Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (31 page)

He felt helpless, as the only thing they
could do was watch and wait for what ever happened next, or for the
voice to slip up and revel a clue that they would be able to use.
Bridger had listened to the voice talking about his mother and the
unknown police officer who visited her. Something was nagging the
back of his mind, he knew dam well that there was a culture among
some police officers in the past to take advantage of any situation
presented to them. It was a human condition, one that he knew was
not as widespread as the media tried to portray but one that had
existed nonetheless.

If only he could find out who the mother
was, he might be able to find some record of domestic violence. It
might go some way to finding out the identity of the abductor. It
certainly had not occurred in the recent past as rumors like that
would spread like wildfire in the police station these days, and he
would have heard the story. The way this male was talking it
sounded like he was a child when it occurred so that could mean
anywhere from Fifteen to thirty years ago, even more.

Record keeping and intervention in domestic
violence issues had come a long way and were very comprehensive
now, but back then they had been erratic if anything. It would
depend on the police officer who attended and how that felt on the
day. He looked over at Brian who was deep in thought, eyes glued to
the screen.

The voice began to speak again.

"
Don't worry
mother, it
’
s not serious. Just a little
blood that is all, just enough to remind you that you
are
still alive, still able to do what I need you to
do. It will not be long mother then you can go back to your eternal
slumber. I on the other hand have had a very long time to live with
what happened.

Do you know what it has been like growing up
not being able to trust anyone, not even those charged with
protecting us?

That policeman you degraded yourself for, he
was the one who found me that night. I guess he did not run as far
as you thought when father came home.

I watched father beat you, I watched you go.
I guess in some way I was happy for you. You made it out. I was
still there mother, I had not gone anywhere, and I was suddenly
alone.

I was afraid of father, of what he would do
to me now that he no longer had you. I had to do something mother,
so I took care of it myself. It was easier than I thought to kill
him. I beat him the way he did you. I kept going until my arms and
shoulders were so tired I could hardly move them.

I felt powerful for the first time in my
life; I left him lying next to you mother and walked away into the
night.

I did not get far when that police officer
came out of the darkness and grabbed me; he wanted to know what
happened. I could not speak, I tried, but the words would not come.
I was only a child.

He put me in a car and told me to wait
there. It wasn't a police car; it smelt of whisky, the way father
used to smell. It was dark, I was frightened, and so I hid
underneath a woolen coat that was lying on the seat next to me.

I must have fallen asleep, as the next thing
I remember it was morning; I was still in the car. I could not
recall the events of the night before.

The policeman was not there in the car.
Outside I could see grey clouds, through the skeleton branches of
the winter trees. He had parked outside a great big stone building
with many windows on its facade. In a few of the windows closest to
me, I could see faces looking back at me. Children's faces, all of
them lost, the anguish of loneliness that only a child could
recognize. They were faces that reflected mine whenever I looked in
the mirror.

I remember thinking that I
was finally home, somewhere that these faces would understand me,
of what I went through. I did not care that I was no longer under
my parents
’
roof.

That policeman came back with a grey haired
old woman; she looked at me with pity in her eyes.

They talked and then he said that I was to
go with her.

He did not speak about what happened back at
the house, he just got back into his car and drove away.

The old woman put out her hand and I took
it, then she led me through the big wooden doors, into the only
life I was to know for the next ten years.

They called it a special school, a place to
dump problems that did not fit into conventional life. Most of the
kids in there had real issues with themselves or the world they
inhabited.

Psychologists would come in and experiment
with different techniques; they had an entire captive audience at
their disposal. They tried with me but I was never one for sharing
my experience. To, tell you the truth mother I could not actually
remember clearly, what happened for me to be where I was. They call
it psychogenic amnesia, it happens when you have a severe emotional
trauma, it is the minds way of defending itself.

The life you subjected me to that was the
catalyst for this condition. Over the years following I pieced it
all together, I remembered what I had done, what you had made me
do. It fascinated me and disgusted me in equal proportions.

I never told anyone why I was there. It was
my secret to keep. It kept me strong.

I am not sure you deserve to hear about the
next few years of my life mother, you gave up that right a long
time ago. Suffice to say I eventually thrived in that environment,
but it took a long time for me to accept my life for what it was.
Day after day, I used to question myself, what had I done, why I
was there. The loneliness was the worst thing. You might ask how
you can be lonely in a place full of people. Well mother those
people did not love me; they did not make me feel part of
something. Everyone was there on their own journey, wrapped up in
their own existence. The other children were fighting their own
demons, all bullies and victims. The staff was just there as
referees, employed to make sure we did not kill each other. After a
while, I just accepted it and then I found a talent for helping the
other kids, I felt useful, and I was doing something. It was not
out of a great desire to help them with their pathetic lives. It
made me feel better and that was what counted. It was like a drug;
I could not get enough and believe me I had no shortage of them to
help feed my habit.

I came out of that place complete again, I
did that with no help from you, aren't you proud of your son
mother.

I am growing tired off
this; I thought it would be therapeutic to tell you about my life
after you. However, it is all academic really; we are here now, so
we might as well get on with it
.

I have scheduled the final
act for 9pm, which
is
the time you died all those
years ago. Let
us
start the final dress rehearsal
shall we. It's time we involved father in this little charade, he
needs to be part of this as well".

