The Creep (12 page)

Stan Barron, forensic psychologist extraordinaire, was about to take great delight in detailing out the psychological profile of the monster the two of them were so desperate to track.

Barron pushed aside the police files, sickening photographic evidence, pathologists' reports, forensic details and documents that were strewn all over his large oak desk, he picked up about twelve sheets that were stapled together,
glanced through them as if to speed read them, then began, as if he'd
memorized
the document:

"The guy we are looking for often leaves 'mixed' crime scene characteristics; he often uses restraints, i
.
e
.,
he ties his victims up, therefore he's organized; but many times he leaves the bodies in full view, allowing them to be found, therefore he's disorganized."

Mainwarring made as if to interrupt or ask some question, but Barron said, "Don't break my train of thought. Let me give you the whole thing,
then
you come in." He sipped his coffee then added, "Many times he 'de-
personalizes
' a victim, i
.
e
.,
mutilates their bodies. That again means he's disorganized, but he takes the murder weapon with him, therefore he's organized. I'm not trying to baffle you with science, Howard - I'm trying to make a point that this guy you are looking for, we are looking for,
'on
balance' is organized."

"He's probably an American, but could be a Brit who knows America well and travels back and forth. We haven't come to this conclusion lightly. One of the major aspects of these killings is the periods of non-activity, and we're convinced this is when the Creep's out of the country. The other thing of course, that we have discussed many times is the sim
ilari
ty betw
e
en the killing here in England and many that have gone down in the States. The agents at Quantico are doing a lot of work on their multi-million-dollar computer, to see if they can get a match with any of their serial killers that stop and start their activities in the States, in the corresponding periods.

"Statistics profile him as white, average appearance and to be of the school 'drop-out' type, possibly unemployed, maybe even self-employed. More likely than not, badly abused as a child."

Barron glanced through his papers once more, hesitated to take a gulp of coffee, then continued, "I think we are looking at a prolific thief and a world class liar, but over the next few weeks we'll be doing even more fine tuning on the profile, when I hope to be able to deliver to you everything except his name and telephone number
,
but it'll be a damn good starting point.

"He's mature, in his mid-forties, maybe early fifties. He's bi-sexual and he's going to kill again and again until he's apprehended. This guy has been, and still could be, into booze and drugs in a big way, probably has a large pornography collection and his sadistic behavior points to severe mental problems.

"Take my word for it, Howard, this guy is constantly on the move, knows how to create rapports and is one clever son-of-a-gun and one mean son-of-a-bitch.

"Anyone who consistently mutilates their victims, slashes their breasts, cuts their nipples off or decapitates them is usually doing so through some sexual expression. This guy sometimes collects 'souvenirs' and that's another
...
"

There was a knock on the door and an officer entered.

Stan Barron was cut short; an emergency had cropped up and Mainwarring had to go into another meeting, immediately.
Some
very important results had just come in from the Home Office Forensic Laboratory at Chepstow.

They agreed to meet for lunch together at El Vino's wine bar, on Fleet Street, whereby Stan could deliver the rest of his profile over a few glasses of red wine.

Fucking creep,
thought Mainwarring,
this guy's a fucking CREEP
, as he closed the door behind him.

Harvey had the full attention of his I.O.H. franchisees.

"We've all had the experience of smelling a perfume, and the whole experience and feeling and vision of being with a particular person comes flooding back to you.

"You walk past a bakery, smell the fresh bread and get mentally whisked back to your childhood - you see the complete scenario in great detail. Or you may hear a song on the radio, and say, 'That's our song.' That would be an auditory anchor.

"Of course the alcoholic is tied to drinking and reactivating certain feelings and emotions at a given time in his or her life. Then, in the future, every time he drinks, he triggers off those bad feelings and emotions and he tries to drown them with booze.

"I had a client, who, twenty years ago, went to a party with a date. His date was fat and ugly. When he was there he met a gorgeous girl, but because he was with 'Millstone' he never
asked the gorgeous one for a date. He did however drink himself into oblivion and continued to do so for the next twenty years. Unbeknown to him, he was firing the anchor of these bad feelings and emotions.

