Spawn (25 page)

“As far as I can see, the head was severed with the same weapon as the one used on the two previous victims.” He paused. “A single-edged blade of some kind. There’s rust in two or three of the wounds as well.” The older man pulled the sheet further back and regarded the remains of the body. “No other external damage. The pattern’s the same.”

“With the other two you said that there was a lot of blood in the lungs,” Randall reminded him. “What about this one?”

Potter smiled thinly and reached for a new tool. He held it before him and Randall saw that it was a tiny buzz-saw, its steel blade glinting beneath the lights.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” said Potter and checked to see if the instrument was plugged in. It was. He stepped on a pedal near his left foot and the buzz-saw whirred into action with a sound that reminded Randall of a dentist’s drill. As he watched, the pathologist lowered the spinning blade to a point just below the sternum of the corpse, then, with one expert movement, he buried it in the flesh, allowing the screaming blade to carve a path through dead flesh and bone, opening the rib cage until the lungs were exposed. A foul stench rose from the open chest cavity and both Randall and Fowler backed away.

The high-pitched whine ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a sickening crack as the older man prized open the sawn-through rib cage exposing the vital organs beneath. He picked up a pair of scissors and carefully snipped away at the lining of the chest, finally cutting into the left lung just below the trachea. As the expertly-wielded scissors sliced through the pleura, a clear fluid spilled out to be followed, a second later, by the first dark, almost black, clots of congealed blood. Seemingly oblivious to the thick red cascade, Potter opened the lung from top to bottom finally pulling open the organ with his gloved hands. Randall swallowed hard.

“Exactly the same as the other two,” said Potter.

“What exactly does that mean?” the Inspector asked, trying to look anywhere but at the ruined torso of the corpse before him. He wanted a smoke and his fingers anxiously toyed with the packet of Rothmans in his pocket but he kept his composure as best he could and waited for an answer.

Potter shrugged.

“The killer attacked from behind. That’s easy enough to see from these wounds here,” he pointed to three particularly large gashes on the lower part of the neck. “The blade was used in a type of swatting action. These are cuts, not punctures. The fact that there are no defence cuts on the hands or arms would seem to indicate that the victim was dead after the first or second blow:”

“Could the head have been severed with one stroke?” Randall wanted to know. “By a very strong man for instance.”

Potter shook his head.

“No,”

“You sound very sure.”

“Well, Inspector, for one thing, strength has nothing to do with it.” He smiled thinly. “It’s technique. When beheading was the accepted form of execution during the Middle Ages, right up to the sixteenth century, there was a certain art to it. The headsmen were trained for their job and even then it was common for them to take two or three blows to sever the head completely. And they used axes or large swords. These wounds were inflicted with a small weapon.”

Randall nodded.

“Thanks for the history lesson,” he said.

“Besides, in this case,” he motioned towards the corpse, “As with the previous two, the head was removed by a series of blows. Chopped not sliced off.”

Fowler blenched and decided he needed some fresh air. Randall told him to wait in the car outside. The young constable left, gratefully, his footsteps echoing around the large cold room. The other two men waited until the PC had departed then they spoke briskly, Randall watching as the pathologist completed the autopsy. His mind was brimming over with ideas and thoughts. Harvey. The murder weapon. But, something which Potter had said troubled him, something about strength having nothing to do with it. He turned the thought over in his mind finally dismissing it. The incident at the grocer’s shop the other night had confirmed his suspicions once and for all. Paul Harvey was responsible for these killings. It was just a matter of finding him. Randall chewed his bottom lip contemplatively. Find Harvey. That was what he’d been trying to do for nearly three months now and he was still no closer. As he stood in this cold room his men were out searching Exham and the surrounding countryside, covering ground which they’d already searched months before in a vain effort to find the maniac. Randall exhaled deeply and looked at his watch. It was 10.34 a.m. He’d been at the hospital for over three hours, ever since the corpse had been discovered in the front garden of a house on the south side of town. The Inspector had driven to the scene of the crime and then ridden the ambulance to the hospital to await the autopsy report. He had not intended to stay for the actual event but, he had reasoned, there was nothing for him to do back at his office except twiddle his thumbs and lose his temper trying to figure out just where the hell Harvey was. So he had stayed.