The music started again.
Marion
’
s
arms began moving, a strange wooden movement. The knife flashed
before her eyes as she moved closer to the comatose male staring
vacantly at her as she swayed back and forth. At first, she circled
him, swaying seductively. Like a courting ritual of an unknown
species with a white flowing gown dyed a deep red around the
middle. The arm holding the knife slashed viciously across his
chest, opening his shirt and leaving a blood red trail
underneath.

Marion sucked in a deep breath and tried not
to cry out; it suddenly became clear to her. She was there to hurt
this man. He wanted her to hurt this man, as he wanted his mother
to hurt his father, to protect him from his life. His twisted mind
had decided that she was going to make up for his mothers short
falls, and he had found a stand in for his father.

Brian looked back at Bridger; the look in
his eyes told him that he understood exactly what was going on now.
The situation was now in a critical stage. He did not need too much
imagination to realise what the final act would be. There was now a
definite deadline. Nine o'clock tonight, come what may the final
act would play out. He just hoped that had enough time to rewrite
the script.

They needed to find Marion and the male
right now. They also needed some serious luck. They needed ideas
and Bridger was right out of them. He had a limited grasp of
information technology but by the looks of the three computer geeks
hunched over their keyboard, they were not going to be of any help
in the near future. All the detectives in the world would struggle
to come up with a fair plan of action. Bridger found himself
starting to panic a little; Marion was relying on his skills as a
police officer, to keep her safe. The rest of the team was looking
at him to make critical decisions; ultimately, it would come down
to him if it all went wrong. Matthews had made it clear what he
thought of him, and what would happen when it all went wrong.
Matthews was going to be nowhere near it.

"What do you think
Mike?
”
Brian said.

"I'm all out of ideas Brian; we might not
get her out in time. I just hope we don't end up having to discover
her body somewhere after this idiot has finished his little
vendetta against his pseudo family".

"Why don't we take a look at this from
another angle", Brian said. "He has been talking about an abusive
childhood, leading to his mother dying and then him killing his
father. Something like that would surely have made the news; the
police would have attended an incident like that. There must be
records of this somewhere. Someone must have a memory of it".

"Where do you think it happened though
Brian, surely you would know about it if it happened here"?

"I'm not sure, let
’
s just work on the
assumption that it did happen here in Dunedin, the only issue is
the timeline".

"We don't know how old this guy is so we
don't have a reference point to work with", Bridger said.

"I've worked in Dunedin for my entire career
Mike, like you said; I don't recall anything like this happening.
Sure, we had plenty of domestics, but in the early days, it really
depended on who attended as to what happened. There were a lot of
big personalities working in the area with little or no real
supervision, things got done, but not always the way they were
supposed to".

"You can't cover up a murder though Brian,
and anyway why would you".

"I agree," Brian said.

"From what has been said, two policemen came
to the first call for help his mother made. One of those policeman
sounds like he took a few liberties with a vulnerable woman".
Bridger said.

"That's if we can believe what he says",
Brian replied, "He's not exactly displaying the actions of a
rational mind".

"Well it's all we've got at the moment
so let
’
s
run with it". Bridger looked over at John, "Can you get on to the
records and see what you can dig up. You find the mother, we find
the madman".

Becky cleared her throat, "Sorry to
interrupt", she said, "But as you didn't look like you were going
to include me in this I thought I better speak up".

Bridger looked at Becky; she was staring
back at him, daring him to make something of it. He could not make
out her expression.

"Sorry Becky, I didn't mean to exclude you
from this. I'm just a little bit stressed at the moment".

"Aren't we all", Becky replied, looking at
Marion and the male on screen, both were bleeding, one was
oblivious, the other dancing like a demon, a bloodied blade in her
hand.

Bridger could see the rest of the room had
their eyes on him, he did not know what was bugging Becky but he
did not have time for theatrics.

"What is on your mind Becky?” he said.

"Well in my opinion, the environment
has changed in the police. We do not stand for, or tolerate that
type of behavior anymore. Everyone has seen the fallout in the
media in the last few years from that type of behavior. It is a
fine line between consensual sex and rape if there is a power
imbalance, and as a police officer, we hold a lot of that power. If
someone has a propensity for that type of thing, we normally find
out eventually. They would have arrogance about them, as if they
were above the law. People are more likely to talk these days; you
can
’
t keep
anything secret on this job for long, the boys clubs have all but
disbanded".

"So what are you saying?” Bridger asked.

"I'm saying that we should be looking
at anyone who used to be in the job, and who worked here that might
fit that profile. Brian you have been here the longest, do you
remember anyone like that?
”

"Most of the CIB were like that when I first
joined the job Becky, even I found myself falling into the
prevailing culture at the time. We were all dinosaurs, even back
then. Attitudes were different, I cannot think of anyone that stood
out as any different. I also cannot remember anything like what he
was talking about happening here in Dunedin. Maybe the memory of
this mad man is fictional, he may have embellished the truth a bit,
or maybe the psychogenic amnesia he talks about has given him a
rogue memory. Maybe he is just a psychopathic liar and enjoys
hurting people".

"There's still a lot of the old school
around, Becky", John said, from the corner of the room.

"I
’
m not saying that everyone who was in the
police back then were arrogant rapists John, and Brian, I certainly
don
’
t think
you were. The ones who are still in the job are those that either
adapted their behavior or those that are just decent hard working
coppers".