Too many ghosts

Too many ghosts(Kevin A. Harris) Too Many Ghosts

A crime story


By Kevin A. Harris © 2011
***

He stood there naked, blood spattered across his torso looking down at his ‘Masterpiece’, a body-well, bits and pieces of a body-laid out on the plastic sheeting looking like a human jigsaw puzzle ready to be put together except this jigsaw is staying the way it is-in pieces. In the background is the sound of Beethoven’s Symphony No.9 in D minor playing softly on the JGB Hi-Fi CD player. Perfect music for a perfect crime. Soothes the soul it does as you hack away at the limbs. His father was a doctor and he taught, among many things, how to dissect a body and taught him the love of classical music. Dissecting a body while listening either Beethoven or Mozart is relaxing in a strange way. Music soothes the savage beast. Bloody oath, thinks he as he smiles at his ‘Masterpiece’, it soothed this savage beast. He starts to prance around, naked, to the sound of Beethoven, now and then taking another slice out of the already dissembled corpse. No one won’t miss the piece of shit anyway as he was a male prostitute. He drove down in his black Beamer-BMW- and saw the lad, no older than fifteen, picked him up, drove back to the flat, drugged the wine he gave the boy then proceeds in his art-cutting the lad’s body up. Murder is an art so he tells himself as he waltz around the room with an imaginary partner. The fine art of murder.


***

It was a couple of days before they found the body, or what was left of it, bits and pieces. Detective Inspector Brendan Hagan watched the men in the yellow rain coats pulled the plastic sheeting out of the water and gently laid it on the ground. The rain eased off to a fine drizzle but the mist still hung over the lake giving a macabre appearance. Hagan was unshaven, hair in a bit of a tangle as if it was allergic to a hairbrush but he was alert.
Hagan walked down the slope and watched the men unwrap the sheet. One of them gasped and staggered off to throw up his breakfast. Hagan stared passionlessly at the human jigsaw piece and shook his head. He’d seen it all before starting in his days in the steamy jungles of Vietnam, 1971. He lit himself a cigarette, thanking God that retirement isn’t too far off where he can sit with his feet up and watch the League on the telly with a cold beer without having to be standing in the pissing rain, on a wet Sunday while his favourite team is playing.
“Another Sunday waste, Brendan,” said a voice at his side. He turned and saw a female doctor standing next to him. She was in her early 40s, dark hair that reached down her spine and still had her beauty. Dr. Lisa Lawson. “Wish I was at home having a glass of red wine and reading my Cathy Kelly instead of being here staring a dismembered body of a young lad.”
“Know how you feel, Lisa,” Brendan offered her a cigarette but she declined. He put the pack away. “Wish I was home watching the footy with a cold beer.”
“Oh?” She smiled, “who’s playing?”
“Parra and Penrith.”
“Parra will win, you think?”
“Bloody hope so, got twenty bucks on them,” one of the CSI men approached them, shaking his head. “Harry, well?”
“Same as the last one, Brendan,” he looked back at the sheeting. “No clue in who he was. But if my hunch is right as it’s normally is, I would bet it’s another boy whore like the last one. How many now?”
“Counting this one? Five in this month, making the grand total of eight in two months.”
“Whoever the killer is, they’re a good cutter. Like Jack the Ripper, very precise in their medical procedure,” he turned to Lisa, “I believe this is your field, Lisa?”
“Thanks, Hank,” she threw Brendan a smile before going down to the body. The rain began to fall again. Bloody weather.

