Just as she thought that things couldn’t get any worse, the door to her office opened and in walked Kite, carrying the results from the forensics laboratory. He dropped the paperwork on Summers’ desk and shook his head.
‘No joy,’ he said.
Summers took a deep breath and turned to face the map on her wall. She stared at the crime hot-spot and tried to gauge the amount of residential housing. She had to make some decisions based on information she didn’t have; she was going to follow her hunch. She stood and approached the map, looked at the three square miles and knew that there were too many houses and apartments to knock on every single door and ask for help in solving the case.
She turned to Kite.
‘We need the latest census,’ she said, knowing that luck for once was on their side, as it was only done just over a year ago. The census is done every ten years, so this exercise could have been little or no help at all.
‘You’re going to get in contact with the Office of National Statistics.’ she said.
‘Ok,’ said Kite, not quite sure where this was heading.
‘And you’re going to find out how many men…’ she paused briefly, weighing up the probable age of the killer, but not wanting too big an age range and therefore creating too many doors to knock on, ‘you’re going to find out how many men aged between twenty-eight and forty-five are living in this area here,’ pointing at the crime hot-spot.
Kite looked doubtful.
‘Boss, there’s gonna be bloody hundreds!’ he stated, ‘Maybe thousands. What are we gonna do, demand alibi’s from the entire community?’
Summers shook her head.
‘There won’t be thousands,’ she responded, ‘but even so, maybe that’s too many.’
She was thinking fast, she could feel the idea was good but just needed fine tuning.
‘Ok, get the names on the census from last year, and then do a search on the census from eleven years ago; using ages eighteen to thirty-five. Anyone who is on both lists fits the profile age and location. Let’s start again on the streets.’
‘You’re the boss, but, what are we gonna do? Knock on the door and ask if The Phantom lives here?’ asked Kite.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘we’re going to ask for DNA samples, in order for any innocent potential suspects to rule themselves out of our investigation, and at the same time, help solve this bastard case once and for all.’
Kite wondered whether he should point out the obvious flaw in his boss’ plan of action, he decided he’d better.
‘But we don’t have any DNA to compare samples with,’ he said.
Summers smiled, if only for an instant.
‘Detective Kite, as of right now, only you, me, and the lab know that we don’t have any DNA samples,’ she said. ‘And that’s how it’s going to stay. Anybody who refuses to give DNA will be asked for an alibi for the latest murders, those who cannot provide one better have a good reason why we don’t drag them down to the station for further questioning.’
Kite saw a determination on Summers’ face, he knew that this was a long shot, but he trusted her judgement; she had proven herself to be one of the best, after all.
29
Ben stood on the doorstep of his mother’s house, the house he grew up in, the house where all he knew was innocence and love and joy and happiness. How things had changed. He didn’t really want to face her just yet, but she’d left a couple of messages after he’d ignored her calls, so felt obliged.
He also didn’t want to hear more about his father but knew he needed to. To be told that the man he grew up admiring, learning from and trusting more than anybody else, was a cold-blooded killer. To be told that his father had in fact passed on to him this sickening disease that was now penetrating his every thought, every waking moment. How could the man he loved, and who loved him unconditionally let this happen?
Ben put his key into the lock and let himself in. He went straight to the kitchen, which is where his mother would usually be, reading a newspaper or listening to the radio, but she wasn’t there.
‘Benjamin?’ she called from another room.
Ben headed towards the voice of his mother and entered the red room, his dad’s old office. His mouth dropped wide open.
What the hell had happened here? He thought.
He stood in the centre of the room and let his gaze wander from wall to wall, mentally absorbing the redness from everywhere, except where dozens of framed pictures and newspaper clippings now hung. He glanced at his mother, who sat behind the desk with a glass of wine cupped between her two hands, smiling at her son.
Ben didn’t say a word, but glanced at the ceiling, red also, and then he took a step towards the picture frames and quickly recognised that all the information and pictures hung on these walls were relevant to The Phantom, or the victims, or the police not having a clue as to who was responsible for these sickening murders.
Ben was in a daze.
‘Close the door, Ben,’ said Mrs Green. ‘We need to talk’.
Ben was speechless. He turned slowly and pushed the door shut, then his eyes widened. On the back of a door hung a mirror, and with the lighting in the room and the redness, Ben didn’t know anything anymore. Was he in hell? Was he the devil himself?
He turned to face his mother, and for the first time noticed her red hair and bright red lipstick. Ben slowly stepped towards her and sat down in the seat his side of the desk, a chair that she had dragged in from the kitchen; she had been expecting him.
Mrs Green took a newspaper clipping from her side of the desk and placed it in front of her son. It was from the local newspaper, describing how two youngsters had been brutally murdered the day before, less than a mile from where they both sat at that moment.
Ben looked his mother in the eyes.
‘It’s true about dad?’ he asked.
His mother nodded.
‘And I’m the same,’ he said, as he pushed the news article back towards his mother.
Ben suddenly felt a wave of ease flow through his body. It was the first time he had admitted out loud what he was, the first time he had admitted to someone what he had done. His mother saw the burden lift from Ben’s shoulders and the frown lines retire from his tired face.
She smiled.
‘That feeling,’ she said to him, ‘that’s acceptance.’
His mother, the woman from whom he had recently been trying to keep his distance, knowing that her madness was worsening and that she was very difficult to deal with at the best of times, was now the only person who he could confide in, the only person who would not judge him, and had lived through this very experience with his father for the last few years, or however long she had known that her husband was a killer.
She even seemed pleased, which was something Ben couldn’t quite get his head around. Was it due to her illness? Or was her illness a result of discovering her husband to be The Phantom? That has to be a shock to anyone, and a reaction to news like that could play all sorts of havoc on the mind. She chose to stay with him, to support her husband through the good times and the bad, the highs and the lows.
Or was it her idea? Did she lead him astray? Mrs Green had done nothing to condemn Ben, not said one word about handing himself in to the police nor even asked why it had happened. In fact, he had the feeling that she openly encouraged his recent behaviour.
He was right.
