Acts Beyond Redemption Read online

  Acts Beyond Redemption

  By

  S. Burke

  A Thorstruck Press Publication

  Published by Thorstruck Press in 2015

  Copyright © 2014 S. Burke

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover recreated for Thorstruck by Poppet.

  To Catherine Chisnall for her invaluable insights

  Revelation 6:8

  And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  FBI Countdown Task Force

  New York City

  Except for the four chairs set around a table, and an oversized wall mirror, the large room was empty.

  Only one of those chairs was occupied.

  The woman stood abruptly, knocking over her seat as she did so. She gave it a kick and shoved it out of her way before flinging her long hair back with a slender manicured hand; she was agitated and it showed.

  “Hey, Mike! Get in here, man. She’s up and pacing around. She looks a little shook up,” Agent Lewinski shouted from the other side of the viewing screen.

  “Well, at least she’s doing something.” The response from an adjoining room held more than just a touch of irritation. The FBI task force had been watching for hours and the seated woman barely moved in all that time.

  “Have you ever noticed the empty space, Sheila?” said the woman.

  The Agent looked across at his partner. “What did she say? Who the fuck is Sheila?”

  “I have no idea. Hey, Mike! Mike … she’s talking!”

  Senior Agent Mike Matheson hurried in and increased the recording volume. “Well, whadya know, the bitch has vocal chords. Who the hell is she talking to?”

  “Someone named Sheila. Not us, that’s for certain.”

  “Get the rest of the team in here.” Mike whispered, despite the woman being unable to hear him.

  The woman stood still and placed her hands on her slender hips. Her stance gave the impression of waiting for a response.

  From whom?

  “Well, have you Sheila? What is wrong with you this morning? It was your decision that Paul and Martin had to go. No point you sulking about it now!” the woman, thus far known only as Eileen, said. “Paul was fun to be with. You can’t deny it. You liked him as much as I did.” She laughed coarsely. “Not, of course, that it changed the outcome. I didn’t like Martin. He was far too big for his boots. Strutting around like a rooster, and as for all that macho bullshit, he sure changed his tune when it came time to say goodbye.”

  Her beautiful face broke into a large grin.

  She sat heavily on another chair, kicking the one on its side in an absent fashion, hands moving to her hair and constantly pushing it away from her face.

  Again she stood and circled the table, ignoring the chair, stepping around it as if it had been deliberately strewn in her path. She again began pacing the way a caged tiger does, back and forth, not increasing her pace, continuing her conversation with herself. She gesticulated her anger with every movement, her hands busy, long fingers constantly wrapping around each other and flexing, then pulling on the ends of her hair.

  “Your lack of interest is becoming boring, Sheila,” she said, walking across to the large mirror that took up most of one wall.

  She gazed into it; and gently removed a tiny spot on her cheek. Pleased with her reflection, she sauntered back to the table and sat.

  “You weren’t so bored when they were around, were you? You were excited then, sure enough. The goodbyes always excite you, don’t they Sheila?”

  Her agitation now showed in her voice.

  “Haven't I always said that the gun would’ve been better? Hmm? But, oh no, not good enough for you, Sheila. You wanted them to plead. Although I have to admit it was rather fun watching Martin grovel and cry like that.” She giggled at the image it appeared to conjure in her mind.

  The group listening in the viewing room was tense, recording every word, and waiting. They worked long and hard to reach this point in their investigations. This was the pay off.

  “Did you even bother to notice the revolting mess you made?” Her tone was increasingly high and irritated. “No, of course not, getting all bloody doesn’t worry you at all! Does it, Sheila? No, you didn’t care. Why would you?” she screamed. “After all, you’re not the one who has to clean it up! Well, I’m tired of it!”

  “Sweet Jesus,” said Agent Mike Matheson.

  He cast a glance at the other members of his team. They all sat forward, tense and hopeful. Special Agent Trish Clayton was biting her nails as she watched the unfolding scene in the other room. Mike caught himself running his hands through his thick greying hair. All but three of his team had been on this case with him from day one. They were dedicated agents, and the stress of this investigation showed on their faces.

  It had been close on four years. Long, frustrating years of nothing, no leads, and what little information they did manage to secure came to a dead end and a dead body every time, until twenty-seven hours ago, when they at last had a break.

  “What the fuck? That was some performance,” Mike Matheson muttered, half to himself.

  “But was it, Mike? Was it a performance? Or is that woman in there one twisted piece of goods? I think she honestly believed she was talking to another person. Don’t you?” asked Trish, and walked up to the two way mirror as if, by standing close to it, she could absorb some hidden truth.

