Tank Farm Murders - 3 chapters

Seeking feedback to an idea I have been working on relating to a serial killer. Would appreciate any thoughts on style, character, setting, theme etc. Thanks in advance - Stewart


Tank Farm Murders

1

It was barely nine am but Detective Sergeant Carlton Light felt as if he had already put in a double shift. His planned early morning surf was cut short, resulting in a mad dash to a West Auckland address. The following two hours were wasted extracting statements from a group of incoherent men and women, most coming down from a night fuelled by dope, alcohol and speed. In their stupor, it had taken a while for witnesses to realise that their friend, sprawled like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, lay dead on the concrete below the second-storey balcony. Little did he know, but the accidental death of a party goer, whilst tragic, would not prepare him for what was to come. Back at the station, he settled at his desk, sipped a takeaway cappuccino, munched on a blueberry muffin, and prepared to write up the death. He had been back twenty minutes, when the second call came in.
The drive took ten minutes. The Toyota wound in a red blur through the central city, swept past hotels and offices that lined the recently developed waterfront, and crawled past the fish market that still bustled with the remnants of early morning seafood traders. On the dashboard, the temporary blue emergency light remained unlit, the siren silent; no amount of speed would change what lay ahead of them. Throughout the drive, Carlton and his partner remained silent, buried in their own thoughts, grim faced and tight lipped; each hoping his worst fears would not be realised; knowing, through experience, that they would.
The vacant lot was centred in the industrial dockland, surrounded by disused factories, a lot housing imported Japanese vehicles, the Auckland Fish Market and a line of storage tanks housing oil, cement and various chemicals that ran along Jellicoe Street. The smell of diesel, fish and salt hung thick in the air.
Carlton turned into Beaumont Street and slotted his vehicle between an area police car and ambulance, where the Toyota created a blood stripe between the two emergency vehicles. Two constables tied yellow crime scene tape in a rough square around the site. The disused land was wrapped in a lattice of chain link; broken only by a long missing gate and a vandalised gap along one side that served as short cut for pedestrians. Carlton stepped out of the car and stretched. Despite the early hour, a slick pool of sweat formed under his arms. He took a deep breath and headed towards the gathered officials.


