“Mr, sorry, Jim, I really need your help.” She sounded genuine, and I felt almost ashamed of my own brutal honesty.
“I understand, Steph. It’s just that I haven’t been involved-”
“He’s back.” Now it was her turn to cut me off, and her words were enough for me to shut my mouth with a snap, the curiosity and shock on my face confirming to her that she finally had my attention.
“Who?” I asked dumbly, knowing perfectly well who she meant.
“Lucifer.” The word hung in the air like a bad smell, neither of us wanting to touch it. The silence was almost overwhelming as her eyes questioned mine.
“That’s impossible. Lightman is up in-”
“Yes, he is,” she said, not needing me to finish my sentence, although sounding a little annoyed, her annoyance not aimed at me, “I can definitely confirm that. I called the Governor yesterday morning and after having one of his guards double check for me, confirmed that Harry Lightman was reading a book in his cell.”
“Well, there you have it then,” I said, still unsure of why she had bothered to drive all the way to my house when she could have just told me as much on the phone. She opened her handbag, reached in and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to me, and when I didn’t reach for it, leant forward and dropped it in my lap. I took it, my curiosity peaking, my stomach feeling a dread I hadn’t felt in almost twenty years.
2.
The envelope contained half a dozen photos, black and white and not ones you would see published in any newspaper. They were all of the same person, a young woman, maybe mid-20s and definitely deceased. She appeared to be lying on a table, probably in some morgue and was covered in a white sheet, blood spotting it in several places. In one photo, her right arm was exposed, and it appeared that something had chewed most of the muscle tissue from her wrist to shoulder. Bits of flesh hung askew from the end of her elbow and it looked like whatever had gnawed on her, had not taken its time. The next photo showed her left leg; or rather what remained of it, half the muscle tissue missing. I had flicked passed the third, then stopped and looked at Steph.
“This proves nothing, Steph. A copycat maybe. There hadn’t been one in-”
“Look at the last one, Jim.” Her voice now sounded almost scared, wavering a little. Her gaze told me I should just shut up and do as she asked. I looked down and as soon as I saw the picture, the pit of my stomach felt as if it had been hacked into with a bone saw, the unwanted truth finally slapping me in the face.
The picture was of her face, looking pale and young, almost innocent. Her mouth was closed and if the rest of her face had not been visible, could have sworn she was grinning. But it was her eyes that dropped the anvil into the pit of my stomach, the sinewy stumps of fingers protruding out from her sockets with shiny ooze still decorating her cheeks. On the outside, I began to sweat; on the inside, I screamed.
3.
The horror that came flooding back in that instant, the dread, the doubt I had been trying to run from for twenty years, came flooding back into my mind in a hurricane of images and flashbacks. The silence in the room felt numb, my arms tingling with gooseflesh as I lost track of just how long neither of us spoke. Steph gave me the time I needed to comprehend the gravity of the situation and I was grateful for it.
I stood, walked to the window and just stared out at the countryside. There was a crow sitting on a barbed wire fence some way off in the distance and I could see it eyeing off a dead rabbit, probably chased down by a fox the previous night. It sat and stared, looked across the field to a couple of other crows nosing around in some grass, then re-fixed its focus on what would make a fine breakfast. Finally, it dropped to the ground, bobbed toward the rabbit and began to peck.
“Are you OK, Jim?” Steph finally asked. I turned back toward her, opened my lips to speak but found no words to say. I was gob smacked in every sense of the word. I closed my mouth again, walked back to my chair and plopped down into it.
“Do you think it’s him?” I finally asked her. Now it was her turn to look puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, forget the photos, the evidence. Do you believe Harry Lightman committed this murder? I mean a good cop looks at all the facts.” She sat forward a little, considered the question for a long time, then turned to me.
“No, I don’t think it was Harry, but if it was, he’d have one rock-solid alibi,” she finally said. “Chief Rademeyer told me to tell you that Harry was back and to see if it would convince you to help us.” Her voice sounded almost apologetic.
“Frank Rademeyer? You know he was my chief when I was a cop? That prick has been in charge of that cop shop for almost 30 years.” I made sure there was no apologetic tone in my voice. Frank Rademeyer and I had a history and he was not someone I had sent Christmas cards to on a regular basis.
“Will you help, Jim? Will you help me?” she asked quietly.
“Why you, Steph? I’m sorry for answering your questions with more questions but I have so many as I’m sure you’d understand. Why did Rademeyer send you here? I mean, he must have officers that are far more qualified for this? No offence intended. How long have you been on the force?”
“None taken. And I have
