Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (3 page)

“Well the body has definitely been moved. There are scuffmarks in the matted blood on the floor; clearly where she has been dragged. And also we have the arms outstretched above her head which tend to reinforce that theory.” She slowly rolled the corpse towards her and examined the purple lividity pattern that covered the back and buttocks.

Looking on, Hunter knew that this was the result of the muscles and organs no longer pumping blood around the body, and gravity taking over.

“The lividity is just starting to blanch. Hypostasis is in the early stages and body temperature readings would indicate she has been here for only a few hours. By the drag marks through the blood I would say that someone has attempted to move this body after death.”

“From the
bodies general description” interjected Grace, “we’re certain it matches that of a fourteen year old girl who was reported missing only a couple of hours ago.”

“Well my initial findings would suggest she was most probably murdered less than three hours ago. She has multiple stab and incised wounds to her head and as you can see a sharp instrument has penetrated both eyes. There is also the deep wound to the upper chest. Despite the considerable amount of congealed blood I can’t say for sure yet if she was dead before or after the wounds were inflicted because I have also found this.” Professor Lizzie McCormack pulled down the neckline of the dead girl’s T-shirt a few inches below the throat. With a latex gloved hand she pointed to several red weal marks around the front of the neck.

“There is petechial haemorrhaging on the skin which is consistent with some type of ligature being placed tightly around the anterior neck. In other words she has been strangled with something approximately five centimetres wide. And looking at the nip and graze marks on the side of her upper neck my first thoughts are a belt of some type. The post-mortem will give us a better indication.” She snapped off her gloves. “I’ve finished now if you’d like to bag up this once dear creature and remove her to the mortuary for me.”

Lizzie eased herself up gently, her hands clasped around her knee joints. “The arthritis is playing me up today.”

*****

The smell of death was something Hunter Kerr could never get used to. Despite the air conditioning in the white tiled mortuary the stench was a nauseating mixture of decaying flesh and stale blood, which enveloped him, and which he knew would be clinging for many hours thereafter to every article of clothing he wore. He popped an extra strong mint into his mouth in an effort to cover the smell. The mortuary also brought back the memories of the time he had dealt with his first cot death. The baby had been roughly the same age as his own first-born and all he had seen throughout the procedure was the face of Jonathan superimposed on the dead child. For days after he had lain awake at night watching the movement of the Moses basket at the side of the bed, and listening to Jonathan’s breathing pattern.

The girl on the metal slab had now been cleaned up and he could now see clearly the horrendous wounds, which had been inflicted on the head of the girl. The dark mushy sockets, devoid of eyes, gave the face an almost surreal appearance. Throughout his career he had never been squeamish when it had come to looking at dead bodies, whatever state they were in, though as a young cop he had never actually liked having to physically handle the cold flesh. That was always one job he had always faced with trepidation, and wherever possible avoided.

Now in her green Pathologist’s scrubs, Professor Lizzie McCormack moved gracefully around the body, her dexterous hands in an organized routine, measuring and moving limbs, picking up and setting down the many shiny precision instruments, each having its own function to perform, whether it be cracking and cutting bone or slicing through flesh. She probed orifices with swabs and scraped under fingernails, meticulously noting and labelling each sample, whilst speaking with her soft Scottish brogue into a metal microphone hanging from the ceiling, poised above the cadaver.

“The body is that of a normally developed pubescent white female, and appearing generally consistent with the stated age of fourteen years,” she began. Moving to the head, she scrutinized, probed and measured the many and numerous wounds. “There is evidence of multiple sharp-force injury,” she continued in a steady voice. After spending some considerable time counting and detailing each of the head wounds she moved to the neck. She pointed at several marks to the Scenes of Crime Officer hovering around her and then stepped back whilst close-up photographs were taken. Then, taking a small surgical scalpel, she began the process of incising the yellowing flesh at the base of the neck and peeled the scalp and face completely over the head to reveal a glistening white skull.

Inside fifteen minutes the Professor had removed the brain, measured and weighed it, and sliced off small samples of the grey tissue for further analysis. She then began moving down the body, examining the many cuts and gashes inflicted on the upper torso. Within a minute she gave out an elongated “Mmmm,” paused, and caught Hunter’s gaze. “You’re going to find this very interesting, very interesting indeed.”