In death the young woman looked serene. She lay on her back, naked, arms folded across her pale abdomen, ankles touching, her flesh camouflaged against the clumps of dry grass that suffocated the disused lot. She wore no jewellery, except for a delicate gem set in gold that nestled in her belly button. He would have missed it except that it reflected shards of red in the sunlight.
Despite the lack of blood, Carlton suspected the woman had experienced a cruel and tortured death. He stood outside the tape, careful not to disturb the scene, and surveyed the area, “Looks like the same killer, John.”
“Yeah. Body position is right. And the hair. I don’t understand the hair?”
The two men stood silently. There was nothing to say. Brushed and deliberately arranged, the woman’s auburn hair lay arrayed, fan-like, about her head; set in a macabre mimic of a hair product commercial.
Carlton shook the image from his head and cast an eye at a small group that stood at the roadside. Two fellow officers, fresh onto the days’ shift, interviewed a young man who rocked on his Reeboks; his cap was turned, the peak facing backwards. The boys’ hands moved constantly as he alternated between lifting his cap to trail a hand through his hair and fingering his whispy blonde beard. Wide eyed, the shock of his discovery was clear on his face. A backpack hung from his shoulders. A skateboard lay close by, propped, wheels up, against the chain-link fence.
“Why don’t you chat to the kid? I’ll have a walk around, see what I can find.” John nodded, said nothing, turned, and walked towards the gathering.
Carlton pulled a fresh pair of gloves from his pocket, and glanced about as he pulled them over his fingers. Redevelopment hadn’t yet reached this point along Auckland’s waterfront and he knew it would remain undeveloped for a few years longer given the attitude of the current city councillors. As his gaze settled on the hotel and apartment building less than half a kilometre away, he marvelled at how quickly the area had changed since he came onto the force.
He ducked under the tape, and made a note to commend the Peters’ boys. The cordoned area, approximately three metres square constituted the hot zone. This is where the scene of crime boys would focus their attention during the initial search. A further cordon would be set up at a distance of ten metres where a transition tent would be erected, ensuring that no foreign matter was brought into the crime scene.
Carlton risked breaking the chain of evidence by entering the hot zone. Wary of this, he carefully knelt by the body. He studied the woman whilst he arranged the slick rubber over his fingers. It was obvious that the cause of death matched those of the previous victim; the woman’s ankles and wrists were ringed with burn-like ligatures; thin and red, the skin frayed where the rope had cut into the flesh. Dark bruises encircled her neck. Bound throughout her ordeal, she appeared to have been strangled. He closed his eyes, imprinting the image of the woman in his mind. Outside of the bruising, the woman had no other marks on her body. Whilst he couldn’t move her until the coroner arrived, he suspected if he turned the woman over there would be a piece of flesh missing somewhere on her body. They hadn’t found the missing flesh for either of the previous two victims.
He considered the brutality of the attack, wondered at the evil that existed in his home town and shuddered again. Jesus, what is this place coming to?
The city had experienced nothing like it. Panic had set in amongst inner city residents. Young women had stopped venturing out at night, and the police now viewed every lone male as a suspect. This third victim would increase the tension tenfold. As senior detective on the case, Carlton knew that the public and senior officers expected his team to make a breakthrough.
Carlton studied the ground around the body, and saw nothing of significance. The perpetrator had been cautious and careful. Just like the others. He leaned closer to the body, rested the back of his hand against the woman’s belly and checked his watch; 9:10am. Her skin was still warm. Sunrise had been 6.00am. Three hours of sun to keep her warm. It was going to make assessing the time of death problematic.
“Damn it!” he said out loud. The expletive raised a glance from John in the distance. Carlton waved a dismissive hand in his direction and turned back to the body. Hopefully the coroner can assess a time of death. Where the hell is she?


