The Dead and the Dying (19 page)

"It's fine," I say, keen to keep her at a distance. "Please hold back from discussing any of this with anyone, though. I don't want any of the details reaching the public or the media."

"Of course not," she replies. "You can count on my absolute discretion."

I pause for a moment, and finally I decide to test her. "You want to know the weird thing about the code?" I ask eventually. "It turns out, it wasn't even that complicated. I feel completely dumb for having missed it."

She stares at me, as if suddenly she's a little unsettled. "Don't be too hard on yourself," she says finally. "I'm sure it was a great achievement to track down the location, even if you weren't able to be the first to do it."

"Nah," I reply, trying to sound pretty casual about the whole thing, "I'm pretty sure I was just being dumb. I was on some medication twelve years ago, which is why I didn't manage to notice the obvious patterns. Christ, the damn code was so obvious, only a complete idiot would have struggled for any length of time."

"I'm sure that's not true at all," she replies with a hint of bitterness in her voice. "I'm sure the person who cracked that code first must have been a singular genius."

"Maybe," I mutter. "I don't know, it doesn't seem that way to me, but I guess you might be right. Still, I have to admit, I've been on and off medication for years. I'm pretty sure that's why I didn't break Gazade's code. I'd have worked it out years ago if I'd had my head straight. It turned out to be so pathetically easy -"

"I'm sorry," she says, clearly annoyed as she interrupts me, "but I really have to get on with some work. I'm sure you'll be able to find your own way back to the car park."

"Sure, but -"

"Goodbye, Detective Mason," she adds, opening the door for me. "Good luck with your investigation, although it sounds like you won't need it. You seem to be on top of everything just fine."

Once I've left her office, I head outside and start the long walk back toward the car park. After a moment, however, I stop and glance back at the building. It's been a while since my mind was clear enough to have any kind of instinctive insight into a case, but thanks to the lack of medication in my system, I'm feeling as if I'm almost back to normal. The problem is, while everything Dr. Huston said was reasonable and made sense, I can't shake the feeling that she's hiding something. In fact, there's a voice at the back of my mind that keeps insisting that Dr. Huston is very much involved in this whole case, even if she can throw all the alibis in the world my way. After all, she clearly didn't like it when I dismissed the idea that the code was difficult. If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to believe that Dr. Huston herself was the one who figured out the code. Why else would she be so pissed off at the suggestion that it wasn't much of an achievement?

Stopping by the reception area, I grab a prospectus for the university. Flicking through the pages, I find a photo of Dr. Huston. I think it might be time to show this to the guy at the hotel, and check to see if maybe Dr. Huston
was
the woman who checked in and found the diary after all.

Dr. Alice Huston

Standing at my window, I watch as Detective Morgan makes her way across the quad, away from the building. She pauses for a moment to look back this way, and I step to one side, just in case she might be able to see me. Finally, when I look outside again, I spot her heading toward the car park.

My heart is racing. I've read so much over the years about Joanna Morgan. I've pored over every book on the case, and every media reference. Mason was the only person who ever managed to escape from Sam Gazade, and in the process she was able to bring him down and get him handcuffed. It was a quite remarkable feat, but it came with a price. By all accounts, Mason was tortured by Gazade for a day or two, and she suffered some significant injuries. It's also believed that she was on the verge of being cut up when she managed to get away. It's hard to imagine the trauma she must have experienced, and in a way it's admirable that she's up and about, getting on with her life, rather than curled up in the corner of a padded cell somewhere.

In a way, I envy her.

After all, she had a perfect, first-hand experience with Sam Gazade, while the rest of us had to make do with reading about what happened and imagining the horror. I've read the files on Joanna Mason's injuries, and I know full well that Sam Gazade put her through some hideous experiences. She seems calm and pleasant enough, but I'm quite certain there must be deep scars in her soul, pushing their way to the surface. It's simply not possible for someone to go through something like that and come out the other end without certain emotional difficulties. There was a flicker of discomfort in her eyes, but I'm quite certain she has other problems. No matter how hard she tries to be normal, she's basically ruined for life.

Often, I try to imagine what it was like to be tortured in that way. The thought horrifies me, of course, but I can't deny that on a dark level, it's also rather tempting. It's a terrible shame that Mason doesn't have the academic prowess to properly explore the events that almost killed her all those years ago, but I've worked hard over the years to hone my skills of analysis, and I'm more than confident that when this whole mess is over, I'll be in the perfect position to write the definitive study not only of Gazade himself, but of the gender divide among serial killers in general. After all, that's why I started looking for the diary, and it's the reason I decided to commit my own murders. At the end of the day, it's all about the work.