"The easiest way to
effect
the cure is to hypnotize the client when he's absolutely sober and start a
n
imaginary
drinking session with him. Use water in a vodka bottle or cold tea in a whiskey bottle and go through the whole scenario with him of getting drunk. Then
,
when he's tapping into all those negative feelings snap him out of the altered state and allow him to access the negative thoughts and feelings of the past events. This will be the
first time in his life that he has been able to access those particular feelings, emotions and pictures when he's in the sober state.

"Of course the other thing I do is to collapse his anchors. I access all the negative emotions and write them down on a sheet of paper, I audibly read out to my client what is on the list. Then I harshly slap the paper into the client's right hand. Then I access all the good feelings my client has when he's sober, about what he'd like to do with his future, that sort of thing and I gently read these out aloud and gently place them in my client's left hand. Then all of a sudden I take his two hands together with all these sheets of paper and bring them clapping together.

"I effectively collapse his anchors!

"This will be the first time the client has ever been able to access both the negative and the positive together when he's sober. He'll usually walk around for a while in a complete daze while
he's processing all this new information. After a day or two he'll be fine. He'
ll
be able to take a drink, and stop at one. He'll be able to control his drinking habits and be a social drinker like the rest of us.
Hic."
Everyone laughed.

Often Harvey spent many hours piecing together several of Bishman's regressions, that when edited and scripted, completed a story. This had to be done if he was to get inside Bishman's head
,
which he fully intended to do:

Bishman's mind was working overtime. He knew his junkie customers wanted more dope.
Heroin to be precise.
They still owed money on the last delivery and it was a better than evens chance that they wouldn't be able to pay for that. He also knew it was futile arguing with fuckin' junkies. He sensed trouble.
Someone is going to get shafted here and it ain't gonna be me,
thought Bishman as he finished off his soda. He was sitting in a coffee bar on Lexington and Fourth Avenue.

"I'll pay cash for my gear, right here and now, buddy, there ya go, two hundred bucks." Bishman handed over four fifties and in return got some heroin and grass. The heroin was in little phials, the grass was wrapped in miniature Ziploc
bags. He was going to use the grass himself and sell the heroin to his customers in Brooklyn.

"Gimme another five bucks
,
mon
, and take this for yourself." The Jamaican drug dealer passed him a tiny slither of blotting paper the size of a sequin with a funny little picture of Mickey Mouse on it.

"Fuck you pal, you gotta' be shittin' me. Five bucks for that, you must be fuckin' crazy." Bishman pushed back the tiny tab.

"That's acid, mon. With that you'll fucking fly, mon. Believe me." The candy man pushed it back.

Bishman popped the wee paper acid disc in his mouth and slid over an awfully crumpled, dirty, five-dollar bill.

"You'd better be fuckin' right, pal. If I don't fly you'll be the first motherfucker to hear about it. Yeah.
Boogaloo."
Bishman bugged his eyes.

"Hey cool it, mon. You'll fly to the fuckin' moon." The
Jamaican
grinned, showing a mouth full of gleaming white teeth.

Bishman stuffed the gear into his corduroys and strolled off. He was either going to double his money with this shit or he was going to have fun. He really didn't give a fuck either way. He knew getting money out of junkies was harder than trying to shove butter up a porcupine's ass with a red hot poker.

He was going to Brownsville, which is a particularly tough part of Brooklyn. Brownsville is where the Torture Gang originated, as well as the infamous Murder Incorporated and the
Undertakers Gang. This was one rough area and Bishman's customers were vicious bastards. It was going to be a tough visit - he felt a little weak, so he decided to eat first. He thought he'd drop into McDonald's for a coffee and a burger, and there he started to formulate a plan.

Bishman was thinking what to do, when his Big Mac suddenly started moving across the table. As he stretched out to catch it, it opened up like a mouth that had long, sharp, gnashing teeth inside, that started snapping at him.
Shit!
The burger had turned into a Gremlin. Bishman went to grab it again but his burger grew legs and it started to claw at him.
What the fuck goes on here
..."
Bishman looked into the green and red eyes of the Gremlin as it spat smoke and flames at him. It was crazy, vicious. He decided to leave, before he got gobbled up.

"Jesus H. Christ."
His shoes were full of water, his feet were soaking wet. Every step he took squelched. He sat on the step of McDonald's to empty his shoes but there was nothing in them. Shit!