Hunter’s eyebrows cinched together, furrowing his brow.

“That’s grabbed your attention hasn’t it,” she grinned, and began circling an index finger above the cadaver’s abdomen. “I thought at first these were minor stab wounds,” she continued, dabbing her pointing finger at several regular marks gouged into the flesh. “These cuts are nowhere near as deep as the others. The blade has only penetrated the first subcutaneous layer.”

Hunter moved in closer, bending over Rebecca’s body, focussing on the area Professor McCormick was pointing to. He stared at the series of consistent slashes above the navel, unable at first to make head-nor-tail of them; that was until he followed the slow deliberate movement of the pathologist’s finger; then he did. He could quite clearly make out the letters I I V and a number 3 lined across the stomach. He shot his glance back towards the Professor catching her preoccupied look.

“This is a first for me,” she announced. “Well in the flesh anyway, so to speak, but I must say I have seen photographs of similar marking to corpses and read about this some time ago.”
She paused again before continuing. “What you have here Detective Sergeant is the killer’s signature. What you make of it is the same as me at the moment, a series of letters or Roman numerals, and what appears to be the number three.” She took a step back whilst the Scenes of Crime officer moved in with his camera and rattled off a sequence of photographs, its flash highlighting the red marks carved into the marble-like flesh.

“Add to this, the playing card which was found lying across her chest and I can say with some confidence that this is definitely the killer letting you know that this is his or her handiwork. Though given the viciousness of the attack, I am more inclined to favour that a man’s hand is responsible for this.”
The pathologist caught Hunter’s startled look.

“
I would start by contacting other forces, because it’s my guess that this young girl here is not his first victim.” She returned to her examination of Rebecca and just over an hour later she snapped off her latex gloves and turned to Hunter.

“Many of the wounds to the face and head are regular and suggest a knife of at least ten centimetres in length with an angled blade at its point. Many are stab type wounds, which have penetrated both the facial and muscle tissue of the head, and in places the bone beneath has actually been chipped. The most serious of those are to the eye sockets. Here the knife has actually sliced through into the brain and penetrated to an extent of ten centimetres. The downward slant of these wounds indicates a continued jabbing action. A real frenzied hacking at the face.”

Lizzie emphasized by thrusting her arm up and down several times. “My other findings are death by asphyxia due to ligature strangulation. The hyoid bone and the thyroid and cricoid cartilages are fractured, which would indicate tremendous pressure around the throat. The marks suggest a belt of some type and I reinforce this by a buckle mark where it’s nipped the upper neck. The mark is so clear that if you find the right belt I will be able to confirm a match. This is a particularly vicious and sustained attack. From the lack of defence injuries I would suggest she was strangled first and then as she lay dead or dying she was stabbed numerous times to the face and head. There is no evidence of any sexual interference, though swabs have been taken for more detailed analysis. It never ceases to amaze me just how cruel the human race is,” she finished as she turned towards the shower room.

* * * * *

“Earlier today the body of a teenage girl was found in old farm buildings close to the town of Barnwell. Police have identified her as fourteen year old Rebecca Morris and confirm that she had been brutally murdered.”

The hairs at the back of his head bristled and he could feel his face flush. The rest of the news report became just a jumble of words as he stared at his 32” plasma TV screen, which flicked between scenes showing the regional station’s newsroom and the reporter who was broadcasting a short distance from the derelict buildings which he recognised as the farm from which earlier he had had to flee.

That had been the closest yet to being caught.

Screwing up his face he shuddered, feeling temporarily light headed. He had held his breath for far too long as he focussed on the news item. He exhaled sharply and took in a much needed gulp of air.

In the depths of his mind he recalled the past two-days’ events. The night before last, especially in the early hours, and for most of yesterday morning he had hardly been able to contain his excitement. That fervour had increased ten-fold when he had caught sight of her waiting by the bus stop where he had arranged they should meet. As she had climbed into his car he could feel himself getting an erection. He had to pull the hem of his T-shirt over his lap to hide the bulge.

He could recall the conversation as though it had just happened.

“Didn’t think you were going to come.”

“I promised I’d be here didn’t I?” she’d smiled back at him. “Though I don’t know what I’m going to say when mum and dad find out I’ve skipped an exam.”