It's also the reason why I'm going to have to bring forward my plans for Detective Mason. Fortunately, those plans are already well-advanced, so it shouldn't take much work to set things in motion. Turning back to my desk, I grab my phone and bring up the number of the one person I can trust to help me out.

Joanna Mason

As I make my way across the campus, heading back to my car, I can't help but notice something strange in the corner of my eye. I glance over my shoulder a couple of times, but all I see are college students going about their daily business. Still, I know I'm not imagining things, so I head toward the library, which has a large glass window running along one side. Looking up at my reflection as I walk, I soon realize that I was right after all.

Someone's following me.

Although I can't make out the person's features in the reflection, I'm certain that it's not Dr. Huston. Whoever this is, it's someone younger and faster, and it's someone who - to be honest - is doing a pretty bad job. To test her, I stop and look over my shoulder, and I catch a brief glimpse of a figure ducking behind a wall. It's kind of comical, in a way, to see how completely inept this person is at following me, but at the same time I know I need to keep my guard up. After all, comically inept people can still turn out to be dangerous, and it can't be a coincidence that I seem to have acquired this extra shadow just as I emerged from Dr. Huston's office.

Heading past the library's main entrance, I turn left and walk quickly down a wide set of steps. I'm certain that I'm still being followed, but there's no point turning to check again. Preferring not to scare my pursuer, I decide that a better option would be to confront him or her directly. As I walk quickly around a blind corner, I stop and turn to look back, waiting for someone to hurry into view. After a moment, I realize I can hear footsteps getting closer, and finally a harried-looking young woman hurries around the corner with such speed that she almost slams straight into me.

"Hey!" I say, forcing myself to smile. "Were you looking for me?"

The girl stares blankly at me, as if she's frozen in terror. It's kind of amusing to see just how shocked she is to be confronted, but the truth is, she was terrible at following me. Some people are just really bad at being subtle.

"You want to talk?" I continue. "I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to be tailing me back there."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she stammers, before hurrying around me and starting to walk away. She says something else, but it's hard to decipher her muttered tones. I'm not sure whether to be worried or just a little sad. After all, she seems to be a nervous wreck, and she's blatantly uncomfortable. In fact, she's pretty much the most socially awkward person I've ever met, which immediately makes me want to dig deeper and find out what she wants.

"My name's Joanna Mason," I say, keeping up with her as she tries to get away from me. "Detective Joanna Mason, actually. I'm sure you'll understand that I tend to get curious when someone starts following me. I don't know, maybe I'm just paranoid, but you stuck with me nearly all the way from Dr. Huston's office, and now you seem really keen to get away from me. That's quite a turnaround -"

"I wasn't following you!" she shouts, turning to me with a look of pure rage in her eyes. After a moment she seems to settle down, as a couple of passing students give her a weird look. "I don't get why people think they're being followed all the time when sometimes other people are just going the same way. It's not like I've got nothing better to do." With that, she turns and starts walking away, but she drops a couple of books she was carrying and, panicked, she stops to pick them up.

"Here," I say, leaning down to help her.

"No!" she shouts, pushing me away before scooping up the books. "I don't need your help!"

"Yeah, but -"

"No!" she snarls.

"Fine," I reply, spotting that she also dropped her wallet. Unable to resist the temptation, I pick it up and, before giving it back to her, I take a quick look at the name on her university I.D. card. Paula Clarke sure seems like a nervy, kind of sketchy student, and as she snatches the wallet from me, it's clear that she's desperate to get the hell away from this encounter. "If you want to talk to me," I continue, "you can just approach me at any time. Even if you're not ready right now, you can contact me via -"

"I don't want to talk to you," she says, barely able to maintain eye contact.

"But if you do -"

"I won't!"

I pause, realizing that something's really wrong with this girl's head. "Just keep it in mind," I add, figuring that this might not be the right moment to force the issue. "And next time you try following someone, see if you can do a better job, 'cause that, back there, was pretty fucking awful. You really need to go to a better spy school."

"Fuck off," she mutters, before turning and hurrying away, almost bumping into the wall in the process. I watch as she hurries up a set of steps, and it's amusing to note the way she glances over her shoulder to check whether I'm still staring at her. I am, of course, and she scurries around the next corner. I stand and wait, convinced that she won't be able to resist one final glance back at me, and sure enough she suddenly peers back around the corner. I wave at her, and she ducks out of sight. There's something seriously amiss with that girl, and since I don't believe in coincidences when it comes to this kind of investigation, I figure it's time to do a little digging into Paula Clarke's background.