Potter completed his work and pulled the sheet back over the body, calling in one of the lab technicians to complete the task of sewing the corpse up again. Randall watched as the older man washed his hands at the sink, humming happily to himself as he did so. When he’d finished he turned to face the policeman.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Inspector?” he said, sardonically.

Randall shook his head.

“I do have other work to do,” the pathologist reminded him, motioning towards the door.

The policeman shot him an acid glance and headed towards the exit, glad to leave this foul place. He slammed the door behind him and headed for the lift, jabbing the button which would take him up to the ground floor. He closed his eyes as the car rose the short distance to the upper level. It smelt of plastic and perspiration in there and Randall was pleased when he could step out. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and retrieved his cigarettes, hurriedly lighting one up. He’d taken two drags on it when a voice called to him and he turned to see an attractive woman walking towards him. She wore a long white coat, open to reveal a green blouse and grey skirt. But, as she drew closer, Randall found himself captivated by a pair of piercing blue eyes. They gleamed like chips of sapphire but there was a warmth to them.

She pointed to a sign on the wall to his left which said “NO SMOKING” in large red letters. He took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it, grinding it out beneath his foot.

She had seen him emerge from the lift and, immediately, her curiosity had been aroused.

“You’re not a member of staff are you?” It was a statement, not a question.

“No.” He smiled, still gazing into those gleaming blue eyes. “You could say I was here on business.”

She looked puzzled but Randall fumbled in his pocket for his ID. He flipped the slim wallet open and showed it to her.

“Police,” she said.

He nodded.

“It’s not a very good photo,” she said, indicating the small snap in the wallet. Their eyes locked for brief seconds and Randall detected the hint of a smile on her lips.

“Is it about the murders?”

He snapped the wallet shut, his expression hardening.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, sharply.

“Because we don’t have too many policemen calling here at this time in the morning.” She studied his face, hard and lined, puffy beneath the eyes from lack of sleep. He still had some stubble on his chin from his hasty shave. “Don’t look so alarmed,” she told him. “Word does travel you know. Three murders in less than a week is bound to be news.”

Randall nodded.

“So who are you?” he wanted to know.

She introduced herself and, as he held her hand he found his gaze drawn once more to those blue orbs. She was, indeed, a very attractive woman. He looked for the wedding ring on her left hand but didn’t see one, something which surprised him. They exchanged brief pleasantries then Randall announced that he should be going.

She called him back.

“Have you got any idea who you’re looking for?” she asked.

Randall eyed her suspiciously.

“That’s police information, Miss Ford,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s probably nothing. . .” She allowed the sentence to trail off but Randall’s curiosity was suddenly and unexpectedly aroused.

“What is it? If you’ve heard anything, tell me.” There was a note of urgency in his voice now.

She explained about Harold. Falteringly, not sure whether she was making a fool of herself or not, she told Randall about the ex-porter’s background, about the examination she had carried out, and about Harold’s apparent regression. Randall listened but was unimpressed. She mentioned her search of the hut, the discovery of the blood and finally, almost reluctantly, the incident with the foetuses’ grave.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Randall. “Where is he now?”

“No one knows,” said Maggie.

The Inspector ran a hand through his hair.

“Everybody seems to be disappearing,” he said, wearily.

“Maybe it’s just my imagination but, well, he was disturbed,” she said.

Randall nodded.

“I don’t think this. . .” He asked the porter’s name again and she told him. “I don’t think Pierce is tied up with these killings. The severed heads, they’re like Harvey’s trade-mark. I can’t see that it’s anyone but him.” He hesitated. “But I’ll check “out this Pierce anyway.” He turned to leave but paused. “Thanks, Miss Ford.”

“Maggie,” she said.

“Thanks, Maggie,” he said, smiling. “You know, if every doctor looked like you the Health Service would have an even longer waiting list.” He winked and headed for the exit.

