Vodka Doesn't Freeze (21 page)

'I
T'S POSSIBLE THAT
you're describing a mission-oriented serial killer.'

As agreed in their first meeting, the taskforce had decided to consult a forensic psychiatrist. Jardine had arranged the appointment, and because the doctor was very busy and they were pressed for time, they'd agreed to meet on his turf, the university campus at which he taught part-time.

Jill shifted a little in the lecture-theatre chair and focused upon the doctor's words.

'You see, there are several types of multiple murderers,' the psychiatrist continued, instructing them as he might his forensic science and psychology students. 'Australia uses the American FBI system developed in the eighties to classify homicides by patterns and motives.

'Most mass murderers are sexually motivated, but I don't see a lot of evidence for this in these cases. Rather, your perp might consider they are ridding the world of evil – hence the "mission-oriented" label. The aim here is for power, control. Sometimes they see themselves as God. Of course, the motive could still be revenge, as you've speculated, but the killer may also see their acts as benefiting society in some way.'

Jill coughed quietly. No-one needed her opinion on that point right now.

'Given that the murders have been committed in such a short time period,' said the doctor, 'it could be the case that this is a spree killer, someone who is on a non-stop rampage, with little cool-down time between murders. Do you have any evidence that this person could have struck at any other time or place?'

'No,' answered Jardine. 'As far as we're aware, this is it, although we're in the process of checking past homicides across the country.'

'Although it's a rather arbitrary distinction,' the doctor continued, 'a serial killer differs from a spree killer in the amount of cooling down time they have between hits. The serial killer might wait weeks or months before killing again, and can function well between kills in an ordinary life. The spree killer, on the other hand, is in a frenzy, spending all of their waking hours planning and enacting the next death.'

'Does it really matter what we call this son-of-a-bitch?' Elvis was perched on the edge of a desk in the auditorium. Jill had spent a couple of moments wondering whether this was in order to be positioned at a greater height than the rest of them – a power play – or because his belly couldn't fit under the desks permanently attached to the chairs. Watching him move a little as he spoke, she suspected the latter.

'Well, you're right to some extent,' the psychiatrist re-sponded. 'Labelling your chap as a serial or spree killer is not terribly important.' Jill saw Elvis smirk. 'However, finding the right motivation for these acts is essential, in my view, for hunting him down.

'As it's your task to catch this fellow, I'll run through a list of the motivations for multiple murders, and together we'll consider the appropriate taxonomy.'

The tall, slim, greying man moved to the whiteboard at the front of the room.

'Before you begin, Professor Mendelssohn' – Scotty was crammed into one of the little desks, and he'd actually raised his hand like a schoolboy – 'it's just that you keep saying "fellow" and "chap", and we're not positive it is a bloke doing this.'

Jill had so far only told Scotty about the distinctive cigarette butts she found in the park next to Crabbe's home, the type Mercy smoked. She wanted a chance to better understand what Mercy was up to before she sicked the dogs onto her. She didn't want to believe that Mercy could be responsible for the killing. It was more than that, though – how
could
she be responsible? The violence was so extreme, and Mercy just did not seem physically large enough.

'Quite right, young man,' said Professor Mendelssohn, 'we must keep an open mind. There have been female serial killers, although they are, of course, much rarer than their male counterparts. And so, keeping that in mind, we'll consider motivation.'

Up at the whiteboard, now in full lecturer mode, the psychiatrist listed the major motivations for multiple murder and gave an example of each. Jill noted them down on her lecture pad, watching Scotty and Harris do the same. Elvis gave a derisive snort in her direction when she started scribbling quickly. Her notes were always sought after in the academy; she tried to include the doctor's comments and his written words. She noted down:

Possible motivations:

Power: Killing to satisfy the need for control and dominance. Can include thrill killings and sexually motivated killing (the most common). Might be playing God, or obsessed with military might or justice. Includes the mission-oriented killer who kills for a cause, like ridding the world of evil, saving humanity. Although they might see themselves as altruistic, underneath they're serving their own purposes. E.g. taking back control over others because they have little in the rest of their lives; trying to deny a part of themselves that they identify with their victims (taking control over their own intolerable urges).