Dr. Alice Huston

"I saw you talking to her," I say, as Paula hurries into my office. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Nothing," she mutters, although it's clear that she's concerned about something. One of the useful things about Paula is that she's very bad at hiding her emotions. When something's bothering her, it's plain for all to see, and right now she's very much on-edge. In fact, she's so highly-strung, she can't decide where to sit; instead, she starts pacing around the room, and after a moment I realize that she's muttering to herself under her breath. I'm starting to think that she might be a little
too
damaged, and that recent events have traumatized her, in which case I need to find a way to hold her together.

"I didn't tell you to talk to Detective Mason," I say calmly, as I shut the door and walk over to my desk. "You mustn't take the initiative like that again. It's dangerous. Did you hear me tell you to go and run after the woman like that?"

She shakes her head.

"I need you to follow my orders," I continue. "There'll come a time when you need to think for yourself again, but that day isn't here yet."

"I wanted to see what she was doing," she says, barely able to make eye contact with me. "I wanted to know what she was doing here, and why she'd been to see you."

"Didn't you think you could just ask me?"

She pauses.

"Why was it so important?" I ask. "Don't you trust me, Paula? She was leaving my office. She was probably just headed to her car until you started putting on that little show. All you did was draw attention to yourself." Sighing, I watch as she hurries over to the door, at which point she turns and comes back toward my desk. "Paula, calm down," I continue, walking around to join her. "You're a mess, but it's okay, because you've got me to help you. This is why it's so fortunate that I'm on your side. Without me, you'd probably already be under arrest for all those murders."

"Fuck," she mutters, sounding a little breathless. She's looking down at the floor, with her face mostly obscured by her hair. I still feel as if, in some way, I'm losing her. I need to find some way to tie her more tightly to my cause, to ensure that there's no risk of her loyalty being broken.

"There's not much more work to do," I say, walking over to her. "You don't have to hold it together for much longer, you know." I wait for a response, but she just continues to stare down at her feet. I swear to God, her personality is like a glass vase that was shattered long ago; someone tried to crudely hold it together with tape, preserving its basic shape, but now the pieces are threatening to fall apart again. It's not a matter of
if
she breaks, it's simply a question of
when
, and it's the timing that I need to control. This needs to be a slow, carefully-managed disintegration.

"Look at me," she says, holding out her hands. "How could I have killed those people? I can't even follow someone without being spotted."

"I imagine you've been lucky so far," I reply, trying to maintain a calm, reassuring tone and hoping that I can make her settle for a while longer. It's clear that I'm going to have to accelerate my plans. "Don't underestimate yourself, Paula. I think you're capable of more than you realize."

She looks over at the door, as if she wants to leave.

"Look at me," I say firmly.

She turns and stares at me.

"I'm going to help you," I add. "It's okay, Paula. Whatever happened in the past, nothing can be changed. You killed those three people, and that's just a simple fact. I know you were planning to copy each of Sam Gazade's murders in the right order, but I'm not sure you should stick so doggedly to that plan. I think it's time to be flexible."

"I didn't kill anyone," she whimpers, with tears in her eyes.

"You
did
," I reply firmly. "Let's not get into this discussion again -"

"I couldn't!" she says, raising her voice. "There's no way I could do that!"

"Then what were you doing in the old man's house when I found you?" I ask, carefully concealing my exasperation at her continued refusal to accept what I'm telling her. "Why were you holding that knife?"

"I wasn't
actually
going to kill him," she replies, her voice trembling. "I was just angry. I wanted to see if I could do something like that, but I wouldn't have been able to go through with it. I would have just turned around and walked out again."

"No," I reply, "you wouldn't. Paula, I can only help you if you're willing to face the truth about yourself."

"It's not the truth," she says, trying to get to the door. I push her against the desk, holding her in place. "Let me go," she whimpers, struggling to get loose from my grip. "Please, I don't want to be here."

"You'll get caught," I say, keeping my voice calm and quiet. "Do you know what they do to serial killers, Paula? They execute them. Do you think that just because you're a woman, they'll keep you alive? They'll strap you down like all the rest, like they're going to do with Sam Gazade, and they'll pump you full of drugs, and you'll die. Do you understand? There's no doubt here, Paula. They'll execute you, and there'll be morons outside the prison on the night you die, cheering them on!"

She shakes her head, but there are tears trickling down her cheeks and she clearly knows that I'm right. She's still trying to get free from my grip, but her struggles have become a little more muted. I'm convinced that I'm on the verge of engaging her complete compliance, but I'm not sure how to seal the deal. I need to know for sure that I can trust her.