“That’s not going to matter once we get this portfolio done. A modelling agency will soon snap you up and the money you’re going to earn will take care of any exam marks,” he’d lied.

In the barn he’d watched her change out of her school clothes, blushing with embarrassment, and he’d managed to shoot several frames of her undressing before she had stopped him. She’d placed one hand in front of his lens whilst strapping the other firmly across her chest, covering her pretty pink cotton bra that hid her small yet firm breasts.

He’d laughed and tried to pull her arm away but she’d resisted and got angry.

“I want to go home,” she’d demanded. “That’s it. I’ve had enough.” And she’d put her blouse back on.

That’s when he’d reacted and slapped her across the face. He couldn’t believe it when she’d slapped him back. The surprise of it had made him drop his camera.

He had snatched off his belt without thinking and wound it so quickly around her neck that she had hardly registered what was happening. He had pulled it so tightly that the veins at the sides of her temples had swollen to such prominence that he feared they would burst.

The rest had been a blur and it was over as quickly as it had started.
All he could remember was the aftermath. Standing over her body, staring at the bloodied mess he had created.

H
e also could recollect, as he had surveyed his work, the surge of power, which had shot through him, tightening every sinew in his body.

He had tried to recall if the rush had been the same as before. He had thought that this time it had felt better. His erection had still been there, even when she had breathed her last.

The noise in the background brought him back to the present, and as the vision in his mind blurred he felt his chest burst with a sense of urgency and excitement again and could feel the movement in his groin. He was getting erect just thinking about what he had done.

From the kitchen he could hear the domestic sounds of his mother getting their evening meal ready. He pointed the remote at the TV and switched over to the other local news channel to see if the story was being aired there.

- ooOoo -

DAY TWO: 7
th
July.

With a spring in his step Hunter breezed into the office, still humming the tune of ‘Summer of 69’, the last song he had heard on the radio as he’d parked his car in the rear yard. The first thing that greeted him was the strong heady aroma of freshly percolated coffee. Unbuttoning his jacket he saw that most of the squad were in. Barnwell Major Investigation Team office cum incident room was a hive of activity and around the department there was a hubbub of excited chatter.

Nothing like a murder to get the energy levels flowing, he thought to himself as he shrugged off his suit jacket and made for his desk.

Draping his coat over the back of his seat he levelled another look around the room and dropped down into his chair. He knew the Case Teams would be fired up, because for the last four months the majority of the detectives had been working on some of the district’s old undetected crime files, often referred to as ‘cold case’ work. That work had been laborious - poring over old witness statements and cross referencing suspect interviews and alibis, and finally checking old exhibits for DNA traces, the science of which had not been available when the original crime had been committed.

Grace Marshall sidled up to him and handed him his Sheffield United mug.

Hunter looked and sniffed at the freshly brewed tea and mouthed a grateful thank you; he couldn’t abide coffee first thing in the morning.

Bathed in the warm sunlight, pouring through the large double-glazed windows, which ran the length of one side of the office, Hunter saw that Grace’s tawny complexion glowed more than it normally did, and he couldn’t help but notice that her mop of brown curls looked tighter than usual and glistened wetly in places.

“Running late?” he enquired pointing to her hair.

“Don’t ask. Mad rush. David’s just started his new job this morning and wanted to get in there early to make an impression, so I’ve had to sort out Robyn and Jade’s arrangements for when they finish school this afternoon. They’re going to my dad’s,” she replied turning to a mirror in the office softly patting at her hair. The damp curls were beginning to cascade onto her shoulders. “Do I look a mess?”

He smiled back, thinking of his own similar routine at home, or rather the organisation skills of his wife, Beth, whenever he was working on a murder enquiry. Many had been the time when he had grabbed a quick shower and shave at work when he had worked through back-to-back sixteen hour days, constantly telephoning home and updating Beth with new timescales. She had never complained either when he had finished the day off with a swift beer at the pub with the rest of the team ‘just to wind down’. He was always amazed how placid she was about it all, especially when mentally drained he had got home and just sunk into his armchair not wanting to talk about his day. He realised how fortunate he was to have someone so understanding and supportive as Beth for a wife. He’d known of different reactions from spouses in quite a few other police marriages with many ending in divorce.