Revenge: The killer is trying to get even with people who've hurt him/her. Sometimes their victims may not have hurt them directly, but they've associated them with someone who has. They blame the victims for all the problems they've had in life.

Loyalty: Killing is seen as a necessity. E.g. cult members who kill when directed to by their leader; father killing his children after killing their mother so they don't have to suffer the pain of her death.

Profit: Killing for gain, sometimes for money, but most often to eliminate witnesses to crime.

Terror: A way of silencing others and creating terror amongst a group from which the victims are drawn.

'That's really helpful, Professor Mendelssohn,' said Jill when he turned to face them again. She meant it. She'd been to lectures on this topic, of course, but to have these motivations spelled out while they were working through the case was opening her mind to fresh thinking.

'As you know,' she continued, 'we have evidence that all of the deceased were involved in paedophilia, and were possibly part of an organised network of pederasts. We have been thinking of this as probably a revenge thing: one of the child victims grown up and getting payback. It sounds like you think this could be more motivated by power than revenge?'

'Please understand that your hypothesis may still be correct. Profiling a killer is not an exact science,' said the professor. 'Indeed, the ferocity of the bashing of the face in the most recent killing displays a great deal of hate, and the killer might indeed have been a victim of these men in the past.' He paused and read his notes. 'The knife attack upon this last victim also represents some escalation from the previous murders, and stabbing could be considered a form of penetration. There may well be a sexual motive.

'However,' he continued, 'one might have expected to see some genital mutilation or possibly amputation if our killer had been sexually abused by these men. Sometimes, there's a deliberate attempt to take out the eyes, for what they have seen. Still,' he said, 'I would not discount either position, given the pattern at the present time.'

The professor began packing his briefcase.

'Right, well, we've lined up a couple of interviews with past victims,' Jardine told the group. Professor Mendelssohn was standing, obviously ready to go.

'I apologise for having to leave so soon. As I explained earlier, a lecture, you see,' he said.

'Thank you for your time, Professor. It's been invaluable.' Jardine shook the older man's hand. 'We will be in touch again soon.' The others were standing now too.

'Thank you, and good luck. I would be pleased to assist in any way I can as more information becomes available.'

When they left the lecture room, a mist of rain hung in the air. The taskforce agreed to meet back at Central, and they headed back to their vehicles. Jill watched a few young students slope across the quadrangle, shoulders hunched in the damp.

She jogged to her car.

I
T WAS COFFEE ALL
round when they got back to Central, with the exception of Elvis, who stirred what looked like a fizzing antacid drink.

'Okay, interviews this afternoon,' Harris began their meeting. 'Hutchinson and Jackson: we've got you guys in Room 1 with Travis O'Hare.' Jill saw Elvis smirking behind his cup. She recognised the name. O'Hare had briefly been one of Mercy's patients. She'd spoken to his older brother when she'd first begun investigating possible links between the dead men.

'He's twenty-three I believe,' Harris was looking at his notes. 'He made a statement against Manzi in 2001. Claims Manzi sexually assaulted him when he was ten. Happened in a caravan at the back of his mate's place. Says Manzi gave him some pot, then tied him up and raped him. Says here Manzi later threatened him with a gun, said he'd kill him if he reported it. He didn't come forward until he was eighteen. Cops out at Castle Hill took a look at it, but the kid was pretty unreliable. Wouldn't show up for interviews, had a few assault charges just before and after he made the statements. Then cops got called out to his parents' home in Baulkham Hills. He'd threatened his brother with a knife and assaulted his father. They got out there and he was off his nut – claimed ASIO had implanted a computer chip in his brain and his brother was in on it all. He was scheduled to Cumberland for forty-eight hours.'

Scotty sighed. Harris continued.

'Since then, he's done six months in Junee for dealing ice, and six out at John Moroney in Windsor for assault. He's also made a couple more trips to Cumberland and Bungaribee House in Blacktown. Says here he's got paranoid schizophrenia.'

'What happened with the investigation?' Jill asked.

'Castle Hill cops talked to Manzi,' answered Harris, still looking down at the file. 'Said he never heard of the kid. When O'Hare started skitzing out, they had to move on. He could never have testified.'

