‘You’ve been so distant lately. Even more distant than usual when you have a case like this. Is there something you need to tell me?’
‘No,’ he insisted, his skin burning with guilty heat as he thought about the brief moment he’d spent with Anna years before. ‘Just this case,’ he lied. ‘It’s difficult. Can’t seem to get a break.’
‘OK,’ she backed off. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’m here for you when you need me.’
‘I know.’
‘I’d better go,’ she said, a hint of regret in her voice. ‘It’s getting busy here.’
‘OK. Don’t wait up.’
‘I’ll stay up as long as I can,’ she insisted. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye,’ he answered and held the phone to his ear, listening to the connection going dead before dropping the phone on to his desk. ‘Christ,’ he whispered, more aware now than ever that he was flirting with losing everything that was precious to him because of his obsession with finding and stopping the madmen.
The heavy door slammed shut, once again locking him in an interview room in Broadmoor with Sebastian Gibran, but Jackson recovered his composure quickly.
‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ he began.
‘We seem to be seeing quite a lot of each other,’ Gibran replied, smiling – his straight white teeth gleaming, his eyes a deep, piercing blue that sparkled with intelligence and intent. Jackson knew that, if he was free of his restraints, Gibran was capable of killing him before the guards could get the door open – just for fun. ‘I assume this is about the latest killing?’
‘You know about it?’ Jackson asked.
‘I heard about it not much more than an hour ago,’ Gibran explained. ‘Unfortunately, the details were scant.’
‘A teenage girl,’ Jackson added, feeling uneasy and tainted to be discussing such a thing with the likes of Gibran. But the story was too good to walk away from. ‘Killed in the same way as the others.’
‘And how were they killed?’ Gibran asked.
‘You know how they were killed,’ Jackson told him. ‘You don’t need me to repeat it.’
‘Getting squeamish on me, Jackson?’ Gibran toyed with him. ‘Very well – how do you know it’s the same killer? It could be a devoted disciple.’
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘There’s information the police withheld – to eliminate cranks claiming responsibility – information that a copycat wouldn’t know. Something he does to the bodies that was also done to the latest victim. It’s the same killer.’
‘But you haven’t seen the body yourself,’ Gibran deduced, ‘so you must be getting information from somewhere else?’ Jackson said nothing. ‘Someone who knows about the investigation. A detective.’
‘I can’t share that information with you,’ he told him, ‘but my source is reliable.’
‘Then the man you’re interested in has killed three people,’ Gibran said, ‘that you know of. He’s running very hot, our friend, and he’ll need to kill again soon. But no matter how many he kills, he’ll never achieve anything truly memorable. He’s not doing anything that hasn’t been done before, merely repeating the same pattern. There’s no development – no progression. A true artist grows with his work, becomes more expressive, but this is no artist. This is a one-trick-pony. I find him tiresome. He won’t be remembered for long.’
‘Not like you,’ Jackson appealed to Gibran’s vanity. ‘Everyone remembers you.’
Gibran smiled. ‘They remember me for the crimes I’m accused of, but never convicted of,’ he reminded Jackson. ‘But you see, this rather boring fellow aspires to be a creature like the one the public imagine Sebastian Gibran to be, but he hasn’t a hope.’
‘Why?’ Jackson asked.
‘Because the type of person people want to believe I am, is born to do the things I’m accused of,’ he explained. ‘It’s in their nature – from birth. Gods amongst men. They don’t seek fame or notoriety – what do they care what the little people think of them? It’s irrelevant. They know what it is they must do, and doing that is enough. Enough to make their lives extraordinary. I wonder how many of these gods are out there – walking amongst you – killing with impunity.’
‘They get caught,’ Jackson argued. his eyes wide with wonder and fear. ‘Like you did.’
‘Allegedly,’ Gibran reminded him. ‘But what if they kept it simple, covering their tracks by varying their method, their prey. A vagrant here, a prostitute there. Strangle one – stab the other. Who would ever know?’
‘Is that what you did?’ Jackson couldn’t help asking. ‘Until you became more … elaborate.’
‘What I did is no longer important,’ he smiled pleasantly.
‘But you said this new one can never be like you,’ he scrambled. ‘I mean, like the person people believe you are. What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean he wasn’t born to do what he does,’ Gibran explained. ‘It’s clearly not his birthright. This one’s made, like all those other sad fools locked up in here or some other prison. Somebody somewhere made him the way he is now. His father. His mother. An abusive uncle, perhaps, but someone made him. He’s nothing more than a product.’
‘Are you not worried that what you say about him will make him angry?’ Jackson asked. ‘Are you not concerned that in some way you may be driving him to kill even more people?’
‘If it concerns you,’ Gibran smiled, ‘you don’t have to print what I’m telling you, Mr Jackson. Besides, why should I care? I am insane, after all.’
Jackson paused, but more questions jumped into his mind and spurred him on. ‘Aren’t you afraid he might come after you?’
‘That would be difficult,’ Gibran answered casually, ‘with me tucked up in here and him out there having all the fun. But who knows – one day we may share a space, and then let us see what happens.’
‘Given the chance,’ Jackson stayed with it, ‘do you think he’d try to kill you?’
‘Almost certainly,’ Gibran told him, as if it were obvious.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a collector.’
‘A collector?’ Jackson asked. ‘Of what?’
‘Souls,’ Gibran answered in a hissing tone. ‘He collects souls. Look beyond the physical trophies he takes. They are merely trinkets to remind him of all the fun he’s had. It’s their souls he’s really interested in. It’s their souls he wants.’
‘So he wants your soul?’
