“MY CAR,” Joe suddenly yelled, and I ran as fast as I could toward the door with one thought screaming at me, ‘He was out there, the Devil was out there’. The person at the wheel of that car was the killer that had been eluding us for 14 victims and I was the only one that could stop him.
I saw the headlights drive past the door as I reached it, the silhouette of a single person in the driver’s seat of the car. He looked to be hunched over the steering wheel, gripping it with both arms. He looked at me as he passed and our eyes met for the first time. It was what I didn’t see that sowed the seeds of doubt in my mind. I didn’t see anger in those eyes, or rage, or evil. I couldn’t even say it was panic. What I saw was fear.
The car now passed me completely, turned in an arc and headed for the driveway. If he made it to the end of it, he would be out on the open road, with every chance to disappear. Without thinking, I aimed my pistol, held my breath, then made it roar as I unleashed the remaining bullets in a furious hail of hope and fear. The back window blew inward in a shower of glass and the right rear tyre exploded in an eruption of flying rubber. There were two metallic pops as the bullets struck the car body and then the vehicle lurched to one side, rolled through a fence, then into the ditch with a final thud. The driver’s side door opened and a dark figure rolled out into the night, staggered a little, then turned towards the distant line of trees. I was after him in an instant, desperately trying to reload my pistol with each step, the pain in my shin now a distant haze, blocked out by the adrenaline-fuelled charge I was making.
“STOP,” I screamed, so loud that it felt like my vocal cords had torn, my throat burning like I had swallowed hot coal. The figure didn’t hesitate, only continued running, the desperation evident in the leaps and bounds he was taking across the field like a spooked jackrabbit. My legs felt like they were running on pure adrenalin, some strange propulsion that was moving me with such an incredible speed that the countryside felt like it was passing me in a blur. I was gaining on him and he knew it, each nervous glimpse followed by a groan of desperation and a quickening of his legs. He must have had the dawning realisation that his freedom was nearly at an end. I could just make out the sounds if his panting when a louder more piercing noise came rushing over the far hill. My eyes darted in that direction and I felt instant relief wash over me as I saw the accompanying flashing red lights that were now blazing through the trees in licks and splashes, first one patrol car and then another. I pulled out my flashlight and shone it towards the headlights that were now driving along the road, desperate to get their attention. I watched with relief as they slowed, turned a little, then stopped, their headlights illuminating the field before me. I pointed my pistol at the running figure one final time, barely 50 yards behind him now, then shot once, aiming above his head.
“STOP! STOP OR I’LL SHOOT YOU,” I screamed again. This time the figure came to a halt and held his hands skyward. The sobbing was what I heard first, then the pleading voice.
“Please, I did nothing, it was Loui,” he cried at me. There were two other officers now running toward us, both brandishing their own weapons, Lester Redding and Col Thomson. Lester was in the lead and screamed at the man to get on the ground. The man dropped to his knees, his hands pressed together in front him, as if in prayer. None of us even registered the fear that was on the man’s face.
“Please. I was just walking past. I did nothing.” His words meant nothing to us as we closed in, pounced on him then handcuffed his hands tightly behind him. When he was finally cuffed, Lester gave him a swift boot to the middle of his face.
“Take that you cunt,” he snarled in his thick Irish accent. I can still hear the crunch of his nose to this day. We all just stood there, silent, looking down at the now sobbing, pathetic figure lying at our feet. A small skinny man, not much older than me, scared and trembling. All of us knew we had the man responsible for the murder and torture of 14 women as well as one police officer, and that now, hopefully, the nightmare had finally come to an end.
10.
The man we had arrested was Harry Edward Lightman, of Mitcham Road, Daylesford, aged 30. He worked at the timber mill out on Jackson Street, had never been in trouble with the police and had no wife or children. The press noted his initials and immediately jumped on the fact that the Daylesford Devil had the initials of H.E.L. Close enough to Hell as far as they were concerned and the headlines that followed were straight from a Hollywood movie.
“TAKEDOWN” one flashed across its front page, the line beneath it reading “The fall of the Devil”. “CAPTURED” read another, “THE END OF THE HORROR” another still.
He denied it all, no one doubting that he wouldn’t admit to any of it. He claimed to have been walking past when he heard a commotion coming from the barn and had freaked out when he saw the