2

Carlton Light and John Tamihere sat one side of the meeting table, their backs to the tiny window that overlooked Vincent Street. Through the grimy wire laced glass Carlton could hear the steady thrum of traffic making its way between Albert Street and K’ Road. Opposite them sat Detective Constables Frank Field and Alf Lucas. The rest of his team consisted of Constables Sally Pritchard and Greg Aynsley who sat facing each other at opposite ends of the narrow table. Spread in front of them were documents and photographs from the crime scene they had visited earlier that day.
“Right, what have we got?”
John spoke first, “The girl is Janet Wilkins, 26 years old, and lives, sorry lived, at 17A Bledisloe Apartments on Quay St. We’ve been to her flat. She lived alone. There is no evidence of forced entry or anything to suggest that she was killed there.”
It was six p.m. and Carlton’s small team had gathered, in what had become the tank farm murder incident room, for their regular end of day meeting. Together they reviewed the days’ progress and mapped out the following days’ actions. Carlton preferred this approach, not seeing value in assembling the team again in the morning, thus allowing each team member to start their days’ activity without the burden of yet another meeting and a diversion to the station.
Carlton studied the stack of paper in front of him and then at each face seated around him. He had read each report, already knowing everything his team had done that day.
“Are we confident of the identification?”
“No doubts, Carlton. A neighbour called following the news article this morning. Said she was worried. Hadn’t seen the young woman since Friday.”
“Thanks John. Did you speak to her neighbours?” knowing the answer, he asked anyway.
The woman spoke up, “Yes sir. Greg and I did a door to door. She hadn’t been seen since she left for work Friday morning.”
A pale man with short ginger hair and freckles spoke in a soft songlike voice, “Neighbours say she was quiet and kept herself to herself. No boyfriend,” his blush further accentuated his hair, “or girlfriend, from what we can tell.”
The woman plucked at the band that held her long hair back and said, “We called on neighbours in flats above and below her floor. The response was the same from everybody.”
“Thanks Sally. Thanks Greg.” Carlton turned towards the pair of older men and asked, “What about her work? Any information there?”
“Nofin’. That seems to be a dead end as well. ‘Er employer agrees with the neighbours. No trouble. No relationships. She ‘as a few friends at work. A colleague we spoke to sez that she drinks down’a viaduct at the weekend. ‘Part from that work seems like a blank.”
Alf Lucas also sported a closely cropped hair cut. However, unlike Greg, who did it for fashionable reasons, Alf cut his short in an effort to disguise a rapidly receding hairline. For all the ex-London detectives’ brash and hard exterior, inside hid a streak of vanity. Unfortunately, the nearly shaven head made Alf look more criminal than policeman.
Carlton could sense the frustration in his team, and knew how each of them felt. His own frustration modelled theirs; three murders without a single suspect. Not good, not good at all. Years of experience had taught him to counter his despair when a case dragged on.
He sought to refocus the team and changed tack. “Right, like it or not, we have to assume now, that we have a serial killer on the loose. Three murders with the same profile seem to confirm this. Everybody agree?”
“No chance it’s a copycat, guv?”
“Great question, Alf, but we never published the brushing of the hair nor the biting. A copy cat couldn’t have known this. No, we have definitely got a serial killer.”
His colleagues exchanged glances, their faces he knew mirrored his own; a combination of a fear of failure and a dogged determination to succeed.
“My suggestion is that we try to profile the killer based on the facts and some data I received from colleagues in Sydney.”
John spoke first, “Well the killer is obviously male and clearly depraved.”
“Male most likel. But unlikely depraved. From what I have read, most serial killers are completely sane, but drift into lapses of insanity during their killing frenzies.”
“What about the sexual assault?” Sally had found this part of the murders the most frightening. Carlton was acutely aware of how hard this had been on the two women in his team.
“According to research, penetration of the vagina by foreign object is an indication of impotence. The killer needs to live out his sexual fantasy through the objects he uses.”
“What about age?” Frank, the oldest in the team, had been quiet throughout the meeting so far. Through experience, Carlton knew he preferred to listen to all viewpoints before commenting. “Would he be a younger male?”