“Been there, done that, and no you look fine,” Hunter smiled back.

He could see that overnight the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – HOLMES team - had been busy, going through the few reports currently in existence, and drawing up the ‘time line’ sequence on the white melamine board at the front of the room. A classic school photograph of Rebecca Morris, fresh faced and smiling in her school uniform, was positioned near the start of the line at the time where she had been reported missing. A couple of other pen marks showed where there had been reported sightings and the last indicator showed the time when her badly beaten body had been discovered. Alongside that last mark several gruesome post-mortem images had been affixed, particularly the close-up shots of the curious symbols gouged into her abdomen.

The sudden clatter and scraping of chairs caused him to turn his
head. Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, whom he knew had been appointed as the Senior Investigating Officer – SIO, for this investigation, was making his way towards the incident board at the front of the room.

Hunter had known Michael Robshaw a long time. At an early stage of his CID career he had become his DI, and had been the one who had first planted the seed in his mind to apply to join Drugs Squad. And he had then supported him for promotion to DS five year ago. Hunter not only liked and respected his boss but he also admired how he still kept his feet on the ground despite his elevation in rank. Especially as to how he had maintained his reputation as being a thinking man’s policeman. Whereas some officers who had climbed up the ranks had sold themselves out to Home Office bureaucracy he had kept a common sense and practical approach to today’s policing.

Michael Robshaw swelled his broad chest, removed his spectacles, rubbed his handkerchief around the lenses and then replaced them.

“Ladies and Gents,” he began in his deep and broad South Yorkshire accent.”

A silence registered around the room.

“Rebecca Morris,” he pointed to the school photograph. “A fourteen year old girl with everything to live for. According to her mother she left home at a quarter to eight yesterday morning, wearing her school uniform, saying she was going in to school early to hand in some work and to prepare for an exam which she should have sat at
ten am.”

He pointed to the next time line sequence.

“At five to eight she was seen by a school friend at a bus stop on the main road, five hundred yards from her home. She was still in school uniform. The girl who saw her states this was unusual as Rebecca normally walked to school. She was on the opposite side of the road and she shouted across to her and asked her what she was doing. Rebecca informed her that she had to visit an aunt first to pick up some books for school. We are almost certain from the initial missing-from-home enquiries that this was a lie. She never got to school. The school secretary contacted her mother at ten-fifteen yesterday morning after she failed to turn in for the exam. At eleven, after making several phone calls and finding her daughter’s phone switched off her mother contacted the police.”

He moved along the board. “The next sighting we have is the discovery of her body at two pm yesterday in the barn of a derelict farm between the villages of Harlington and Adwick-on-Dearne, by a local thief who has admitted being there for the purpose of stealing stone. We are confident as we can be at this time he had nothing to do with this murder.”

He broke off a second to lick his dry lips. “She was found wearing a T-shirt and jeans and there was no sign of her school uniform or the school bag she had left home with. A fresh search for those items is to be carried out later this morning.”

He paused and straightened himself. At six foot five he had an imposing presence.

“Several avenues have to be gone down today. We need to know if she actually did get on a bus, and if she did so, which bus was it she got on, and where did it drop her off?
Are there any other sightings of her, in or out of uniform in the lead up to her body being found? Was she meeting anyone? Did she have a boyfriend?” These are all questions I’d like answering by the end of the day’s play.”

The Superintendent pointed to the post mortem photos of Rebecca Morris. “And to add a different dimension to this enquiry the pathologist has highlighted a series of marks cut into the body’s stomach. Professor McCormack has every confidence that these are the killer’s calling card.” He tapped the photographs showing the symmetrical incisions ‘I I V 3’ along Rebecca’s abdomen. “Never in my career have I seen or known of anything like this. The professor says she is only aware of similar cases from her past work in America. Quite clearly we are dealing with someone who is very disturbed, and judging by this calling card, we cannot rule out that they haven’t struck before.”

The SIO paused again, roaming his eyes around the room, scrutinising the faces of the MIT detectives. He continued, “I want to know what the significance of these marks are? What do they mean? Do they have any links to either religion or the occult? What also is the significance of the seven of hearts playing card found placed on the body? Whoever is given that task check the Internet for anything similar. Nothing is ruled in or out.”