  Trish Clayton was a fine agent. Mike simply didn’t know how to respond, and opted for safe ground. “It looked that way, Trish, but it’s not up to any of us here to make that call, thank God. Let’s leave that to the shrinks, shall we? I’ll say this much for her.” He turned his head and indicated the two-way mirror. “She is either a damned fine actress or her headspace is seriously overcrowded.”

  “Hey, Mike, what in hell is she doing now?" asked a junior team member.

  The woman they knew as Eileen now stood in front of the mirror. She remained unmoving at first, then gathered her mass of long hair and wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse until her cleavage was exposed. Then she began to suck on her fingers one at a time. She placed each one deep in her mouth and withdrew it, very slowly, finishing each finger off with a flick of her tongue, moving tantalizingly on to the next, her free hand stroking her torso with deliberately provocative moves.

  The entire room seemed mesmerised.

  “Jesus Holy Christ,” one of the males managed to murmur.

  “Jesus had nothing whatsoever to do with that erotic little performance, boys,” said Trish Clayton, not quite succeeding in smothering a smile.

  Most of the male members of the task force shook their heads in an
attempt to clear the images from their minds. They were all embarrassed at being exposed.

  This case from its beginnings had been a sick form of a reality show, only there were no prizes. Eighteen of the contestants had paid the highest price of all.

  “When’s Cantrell due to arrive?” Mike Matheson asked, throwing the question to the packed room.

  “His plane got in about an hour ago. He's coming straight here, said he was anxious to begin. Not a bad attitude after a long flight, huh?” The young agent was about to say more, but the surly look on his commander’s face stopped him cold.

  Mike looked again at the photographs pinned next to each name on the board in front of him, and shuddered. Even after all this time they still made him sick, clean through to his soul.

  They were all Polaroid shots- self-developing- two for each victim.

  How well he remembered the first one.

  The picture had been sent to the editor of ‘The Times’. It showed victim number one, Quentin Hamersley, bound in what looked like duct tape. The eyes were uncovered in each instance.

  On the back of the picture was written, ‘Help me. You have seven days to find me. If not, I will die!’

  The editor immediately contacted the police. The threat was taken seriously and the police worked frantically against the clock, to no avail. Exactly eight days after the first photo, the editor received photo number two.

  It was another Polaroid shot.

  This time, it was Quentin Hamersley’s severed head sitting in a bloodied mass in the middle of a wooden table.

  On the back was printed, in blood, ‘TIME’S UP’, and a map location where the head and other remains could be located.

  The murders continued, without discernible pattern. There was no tie in with specific days, or lunar activity. The dates were seemingly random. The FBI and the police worked hand in hand across every state in the union, trying without success to locate the perpetrator and identify the growing number of victims.

  The case made no sense from the outset. With the exception of their first victim, Quentin Hamersley, none had been reported missing.

  Identifying them became a nightmare in itself, despite front page coverage in every possible newspaper, and prime time appeals on television to the general public to identify the first photograph of each victim. It took months in most instances to attach a name to the deceased; three of them remained John Doe.

  The newspapers and television had a countdown running. Every time a new photo arrived the headlines would scream, ‘Countdown to day eight.’

  On the eighth day, the gruesome evidence of death arrived, each with the same death message, and a location.

  Eighteen men were dead. Butchered.

  Until now the law enforcement agencies had no idea who, or where, the perpetrator was. The missing persons came from all over the map. Every lead fizzled into a stone cold nothing. Frustrating years passed of being asked, “Why? Why can’t you find the killer? Why aren’t you doing more? Why are the killings continuing?”

  Three of the team resigned in the first two years, sick of memorial services and no answers. Those that remained were weary, and convinced this case would lay guiltily around their shoulders for the remainder of their careers.

  Task force leader, Senior Agent Mike Matheson, wished now he had taken Doctor Nigel Cantrell more seriously when they last met. The death toll at that point had been six.

  In the face of all the psychology profiler experts- each adamantly concurring they were looking for one or possibly more male perpetrators - Doctor Cantrell’s lone opinion that they should focus on a female was considered, very briefly.

  It was not disregarded entirely, but it was relegated to the bottom of the priority list.

  The big man ran his hands through his hair. Mike hoped Dr Cantrell would not waste much time on ‘I told you so’. They had too many unanswered questions that needed answers fast.

  “The Doc’s here, Mike,” said one of the uniformed officers later that day.

  Doctor Nigel Cantrell walked into the room and shook Mike Matheson’s outstretched hand. He wasn’t quite as tall as the big agent, yet he gave the impression of height. His blond hair was long, a surprise to many, given his profession, as was the jagged scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to the edge of his strong jawline, marring the side of an otherwise handsome face. The expensive suit he wore did nothing to hide his muscular build.