‘Oh very much, I should imagine.’ Gibran smiled, his eyes burning with excitement. ‘More than anyone else’s in the whole world.’
‘Why?’ Jackson asked again.
‘Because he believes that if he killed me, he wouldn’t just be taking my soul, he’d be taking the souls of everyone I ever killed.’
‘You mean, allegedly killed?’ Jackson reminded him.
‘Exactly.’ Gibran smiled – suddenly calm again – like a warm blue sky after a passing storm. ‘I would be quite a prize.’
‘Yes,’ Jackson agreed. ‘I’m sure you would.’
It was late as Sean pulled up outside St Thomas Moore Catholic Church. He knew he should have gone straight home and grabbed some rest, but Kate would be asleep and he needed to talk to someone he could trust. Father Alex Jones had very much become that person to him. A confidant and a friend. As usual he found both the gates and the church doors open, despite the lateness of the hour. He moved into the quiet peace of the interior of the building – warm in winter and cool in summer. For a moment he envied the calmness of the priest’s life, until he reminded himself of all the burdens people unloaded on to his shoulders. He may not have seen all the terrible things Sean had seen, but he certainly heard about them, and usually from the horse’s mouth.
Sean wandered about the church for a few minutes, deliberately clicking his heels on the hard floor to let the priest know he was there. In his typical, almost supernatural way, Father Jones suddenly appeared, drifting from a shadowy corner in his black clothes and white collar.
‘Good evening,’ the priest welcomed him. ‘I had a feeling it would be you.’
Sean returned the greeting. ‘Tell me, do you ever wear anything other than …?’ He held out a hand as he looked the priest up and down.
‘Well, I am a man of the cloth,’ he replied with a smile, ‘but I have been known to dress down when I’m out running or playing sport. Now,’ he got to the point. ‘What’s troubling you?’
Sean slumped on one of the benches. ‘I wasn’t fast enough,’ he confessed. ‘Someone else has been killed. A teenage girl.’
‘I see,’ the priest said, moving closer. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘So was I,’ Sean told him.
‘And now you bear the burden of another person losing their life,’ the priest sympathized.
‘That,’ Sean agreed, ‘and the burden of finding him before he kills again.’
‘I’ll pray that you can,’ the priest promised, ‘but you shouldn’t blame yourself for not being able to save the girl.’
‘Who should I blame then?’
‘The man who killed her,’ the priest answered bluntly. Sean said nothing as he stared at the floor. ‘This is not the first killer you’ve had to catch. Try to think of all the lives you’ve saved by catching these men. People who don’t even know their lives have been saved – because of you.’
‘That’s a bit too abstract for me, Alex,’ Sean told him, looking up from the floor. ‘My boss, the public, they’re not interested in victims that never became victims. They only care about those who did.’
‘You’re probably right,’ the priest agreed, ‘but maybe you should think about it from time to time.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So what’s happening with this man you need to find?’ the priest asked. ‘Would you like to talk about him?’
‘He’s a mean, vicious bastard, I can tell you that. And he likes to talk.’
‘Talk?’ the priest asked. ‘Who to?’
‘To me,’ he told him.
‘Oh,’ the priest sounded surprised. ‘Do you know why?’
‘He’s obsessed with Sebastian Gibran,’ Sean revealed.
‘A murderer who you caught,’ the priest said. ‘You’ve spoken about him before. I can understand how another killer could be obsessed with someone with Gibran’s notoriety.’
‘He seems hell-bent on getting his respect,’ Sean explained.
‘How would he know if he’d succeeded?’
‘Ever read The World?’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Not on my preferred reading list, I’m afraid.’
‘There’s a journalist who’s been visiting Gibran in prison – asking him what he thinks about the man I’m after. So far, Gibran’s dismissed him as being irrelevant. He’s been rather insulting about him.’
‘That won’t please him,’ the priest said.
‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘Probably not, but it’s a way for him to communicate with Gibran, or at least it’s a way for Gibran to communicate with him. To let him know what he thinks of his most recent crime.’
‘You think he’s trying to impress Gibran?’ the priest asked.
‘Yes,’ Sean told him. ‘But Gibran isn’t impressed.’
The priest remained silent, sensing there was more Sean wanted to say.
‘There was another reason this man wanted to talk to me,’ Sean confessed, looking uneasy.
‘Which was?’
‘He said … he said he thought I could understand what he was doing,’ he explained. ‘That I would understand why he was doing it.’
‘Well,’ the priest surmised, ‘it’s not surprising that he’d expect that from you. He knows you’re a very experienced murder detective, after all.’
‘That’s not what he meant,’ Sean elaborated. ‘He said I could feel what he had felt. When I was at the crime scene – I could feel how it had felt to kill her.’
‘I see,’ the priest replied. ‘And is he right?’
‘No,’ Sean answered, then immediately changed his mind. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘You’re unsure?’
‘I see things,’ he told him. ‘I feel things – at crime scenes, when I’m alone with the victims. It’s like a movie playing in my head, only I can feel it too.’
‘Is it a spiritual experience?’ the priest asked. ‘A connection with the victim?’
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘The connection is with the killer – not the victim.’
‘You see things through the killer’s eyes,’ the priest looked for a logical explanation. ‘An uncomfortable experience, I’m sure, but understandable, given your profession.’
‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘I become them. When I’m at the crime scene I am them. I can feel everything, from their sense of power to their sense of shame.’
‘And it helps you find them?’ the priest searched for something.
‘Yes. Yes it does. It helps me predict them. Second-guess them. Once I know what motivates them – what they’re looking for – what they desire – I can use it against them.’