She watched him go, wondering if she had done the right thing. She doubted that Harold was connected in any way with the killings but if Randall could find out where he was she would feel a little easier. She took the lift to her office, the vision of Randall’s hard but appealing face still strong in her mind. It was a vision that would not fade easily.

Randall slid into the passenger seat beside Fowler and nodded for the constable to start the car. He told the young PC to drive out to the new psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Exham and the journey was completed in less than twenty minutes. Neither of the men spoke, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. Fowler still felt queasy at the thought of the autopsy and Randall’s mind was trying to digest the information which Maggie had given him. However, there was something else on the Inspectors mind, something not directly linked with police business. It was the doctor herself and, as he allowed his head to loll back against the head-rest he thought about those sparkling blue eyes and that soft brown hair. He even afforded himself a smile.

Messages came through over the two-way as they travelled as other cars reported in. The news was the same every time – not a trace of Harvey. Randall hooked the receiver back into place and looked up as Fowler swung the Panda into the driveway which led up to the new psychiatric hospital. What a contrast to the old place, thought Randall as he got out. Where there had been granite there was now glass. Where there’d been barred windows there was now double glazing. The entire structure looked light and airy, a marked contrast to the forbidding monolithic bearing of the old asylum.

Randall got out of the car, telling Fowler he wasn’t sure how long he’d be. The Inspector discovered that Doctor Vincent was with a patient so Randall paced up and down a spacious outer office until the head of the hospital found time to see him. He smoked six cigarettes in the thirty minutes he was forced to wait, gleefully ignoring the sign which asked visitors to refrain from the habit. He ground out the final butt just as the doctor’s door opened to admit him.

Randall declined the offer of a cup of coffee, more interested to know what Vincent could tell him about Harold Pierce. The psychiatrist seemed puzzled at first but then produced a file which included a photo. Randall looked at it, struck immediately by the appalling disfiguring scar which covered half of Harold’s face. He asked how the man came to bear it and Vincent told him the whole story.

“Have you seen anything of Pierce since he left the old asylum?” Randall wanted to know.

Vincent shook his head.

“He hasn’t been readmitted?”

The psychiatrist looked puzzled.

“Is Harold in some sort of trouble, Inspector?” he asked.

Randall shook his head and asked, “Have you any idea where he might go? Did he have any relatives around here?”

“Look, Inspector Randall, is there something I should know? What exactly
is
going on?”

“Nothing as far as I know,” said the policeman. “It’s just that Pierce has gone missing. I wondered if you might know of his whereabouts. That’s all.”

Vincent stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking hurt, as if Harold’s aberrations were some kind of personal slight against
him
.

“I haven’t a clue where he might be,” said Vincent.

The two men sat in silence for long moments then Randall coughed preemptively.

“While Pierce was under your care did he ever display any violent tendencies towards other patients?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” said Vincent, emphatically.

“What about against himself? Self-mutiliation, that type of thing?”

Vincent looked shocked.

“No.”

Randall nodded, took one last look at the photo of Harold Pierce then got to his feet. He thanked the psychiatrist for his time and walked back out to the waiting Panda.

Fowler was dozing behind the wheel, the unrepaired heater still blasting out its full fury. The PC jerked upright when Randall knocked on the window. The Inspector climbed in and, after rubbing his face with both hands, Fowler started the engine, swinging the car round in the direction of Exham. They were back at the police station in less than thirty minutes.

Randall pulled off his coat and stuck it on the hanger on the back of his office door. He took the cigarettes from the pocket and crossed to his desk, lighting one up as he did so. He slumped into his chair and blew out a mouthful of smoke in a long blue stream. It swirled before him, writhing gently in the still air, forming patterns then dissipating. He sat forward and pulled a pencil and notepad towards him then, with rough strokes, he sketched a passing likeness of Harold Pierce’s face somewhat over-emphasising the scarred side. Tiring of his attempts at art he wrote down two names beneath the sketch.