"If you walk out of here now and refuse my help," I continue, "you
will
be caught. And because you're a woman, you'll be treated like even more of a freak. Is that what you want?" I pause, as she stops struggling completely. "You'll be locked up for years while they go through your case. You won't be able to look after yourself in prison, Paula. You'll be used by everyone in there, and soon you'll be begging for death, but they'll drag it out, over and over again, and it'll be years before they finally lead you along that corridor to the execution chamber. And then there'll be relatives of your victims watching as the thick leather straps are put around your wrists, and some asshole will ask if you have any final words, and then you'll watch as the drugs are pumped through clear plastic tubes, directly into your body. And then, Paula, your body will start to fail, and you'll start to close your eyes, and -"

"Stop," she whimpers.

"It's the truth!" I say firmly, raising my voice for a moment. "There's only one person in the world who understands you, Paula, and who can help you, and it's me!"

"I just want to be alone," she says, trying once again to get to the door.

"Don't be an idiot!" I reply, forcing her against the desk. As she tries to get away, I'm forced to grip her more and more tightly, and finally one of legs presses hard against her crotch. She continues to struggle, but after a moment I realize that she's pressing back against me, as if the pressure against her genitals is pleasurable. Without saying anything, and still holding her tightly in case she gets away, I push my leg harder against her, and I realize that although she's still struggling, she's moving in a slightly more rhythmic way. There's absolutely no doubt now that she's gaining sexual pleasure from pressing her crotch against my leg, and although I'm shocked, I decide not to pull away. This is a fascinating response from her, and I'm keen to see if she'll maintain the encounter all the way to orgasm.

Finally, after jerking the crotch of her jeans against my leg for a few more seconds, she lets out the faintest gasp, and then she falls still. She's blushing, and she looks shocked.

"I'm going to tell you what we're going to do," I say, moving my leg away from her crotch. I'm stunned and surprised by what just happened, but I figure the best thing would be not to acknowledge any of it. The last thing I want is for this whole mess to blossom into some kind of pseudo-sexual encounter, because sex has no place in my plan. Besides, I have absolutely no sexual interest in girl, especially those who are as pathetic and fragile as Paula Clarke. "You have to listen very carefully to me, Paula. Can you do that?"

She looks directly at me, and I can see the confusion in her eyes. To be honest, I don't entirely blame her. It was never my intention to give her an orgasm, but the effect was clearly powerful. I have no intention of doing the same thing ever again, but she certainly seems to have calmed down.

"Answer me," I say firmly. "Tell me you're listening. How am I supposed to know, if you won't tell me?"

She doesn't reply.

"Tell me!" I say again, and this time I reach out and slap the side of her face hard. Realizing that I'm losing control, I walk round to the other side of the desk.

"I'm listening," she says, her voice sounding soft and calm. She's sitting on the edge of the desk, facing away from me, and after a moment she reaches up to her face, as if she can still feel the sting on her cheek.

"We're going to forget about replicating the other Sam Gazade murders," I continue, as I start to realize that Paula seems more compliant now. Maybe that little accident just now wasn't so bad after all. "We're going to move on to the final phase of the whole project."

"What project?" she asks, turning to me.

"That's what this is all about," I continue. "Don't tell me it doesn't make sense to you, Paula. I'm a teacher, and you're a student, and we're working on this together. It's a study. Don't you understand? We're studying gender and crime, and we're going to see how the world reacts when a woman commits the same mutilation-based serial murders that were once committed by a man. This is pioneering work, and one day people are going to recognize that we were ahead of everyone else. We're geniuses, Paula. I had the vision, and you're going to be my assistant."

"But killing people -" she starts to say.

"Is the only way we can get proper results," I reply firmly, realizing that I need to bring her into my plans a little further. "The world is full of people who sit around and try to guess how it feels to kill, and who create elaborate hypothetical models in an attempt to work out what would happen in this kind of situation, but we're the only two people who are brave enough to actually
do
it. We're like the Masters and Johnson of criminal study, and by the time we're finished, we're going to have an unprecedented insight into the way the world works. This isn't just about sociology or criminology, Paula. It's about men and women. It's about gender. It's about the power of the gaze. You just have to hold your nerve and keep cowardly thoughts from your mind."

She stares at me, and I can see that I've managed to win her around. Of all the things that finally bound her to my plans, it turns out I just needed to let her hump my leg. In some ways, she seems to be a very simple young woman.

"So the final part of the project involves replicating the final part of Sam Gazade's original killing spree, and fortunately, we have access to the same victim that he used. We have access to the woman he tried, but failed, to kill."

"You mean -"

"We can't wait any longer," I say, feeling a flash of nerves in my chest as I realize that the project is close to completion. "We have to do it tonight. We have to capture Detective Joanna Mason and recreate everything that Gazade did to her. And then..." I pause for a moment. "And then we can start writing up the results of the most ambitious academic study that has ever been conducted. I'll even let you share the credit. Unfortunately, we must all sacrifice our sense of well-being from time to time, but all that really matters is the work. In the end, it's the work that lasts, longer after we're gone."