“I read somewhere that most serial killers are aged between 35 and 45.”
“Where did you read that Greg? In one of those Patricia Cornwall books you have stuffed in your locker?” This brought several sniggers from around the table and Carlton felt the atmosphere lift slightly, the tension easing. The young man’s faced flushed giving rise to another round of laughter. The ease at which Greg got embarrassed was a never ending source of amusement to the older officers.
“I think you’re right Greg, and in fact, modern profiling suggests something similar. Let’s start there until we know better.” Carlton lifted several photographs from the file in front of him. He glanced at them, a shadow crossing his brow and passed them around, “Then, of course, there’s the biting.”
Public attention had been huge. Local, and international media, had been camped on the doorstep, eagerly awaiting some update or digging for a gory detail other snippet. Known only to the police were two facts. First, that the killer displayed the corpses with their hair brushed and fanned around their heads. The second, and more disturbing, were the bite marks. In each case, the killer had bitten the body of his victim; the flesh had literally been ripped from the body. The first victim had been missing an earlobe, the second, more alarmingly, was missing her left nipple; both apparently removed in a fit of frenzy. The post-mortem had confirmed that both bites had been made prior to death. Carlton could only speculate on the terror both women must have experienced before succumbing to strangulation.
“The post-mortem is scheduled for eight am tomorrow,” John said. He passed the photographs back to Carlton and rubbed his hands along the front his jeans, as if trying to cleanse them of the horror they had just held. “I spoke to the scene of crime boys, and they confirmed that Ms Pritchard had a bite on her left shoulder blade. We should know more when Dr Pare has done the autopsy.”
The temperature in the room had risen. Sweat had formed in dark patches underneath Alf’s arms and created dark stains on his blue cotton shirt. Carlton sympathised, wishing they had been assigned a room with air conditioning. His own shirt stuck to his back. He loosened his top button. Greg pulled the door open in a vain attempt to collect a draft as Carlton wished he had brought a change of clothes with him this morning, glad that he had worn white.
“OK. John, you and I will attend the autopsy in the morning and see what the delicious doctor has to say. Sally, Greg, I want you to check any connections between this victim and the previous two. As with the last girl, let’s check friends, places and activities. I want to know if there were any common factors between any of them.”
“Right boss,” said Greg, who glanced at Sally, her face visibly relieved not to have to attend the post-mortem.
Carlton continued. “Alf. You and Frank run back through each of the people we previously pulled in. Check their whereabouts over the past 24-36 hours. I want squeaky clean alibis, or they come in again. Got that?”
The two men nodded. Carlton caught a gleam in Alf’s eyes. “And no rough stuff, Alf. Alright? We don’t need any more attention on this case.”
Without waiting for an answer, Carlton continued, “I said earlier that I have been doing some research on serial killers over the past few weeks. I think this latest killing pretty much confirms that we have a serial killer on our hands.”
Carlton produced a hand written piece of lined paper from the folder. “I focussed on a couple of things. Firstly, the sexual assault. From what I have read, this often points to the perpetrator being impotent. The penetration is the result of him, and our killer would be male, being impotent or unable to complete the assault himself. It also suggests an inability to form relationships and that he may be a loner.”
“Maybe we should check the sexual offender database again for perverts who can’t get it up.”
“Good thinking. I know we have been through it, but let’s see if we get a match on impotency.” Carlton continued, “The second thing I researched was the way the bodies were left. Again, from what I have read this suggests a sign of remorse, that the killer regretted his actions. Of course, the remorse could be like coming down off of a high. The killing frenzy acting as a drug, the excitement dying with the victim and remorse setting in. Finally, biting is generally accepted as a sign of a disorganised mind and loss of control during the attack.”
“Jesus Carlton! I don’t know about disorganised, this guy sounds totally fucking mad to me.”
Carlton glanced at his watch. Seven pm. With several hours of daylight left, he might just get to the beach house and enjoy a late evening surf.
“Right. We all know what to do. Get off and get a good rest. See you bright and early.”