'So Manzi just got away with it.' Jill was disgusted.

'Well, he did until someone caved his head in with a claw hammer,' said Harris.

'Because O'Hare's got a violent past, we thought we'd better bring him in.' Jardine spoke for the first time on the matter.

'Someone with schizophrenia is going to be too disorganised to commit all these crimes,' said Jill. 'It can't be him.'

'Yeah, well, he's medicated most of the time, so who knows. Anyway, we've gotta cover all bases. And you're up,' said Jardine. 'Room 1. Take the file. He's not due in until two. His father's bringing him down.'

Jill and Scotty made their way to the interview room and started reading the file on O'Hare. The rape he had reported had been especially brutal and had extended over a couple of hours. According to the report, Manzi had inserted a bottle into O'Hare's anus.

At 1.15 a PA came in and told them that O'Hare was waiting for them, early and alone. They made their way out to the reception area and saw a huge young man in a suit coat and jeans, his body folded into one of the plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Jill and Scotty looked at one another. This guy's shoe size was going to be at least thirteen – nothing like the size eight prints found at the crime scenes.

'Mr O'Hare, thanks very much for coming in.' Jill made her way over to his seat. He stood, and Jill had to tilt her head right back.

'Sorry about the suit,' Travis O'Hare said, looking down at her. 'I've got court later on.'

'What's that for, Travis?' asked Scotty; even he had to look up a little.

'Um, assault. It's all bullshit though. My lawyer said there's no worries. Just another attempt to entrap me, but I've got all shields closed.'

'That's good then.' Jill led them into the interview room.

From the first question, Jill knew this interview would go nowhere. O'Hare's answers to even direct questions were confused and disjointed. His eyes glittered and stared through her. His hands were huge, and for such a big man, at times he made sudden, unexpected movements, quickly shifting position, at one time standing, causing Scotty to tense beside her.

Although she knew this was not the killer, Jill asked him anyway whether he'd seen Manzi recently. She later wished she hadn't.

'He'll never garden again.' O'Hare wasn't really looking at anyone.

'What do you mean, Travis?'

'Satan and his organised followers designed a time machine to take me there, but they didn't know I had recorded it all. The numbers took care of all that.'

'What are you talking about, Travis?' Scotty used an authoritative tone. The interview room seemed suddenly very small.

'Oh, I've made sure he'll never cut me up again. There's no chance of that now. It's all recorded. We can play it back anytime we want. It's beautiful. It's been designed with the gardens and the numbers.' O'Hare was smiling now, laughing and mumbling.

'Did you take your medication this morning, Travis?' asked Jill, moving her chair a little further from the huge man.

'That's all been cooked by Satan. They've tried too many times to poison me.'

Without warning, he was on his feet, and within one step had crossed the floor to reach Jill. She saw his huge fist coming towards her face, before Scotty crashed into him, knocking him off balance. It took both of them to even begin to restrain him, and the room was trashed by the time two other officers arrived to help.

In handcuffs and howling incoherently, Scotty and Jill led O'Hare through the squad room out to await an ambulance to take him to Cumberland. Jill heard Elvis's laughter even over O'Hare, roaring in restraints beside her.

'Let's get out of here, J,' said Scotty as they saw the ambulance off.

'We're supposed to be working with them all day.'

'Fuck them.'

'I'm with you. Wanna go find Jamaal?'

'Definitely.'

They both knew that they should let the rest of the taskforce know that they were going to re-interview the only person who had survived the serial killer, but neither mentioned doing so.

Jardine and Harris had last interviewed Mahmoud while he was still in hospital, but all of his details were on file. Jill always kept her copy of the file up to date.

'Let's go to Lakemba then.'

Jamaal, however, was in Hunters Hill, drinking Coca-Cola in the billiard room at the back of the mansion. As was the case from most rooms of this house, the view was incredible. Jamaal kept the hate from his features as he glanced at his boss's profile. Twenty grand he'd given him for the boy. Sebastian would make five times that. More. Jamaal knew he would never have a house like this if he wasn't allowed a more pivotal role in the business.

