Itll get worse before it gets better, said Fiona. Unless they pick someone up quickly and it turns out to be nothing to do with the gay scene.
Yeah, right. If AIDS doesnt get you, the bogeyman will.
Fiona called up the menu of her favourite sites on the web and ran her cursor down the list. Kit leaned into her, reading over her shoulder.
I wonder how many peoples favourite places list includes the RCMP, the FBI, various serial killer sites and a forensic pathology discussion group? Kit asked.
More than is healthy, I suspect, Fiona muttered. Towards the bottom of the list was a site that she knew infuriated most of the law enforcement officers she knew. Officially, Murder Behind the Headlines was run jointly by a journalist in Detroit, a private eye in Vancouver who was reported to have had a murky past in the CIA, and a postgraduate in criminology in Liverpool. Given the depth of detail they managed to come up with on sensational murder cases, Fiona suspected there were a few serious hackers involved in putting together the site. Not to mention a very large base of anonymous contributors who enjoyed the prospect of sharing whatever privileged information or hearsay they encountered. Several attempts had been made to close them down on the basis that they were making public information that allowed scope both for copycat killings and for false confessions, but somehow they always seemed to resurface with ever more sophisticated graphics and gossip. Fiona sincerely hoped that the more faint-hearted relatives of the victims never logged on to Murder Behind the Headlines.
Seeing where her cursor had paused, Kit groaned. Gossip central, he complained.
Youd be surprised how often they get it right, she said mildly.
Maybe so, but they always leave me feeling like I need a bath. And they cant write for toffee.
Fiona couldnt resist a smile as she connected to the site. Never mind the morality, feel the semicolons, she said ironically. When she was prompted for her area of interest, she typed, Drew Shand. In the top left-hand corner of the page that unfurled before them, the same photograph of Drew brooding handsomely into the camera appeared. This time, however, the text was very different. Scottish thriller writer Drew Shand has been found murdered in the historic heart of the city he lived in and used as the background to his first gruesome novel, the award-winning Copycat. His mutilated body was found just behind St. Giles Cathedral, only feet away from the pavements pounded daily by millions of tourists. So far, no suspects have been arrested. MBTH hears from a source inside the investigation that there are some very spooky coincidences connecting Shands own death and the graphic violence he turned to good commercial effect in Copycat. The plot of his serial killer novel centres round a contemporary recreation of the celebrated Whitechapel Murders a sort of Jock the Ripper gore fest. The original Jack the Rippers fourth victim was found by a policeman on his beat. So was Shands fourth victim. And so too was Shand. The police surgeon at the time of the Whitechapel Murders, Dr. Frederick Brown, reported that: The body was on its back, the head turned to the left shoulder. The arms by the side of the body as if they had fallen there. Both palms upwards, the fingers slightly bentLeft leg extended in a line with the body. The abdomen was exposed. Right leg bent at thigh and knee. The throat cut across. The intestines were drawn out to a large extent and placed over the right shoulderA piece of about two feet was quite detached from the body and placed between the body and left arm. The lobe and auricle of the right ear was cut right throughThere was a cutthrough the lower left eyelid dividing the structures completely throughThe right eyelid was cut through to about half an inch. There was a deep cut over the bridge of the noseThis cut went into the bone and divided all the structures of the cheek except the mucous membrane of the mouth. The tip of the nose was quite detachedThere was on each side of the cheek a cut which peeled up the skin, forming a triangular flap of about an inch and a half The actual cause of death was haemorrhage from the left carotid artery. Each of these grim facts was annexed by Shand for his novel. And according to our source, they were all present in the murder of the writer himself. Apparently one of the murder squad detectives called to the scene of the crime had read Copycat and was immediately struck by the similarities. It was only when the police surgeon itemized the injuries and the detective went back and checked both with Shands book and accounts of the original Ripper case that the police became convinced that they were dealing with a Copycat copycat. Apparently the theory doing the rounds at police HQ is that Shand was into hardcore S&M sex. They reckon that made him vulnerable to a perp who had fixated on his book and wanted to try it out for real. Shand was apparently a creature of habit his daily routine is outlined on his website for all to see. So it wouldnt have been too hard for the hunter to track him down and, providing the killer was Shands type, it would all fall into place. And of course, the easy thing about killing somebody whos into S&M is they think youre only playing when you tie them up. Doesnt matter that, like Shand, your victim works out down the gym every day, because hes trussed up like a chicken all ready for you. One other detail the cops think he was killed somewhere else then brought to the body dump, unlike both the Whitechapel Murders and the slayings in Copycat But Shands flat was clean, so theyve no idea as yet where the murder actually took place. One thing they can be pretty sure of, though somebodys got a helluva cleaning job on his hands.
REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES
Kit whistled softly. That is seriously creepy shit.
Fiona logged off. Youre not kidding.
So whats your take on it?
Probably much the same as yours, Fiona said. He clearly planned his crime to mirror the circumstances of one of the murders in Shands book. Which in turn mirrors one of the original Ripper murders, apart from the gender of the victim. That hes succeeded so accurately indicates a high degree of control and organization. His intelligence therefore is likely to be significantly above average. He has a highly developed fantasy life and would probably use violent pornography to support that. He would be unlikely to respond well to authority, so if he had a job it wouldnt be commensurate with his intelligence, which in turn would be a source of irritation to him. She pulled a face. But saying that is simply a matter of playing the probabilities.
But what about his relationship to Drew? Is he a stalker, a jilted lover, or some sort of fucked-up wannabe acolyte? What do you think?
She dropped into one of the chairs by the window and stared out at the city. When her answer came, she spoke slowly, feeling her way from sentence to sentence. That is without doubt the most interesting question, Kit. She gave him a quick smile. Hardly surprising that it was you who asked it. That the murderer fixated on the book and copied its crimes isnt particularly remarkable. Often killers who display their victims bodies ritualistically are replicating images theyve seen in pornography or in some situation that was particularly meaningful to them. But most sexually motivated killers would be satisfied with wreaking their havoc on any victim who broadly fitted their fantasy. To have chosen to hunt and destroy the creator of the very fiction that fuelled his desire to kill is curiously personal. And in a crime where depersonalizing the victim is often crucial to the process, its distinctly unusual.
Kit ran his hands over his scalp, his face a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Its always got to be a lecture with you, hasnt it? You still didnt answer the question.
Fiona grinned. I sort of hoped you hadnt noticed. If you pushed me on it, Id probably plump for a stalker who has become obsessed with Copycat. But thats purely speculation.
So is Murder Behind the Headlines, but it doesnt stop you reading that, Kit pointed out. He got up and wandered round the room. Its a bit freaky, isnt it? The thought of somebody following Drew around like a shadow, invisible till the last moment when he shows himself. You never think of anything like that when youre writing. That some nutter is going to read their life story into your words.
Youd probably never write another book if you give that possibility space in your head, Fiona said. Other peoples madness is not your responsibility. Come here, give me a hug.
He crossed to her and gently pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. She turned her face up to his. There are other ways of taking your mind off things, Kit, she said softly as his lips came down to meet hers.
Inside the city walls of Toledo, the evening paseo was in full swing. Around the Plaza de Zodocover, people strolled in couples, families and groups, taking the evening air and catching up on the business of the day as they moved between pools of yellow light. Restaurants, many half-empty now the height of the tourist season was past, served dinner to tourists and locals, greeting their regular customers with smiles and the small change of social intercourse. The bars were doing a thriving trade, their tables full inside and out as older clients enjoyed a digest if with their coffee and the young men checked out the women gossiping and giggling in their separate groups. It was a sharp contrast to the dimly lit alleys and narrow streets that radiated out from the plaza, linking it with the rest of the city.
Youd probably never write another book if you give that possibility space in your head, Fiona said. Other peoples madness is not your responsibility. Come here, give me a hug.
He crossed to her and gently pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. She turned her face up to his. There are other ways of taking your mind off things, Kit, she said softly as his lips came down to meet hers.
Inside the city walls of Toledo, the evening paseo was in full swing. Around the Plaza de Zodocover, people strolled in couples, families and groups, taking the evening air and catching up on the business of the day as they moved between pools of yellow light. Restaurants, many half-empty now the height of the tourist season was past, served dinner to tourists and locals, greeting their regular customers with smiles and the small change of social intercourse. The bars were doing a thriving trade, their tables full inside and out as older clients enjoyed a digest if with their coffee and the young men checked out the women gossiping and giggling in their separate groups. It was a sharp contrast to the dimly lit alleys and narrow streets that radiated out from the plaza, linking it with the rest of the city.