3

Carlton stood with his eyes closed. He was deep in thought. Out of habit, he rocked loosely on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back. Outwardly he was calm. Inside, his mind raced as images of the case flashed past like the frames from an old black and white movie. Beside him, John was in constant motion. His white lab coat rasped with each movement as his thick arms rubbed nervously against the course material along his side. The noise reminded Carlton of a saw running across bone. A sound he knew they would be heard first hand during the autopsy.
He couldn’t decide if the walls were grey or some kind of dirty off-white. Whatever the colour, the drab decoration always seemed to pull down his mood; his thoughts darkened simply being in the vicinity of the autopsy room. Carlton often wondered if it was the presence of the dead more than the colour. His bleak thoughts pushed aside his earlier good humour.
“Jesus, I hate this place.” John said. Carlton felt his friend shudder. All five feet six of his broad frame shook. Carlton had a quiet chuckle to himself as he studied John from the corner of his eye. With his short stature, bald pate and full length lab coat, his colleague, and friend of fifteen years, looked like a medical version of Uncle Fester. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he struggled to keep his nerves in check. Again Carlton wondered at the dichotomy that was his friend. Fearless in work and play, John had an overwhelming fear of death, yet he never refused to accompany Carlton any time they had to attend an autopsy. Over a beer, Carlton had questioned his friend about this. John’s response was simple. “If I’m going to find their killer, I need to understand the pain of their death. Being here personalises it, makes me want to resolve it for them.”
Their private thoughts were broken by a sharp squeal. Carlton snapped his head to the left. A slightly built and stooped figure pushed through the doors to the administration department. Kenneth Bishop, the pathology assistant was followed by a tall, fair skinned woman. Like the rest of them, she was wore a white coat that seemed to hug her slim figure, the button at her waist accentuating her shape. A crimson blouse matched her low heeled shoes and provided a shock of colour against her otherwise plain appearance.
“Ah, DS Light and sidekick.” Her words were clipped, “How are you both?”
Without waiting for his response, Dr Patricia Pare strode past them, wagged a finger for them both to follow and shoved through the double doors to Autopsy Room One. “Ok, gentlemen, let’s get this thing underway.”
What Carlton assumed was the body of Janet Pritchard lay undisturbed on a stainless steel table. The slim form was draped in a sheet. The egg shell blue clung to the young woman’s body outlining her once lithe form. The blue created a pool of colour in an otherwise landscape of grey and stainless steel. A small trolley rested beside the body; the tray on top held plastic evidence bags and collection tools. Carlton shuddered when his eyes settled on a bone saw and chest cavity spreaders.
Returning his gaze to the doctor, Carlton saw that she held up a small clear bag. Inside was the piece of jewellery that was attached to the woman’s belly button.
“Was this all of her personal effects?”
John spoke first, “Yes. Apart from this, she was totally naked. Obviously the SOCO boys took a heap of stuff from the site, but no other articles of clothing or jewellery”.
With a nod Pare motioned to her assistant, “OK, Mr Bishop, let’s get underway.”
Stepping forward, Bishop swept the sheet from the body. The dead woman was again revealed in her nakedness. Carlton recalled the way her pale skin had collected the sunlight as she lay on the ground. Unlike yesterday, when her body still held some of its living colour, it was now the colour of dried cement, dull and ashen. Carlton knew that the body would have been cleaned and washed prior to the autopsy, the debris collected for further forensic examination, and whilst he knew this was part of the mechanism of autopsy, he was always amazed at the care and respect the people that worked here showed for the dead.
Pare turned on an overhead microphone, introduced herself, those present, the victim’s name, age and sex. She lifted a large magnifying glass from the trolley and scanned the body. She worked methodically, slowly moving the glass along both sides of the body. Occasionally she would speak into the microphone, identifying any marks, blemishes or other distinguishing features. She took extra time over the raw marks around the victim’s wrists and ankles.
As she moved Carlton couldn’t help but admire the woman’s figure, and, not for the first time, felt a searing pang of regret that their brief affair had never lasted.
“Abrasions around the right wrist, showing bruising and torn skin suggesting that the victim was bound. Similar marks on the left side would imply that both arms were bound and secured separately.”
She picked up the glass again and moved to the feet, “The ankles also show evidence of binding. The abrasions are deeper suggesting that she struggled against her bindings.”
Carlton cast a glance at John. His friend’s face was stoic and emotionless. His jaw was set and his teeth were clamped against his bottom lip. Neither man could comprehend the brutality that this young woman endured.
“Can you tell what she was bound with?”
Pare raised her head from the glass, “We’ll go over the wounds in more detail later. However, given the severe chaffing on the skin, I would hazard a guess at some kind of rope rather than cloth or a softer material.”
The pathologist turned to her assistant, “Kenneth, if you can help me, we’ll turn her over and examine her back.”
Despite his small stature, Kenneth Bishop proved to be surprisingly strong. Standing at the head of the table he grasped the woman’s shoulders whilst Pare took the legs. In a single motion they lifted the body and turned it over revealing Pritchard’s back. Blood had pooled where the body had lay on it’s back causing the skin to darken. Pare examined the body again with the magnifying glass calling out distinguishing features and any other point of interest.
She stopped abruptly at the shoulder.
“Well, it looks like you have a serial killer, Carlton.”

TO BE CONTINUED