The pain in his head still bent him double at times. More than money, more than a mansion like this, or a life without his fat wife, though, Jamaal wanted to find the son-of-a-whore who had hit him with the hammer.

'Boss,' he began, interrupting Sebastian reading the paper.

'Yes, Jamaal.' Sebastian did not look up.

'Have you heard any more about who has been killing our friends?'

'Well yes, Jamaal. We are drawing quite close to finding this person.'

'You haven't told me anything about it.'

'I haven't.'

'Who is looking into this for you? How are you getting your information? If you tell me, I could help. Maybe I can find this person faster. You never know.'

'No. You never do.'

Jamaal's silent fury was palpable in the room.

'Jamaal. You know you are my right hand.' Sebastian finally put down his paper. 'We have been together for many years. You know I know you. You want this man very badly, as do I, but we cannot afford for there to be any mistakes. He knows us. What we do. He knows you, Jamaal. I am certain that he knows me.

'This man is more dangerous than you might imagine, Jamaal. It is not the risk to our members that concerns me most. We can always find more friends. It is that this man draws the police to us. Do you understand? They already have been asking questions about you and me. A female detective in particular is worrying me greatly. Just two days ago, Jamaal, she was at the youth centre. She asked for you, do you know?

'In short, my friend, I cannot allow any more attention to be drawn to us. Your temper at this time could be our undoing. We do have plans coming together to meet this person soon, but you must be patient.'

Jamaal stayed silent for a while. He would be patient a little longer.

'Who is the bitch that asks for me?'

'Now that, Jamaal, is perhaps something you
could
turn your attention to.' He paused. 'In addition, I will need your expert hand to prepare the welcoming party for our friend, Jerome.' He smiled. 'I do not think Tadpole can wait much longer to introduce him to our society.'

On the way out to Lakemba, Jill filled Scotty in on Jamaal Mahmoud's criminal history. She'd pulled his records after the hospital visit with Honey. While his boss, Sebastian, had managed to escape any criminal convictions, Mahmoud had had numerous charges laid against him.

'Assault mostly, both in gaol and outside. Drugs, goods in custody, two charges for kidnapping and extortion. The last two didn't stick.' Jill's feet were up on the dash again.

'Kidnapping a child?'

'Nope. Adult male. In the burns unit at Concord Hospital, the victim made a statement, claiming Mahmoud had abducted and tortured him. Kept him for two days. Cops were collecting his statement between his surgeries – he had a skin graft for one of the burns on his inner thigh; jaw wired; left eye socket and cheek reconstructed. They were getting ready to bring Jamaal in when the vic suddenly realised he'd made a mistake. Wasn't Jamaal at all that did this to him. In fact he was certain of it, and was sure he wouldn't be able to identify who did do it.'

'Of course.'

'Hmm.'

Scotty was silent a moment, then said, 'I've been wondering, Jill, if Manzi and Jamaal let the perp in their car, then Jamaal must know who hit him. Why do you reckon the killer's still out there alive?'

'I've wondered that too.'

'What if it was Mahmoud who did it? Could be the third person in the car was escaping him – hit Jamaal to get away.'

There was silence for a moment, until Scotty discounted his own supposition. 'Nah. Blood found on Jamaal was all his own, none of Manzi's. One thing's for sure though, J,' continued Scotty, 'we wouldn't be the only people out here hunting this bloke.'

'And we've got to get to him first. He's gonna give us Mahmoud and Sebastian, and whoever else is on his shit-list to do next.'

'His or her shit-list.'

Jill had her head in the street directory. 'It's left at the lights, Scotty. Then second right.'

Through the one-way mesh of a security screen door, and over the sound of a toddler crying, Mrs Mahmoud gave them nothing. No, her husband wasn't home. No, she didn't know where he was. No, she didn't have a mobile phone number for him. She shut the door while Jill was still saying goodbye.

'Friendly.'

'Real chatty.'

Jill and Scotty looked the outside of the house over, but nothing really distinguished it from the others in the street. Even the bars on every window were more common than not in this neighbourhood.

They stepped over a child's broken bike on the way back to their car.