  “Doctor, have you had a chance to familiarize yourself with the interview transcripts?” Mike asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

  “Yes, your people got them to me. I read them on the plane,” he answered. “Not all that unusual that she refused to talk initially. However, I’m told she has been more than a little vocal this past hour or so. I need to see the tape of all that has happened in the past twenty-seven hours. If I may, of course?”

  “Thanks for not wasting valuable time, Doctor.” Mike began. He then cleared his throat. “Doctor, about the last time you were here …”

  The doctor raised his hand and forestalled him. “As you said, let’s not waste any more time, Agent Matheson. The general consensus had to be applied. That’s understood. Now if you’ll be good enough to arrange the viewing room, I'll make a start. Oh, ah, one more thing I need.”

  “Of course. What is it?” asked Mike.

  “If you could have someone arrange a very large coffee, with cream and sugar, thanks,” was the response.

  An hour passed, then two. During that time, the woman sat with her back to the mirror, silent and unmoving, as if she knew something different happened, and simply waited for it to unfold.

  The doctor returned to the viewing room wiping his glasses with his shirt. “What’s the confirmed body count at this time?”

  “Eighteen, three not as yet positively identified,” Mike said. “Let me recap. All the victims were male, Caucasian, and to the best of our knowledge, heterosexual.”

  The agent began ticking the points off on his large thick fingers. “All aged between twenty and twenty-eight years according to the autopsy reports. All athletically built.”

  “Other common denominators?" queried Nigel Cantrell.

  “One very important one. All of those we have identified were foundlings, all supposedly raised in institutions. No driver's license applications, no social security numbers, no record of employment. Nothing. They appear not to have existed until a year or so before they turned up dead.”

  “Someone, somewhere, must have known these men. What age did they reappear? What about their schools, their friends?” Cantrell asked.

  “There are no records of them at any school in the country.”

  “That’s impossible. They would have interacted in some way with someone. They can’t have existed in a vacuum until … what? Around twenty-three years old?”

  “That’s the best median age we can come up with, from the chief medical examiner. He also noted one more similarity. The heads we recovered; it appears something has been removed from behind the right ear of each victim. A small subcutaneous insertion, leaving a flap of unhealed skin, therefore removed after death.”

  “An implant of some sort? In all of them?”

  “Looks that way. What it was … we don’t know. I’ve never worked a case anything like this one.” When no further remark appeared forthcoming from Nigel Cantrell, Mike Matheson continued. “Because the information is random, it has taken a good while to realize there is another pattern of sorts. It may mean nothing. Then again, it may mean a great deal.”

  The Doctor waited.

  “The victim’s first names,” Mike said, pointing to one of the lists on the white board as he spoke. “Each letter of the alphabet is used once only. There are no repetitions. It’s unusual, especially given that some of the victim’s names are common. If we take the entire alphabet, there are eleven unused letters.” He moved across to the large white board, pointing. “A, E, H, I, L, M, N, O, P, S and W. Is it possible there are still e
leven missing bodies out there, Doctor?”

  “I wish I could answer that. May I call you Mike?” The man nodded and Cantrell went on. “I wish I could reassure all of you that there are no more, but I can’t. Not yet,” was the cryptic response. “It’s almost as if their names were drawn from a barrel, containing letters of the alphabet.”

  “Good God, man! These deaths go back years. Do you understand the significance of that? If that- whatever the hell she is- in there,” and Mike jerked his thumb towards the other room. “If she is responsible for this mess, she would have only been around twenty-years-old when it began. What sort of animal is she?”

  The doctor made no comment. Something appeared to be bothering him. He stood in front of the large whiteboard, taking notes as he read.

  Mike spoke again, pointing once more to the board as he did. “The list of dates is for when photograph number one was received by The Times. The period between victims is sporadic, no discernible patterns. Some remained John Does well after the first picture was received. Identification proved difficult, impossible for a few. Nobody wanted to lay claim to knowing them. Identifications came from people that had only met or known the victims vaguely, and none of the deceased except number one were claimed for burial by friends or relatives. No one knew the victims for longer than a year, in most cases only months. These people simply didn’t exist. We were able to have the remaining details on the back of each photograph withheld. The editor of The Times is a reasonable man. When the second photograph was received the latitude and longitude of the location of each severed head was included. To make certain, we treated this seriously and not as a hoax. The murderer guaranteed we would have proof of death.”

  Mike stared at the list of names and dates.

  QUENTIN Hamersley - March 17

  BRAD Collingsworth - March 28