****

Brendan got back to his flat and poured himself a glass of cold beer before switching on the TV. Another long day at work as it was coming onto10pm. Nothing was worth jack shit on TV except for the news, which reported about the finding of the body (excluding the details of it being in pieces) making it the eighth stiff so far in two months. He was fed up with this horse shit about the 21st century Jack the Ripper. Okay, the bloke’s knocking male prostitutes, picking them down by The Wall but no eye witness has come forward making it bloody difficult for Brendan and his Murder Squad to find, locate and arrest the sick prick. He also fed up to the gills about the friggin’ media printed their shit about how slack the Police force is. Yeah? See how you go with bugger all info about the murders. The footy results came on and at least there was something to cheer about. Parramatta gave the Panthers a flogging and he got twenty bucks waiting for him. He’s a die-hard Eels supporter. He turned the TV off, drained the last of the beer and made a beeline for his bed. Since his wife, Sarah, drowned in that mishap when the canoes tipped over as they were going down some rapids, he’d been by himself. Lately he’d been thinking of Dr. Lawson. With that thought, he drifted off to sleep.

*****

Murder is an art. You just have to be good at it, which he is becoming. He heard that the pigs haven’t a foggiest on this case. How many now? How many canvases he created? Jesus, must be well over thirty now but over the years, that is. Eight in the past two months, that’s a record. He might’ve gone a tad too far but, bugger them, they’re only scums. Poofter whores. Who’s gonna miss them anyway? Their little bum chums? Selling themselves to some filthy old pig for a price of what? Smack? For their pimps? He sat on his leather couch, thinking. He watched the news and saw that the police still haven’t any clues. At this, he smiled and got thinking again. He stood up and walked over to the window and stood looking out at the rain streaked street. He looked at his watch and grinned.
“It’s show time,” he said in his best Hollywood voice before grabbing his leather jacket.

*****

The ‘phone woke Hagan from deep sleep. In his dreams he saw his wife, Sarah, drown in that canoe accident on the Tangier River a few years back. Water around him exploded, rocks dangerously peering out of the river when he saw his wife’s canoe tip over and…the phone rang, jerking him out of that dream, the same dream he dreamt in the past three years. Sweat was pouring down his face, drenching his vest, the sheets and his body. He wasn’t sure where he was at first then the phone reminded him. He groaned, rolled over and picked it up with a grunt. The clock read 3:45am.
“This better be good,” he growled into the mouthpiece.
“Sorry to wake you, sir but another one just been found,” it was that young Detective constable, what was his name? Vale or something like that.
“Another what?” He was still half asleep, God damn it.
“Body…or what’s left of it. Dr. Lawson’s already here. Thought you should be, too, sir.”
“Where are you?” Vale told him. “I’ll be there in ten.”

*****

The Crime Scene was lit with spotlights giving it an appearance of a gothic horror scene. He was half expecting Dracula to appear from the darkness as he made his way along the dock. Small shapes of boats rocked on the gentle rhythm of the water against the jetty, the strong smell of the ocean tickled his nose as he approached the scene. Like the others the body, or what was left of it, was wrapped in a plastic sheeting reminding Hagan of a hasty wrapped Christmas present with blood seeping through. Dr. Lawson was examining it when she saw Hagan standing watching like a reluctant observer at a horror opera. She smiled. He returned the smile but only briefly. DC Vale appeared at his side with a plastic container containing what meant to be coffee but looked like sewer.
“Best I can do, sir,” he said as he handed the coffee to Hagan. Hagan took it wordlessly. “The body was discovered by a early walker-”
“Someone walks this time in the morning?” He said with surprise.
“Some people are insomniacs, sir and they find walking does them a world of good. Anyway,” he continued on, “the walker said she saw something lying on the jetty. Went over to take a closer look and…well…the rest is history, sir.”
“Yeah,” said Hagan as he took a sip on the coffee. It tasted like dishwater. “And the rest is history. No ID, I presume?”
“None whatsoever, sir.”
“Anyone reported missing in the past twenty four hours?”
“Again in the negative.”
“Not having much luck, are we DC Vale?”
“Doesn’t look like it, sir.”
Dr. Lawson came up to where Vale and Hagan were standing and nods to both men. She was wearing a dark coat that reached to her knees, a short skirt and a pink shirt. Her hair was tied back and her hands were buried deep in the coat pockets. She looked gorgeous as usual and Hagan felt a stirring he hadn’t felt in the past three years
“Our friend is at it again,” she spoke in a tired tone. “I should be in bed dreaming instead off freezing my butt off four o’clock in the morning,” she spied the coffee, “is that coffee?”
“So they tell me,” he handed her the container. “Apart from it being like a human jigsaw puzzle, what else can you tell me, Lisa?”
“It’s a male, aged between fifteen and seventeen. Killed sometimes between nine o’clock this evening and midnight. Our killer had plenty of time to, um, dismember the poor lad. I must say, though, but the killer is very good at cutting.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way but you sound impress,” Hagan said.
“No, not impressed, more amazed.”
“What you suspect?”
“Meaning?”
“A rouge doctor? A Butcher? Maybe a candlestick maker?”
“That’s your job, Brendan. Mine is inspect the body and try and make something out of it. Oh, that last one? I found something in the stomach. Just a grain anyway.”
“What?” He felt interest in what she just said. Why, he’s not sure but something in her tone made him sit up and take notice.
“A drug called Gamma-Hydroxbutyrate also known as GHB. It causes heart failures, respiratory depression and rapid unconsciousness. Also you vomit a hell of a lot.”
“Jesus,” muttered Vale shaking his head. Something in the way he said it that made Hagan look at him then back to Dr. Lawson.
“So, we’re looking for someone who got this GHB in stock?” Asked Hagan.
“Something along that line.”
“Where’s the best place to look?” Vale asked. Hagan had a vague idea where to look.