Superintendent Robshaw placed a hand, palm flat, against the wipe board. “This is a really vicious murder. The extreme violence and sadistic nature of the attack shows we have someone with a very sick mind. We need this person behind bars as soon as possible. I want no stone unturned. Now let’s get out there Ladies and Gents and see if we can wrap this enquiry up quickly.”

* * * * *

This was one of those moments that Hunter Kerr hated most. He could face angry and violent men without being emotionally disturbed, but facing grief stricken parents, particularly those of young children, had always brought a lump to his throat. Rebecca Morris had become the victim of a crime that haunts the mind of every parent. He and Grace had been given the job of visiting Rebecca’s parents to tease out as much background information as possible, whilst also bearing in mind there was always the possibility that one or both of them could be involved in the crime.

Before that they had driven back towards the scene of the murder. Hunter was pleased to see that roadblocks had already been put in place, and he could see that groups of uniformed officers, some with sniffer dogs, were now combing the area around the derelict farm. Specialists were carrying out fingertip searches, and scythes and rakes were being used to hack back the thick undergrowth in the search for clues. A dirt track running from the rear of the farm into the village of Harlington had diversion signs in place, and a white tent protected the area where Rebecca had been found slain.

He noticed several young people had started to arrive with bouquets of flowers, and small teddy bears. He knew very soon there would be a special school assembly in honour of her memory, where the likelihood that both pupils and staff would be reduced to tears, and he felt an involuntary shiver move down his spine, as he drove away from the scene.

This would not be easy, Hunter thought as he pressed the doorbell on the front door of the Morris home. It was a typical semi-detached house in one of the many council estates in the area, though looking at the PVC door he guessed they had been one of the many who had bought their own home during the Thatcher era.

During the next hour or so he knew that both he and Grace would be constantly questioning and cross-questioning, probing those long forgotten secrets and opening up old hidden wounds, at a time when they were at their most vulnerable.

DC Caroline Blake, who had been appointed as the Family Liaison Officer, greeted them at the door.

“Anything?” Hunter enquired. It was typical opening parlance between detectives when visiting the homes of murder victims. What it actually meant was, ‘Have they revealed or given anything away;’ until Mr and Mrs Morris were ‘alibied’ they were suspects.

Caroline Blake shook her head. “They’re just numb. Still finding it difficult to accept that their daughter is dead.” She showed them into the front room and went off into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.

He was pleased Caroline had been given the job as the FLO. He could remember interviewing her for this position only two months ago and guessed this was her first case. Despite her newness to the job he knew from her background that she would cope admirably.

He and Grace could see as soon as they entered the room that Mr and Mrs Morris had suffered a sleepless night, and the redness of their eyes revealed many hours of crying. As soon as the questioning began it was obvious they were trying to be strong despite the intense sadness and pressure that was consuming them. Mrs Morris broke down repeatedly and tears welled in Jack Morris’s eyes as he spoke of a very happy daughter and showed off felt-tipped messages on cards from well-wishers that had been pushed through their door.

Hunter and Grace questioned them for almost two hours, going over home and school routines and asking about her closest friends.

“Any boyfriends?” Grace explored.

“There were boys who were friends,” Mrs Morris replied “But she had no boyfriends that we are aware of.”
She always checked her room, she added, glancing at her husband.

They could not give any explanation for Rebecca changing out of her school clothes into the T-shirt and jeans she had been found in.

Hunter could see from their returned looks, that was a mystery, which was tearing at their heartstrings.

“She was a typical teenage girl, loved her boy bands, dressing up and playing around with make-up. She was always so cheerful, the life and soul of the house. Rebecca was a very special person who touched the lives of so many people. We don’t know anyone who would want to hurt her like this,” ended Jack Morris, a film of tears suddenly washing over his eyes, and as he hooked an arm around his wife’s shoulder she began to sob uncontrollably.

“Can you let us see her room?” Hunter asked. “Just in case there’s anything which may give us a lead,” he added.

Mrs Morris guided them upstairs and to the left of the landing. There was a plaque on the door – ‘Rebecca’s room’ – more than likely put there when she was just a young child. A more up to date one, no doubt added by Rebecca
, stated ‘KEEP OUT - GENIUS AT WORK’.