*****
He got back home, panting, heart kicking hard. He went into the kitchen and found a bottle of rum in the cupboard. He got a glass out, splashed some into the glass and downed it quickly. The burning sensation trickled down his throat as he held onto the sink. It was a close call. That bloody jogger nearly caught him in the act as he was dumping the stiff then having to arrive on the scene before bloody Hagan and making sure there was nothing to give him away. How that bitch of a doctor worked out the GHB bit will bother him but not too much. He poured another glass of rum, downed it then put the bottle away. He was on a high. He needed to get out, maybe find another one? No, too early. He went and put on some Tchaikovsky and sat in the overstuffed chair. He closed his eyes, letting the music swim over him then smiled. Ah, just once more and that’s it. One more victim. He got up, turned the CD off and grabbed his coat, smiling to himself as he left the flat.

Hagan watched the car pulled out of the driveway then followed it up the street making sure he’s not seen.

There’s one, he smiled, reached over, wound down the window. The boy was pretty.
“Looking for a bit of fun?” The boy asked.
“Sure,” he grinned as he opened the door. The boy hopped in. They said nothing as they drove back to his flat then went inside. He asked the boy if he’d like a drink of wine. The boy said yes and started looking around the flat. He crushed some GHB up, mixed it into the wine and brought it out to the lad who was going through the CD selection.
“Got no Amy Winehouse? Just all these old crap?”
They all say that but he just bears it and grin. He handed the lad the drink and watched him drink it. It works within two minutes and the boy was lying on the floor looking like as if he was sleeping. He went to his Power Tool kit box, got out the electric saw and started stripping off his clothes. He put some Bach on and stood over the body, power saw switched on when the door crashed opened and four uniforms and Hagan stood there in the doorway with their pistols pointing at him.
“Okay, Damien,” Hagan said, smoothly, “you can put the Black and Decker down, mate. It’s all over.”

Hagan knew it was Vale but it took him a while to work it out until he saw what looked to be dried blood beneath the fingernails. DC Vale of all people. It took a while for Hagan to work out how Vale was doing it then remembered that Vale was always the first to arrive on the scene. He was also the son of a surgeon who taught his son some of the arts of cutting bodies open. Vale took it from there. The reason behind why he was picking the male prostitutes was because his brother was one and died a few years back of AIDS. He hated male prostitutes ever since. He knew how to get GHB and the usage of it. Now, he was standing in his boxer shorts, handcuffed, glared venomously at Hagan was he was taken away. Hagan looked around the flat, then walked over to the CD player. He picked up the cover and listened to a few bars before switching it off. Too many ghosts, a voice said as he walked out, too many ghosts, indeed.

The End