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The Last day |
| Written by John Thorley | |
| Sunday, 13 January 2008 | |
The Last Day
There are some things in life that you are just so sure of. One is that I could never do anything like this. Could I? Now no day in life would ever be the same. I had journeyed through life righteous and honourable; I was on the side of good. It could never be different. Now suddenly it was all gone; a doctrine so solid, so resolute, so irreplaceable had vanished like smoke into the air. What now separated me from the enemy? What had this life turned me into? It was only twenty four hours ago I sat in the large rear seat of the Lincoln. The day had been **** already. I could never imagine it would end infinitely worse.
The car braked suddenly. I was jolted from my trance and thrown forward. I had no memory of the journey during the last fifteen minutes. My mind was still at the autopsy where I had spent the last three hours. The same demonic images washed over me time and time again, smothering me, choking me. My driver let forth a volley of verbal abuse at some unseen miscreant then castigated him to me as if seeking the comfort of corroboration. I didn't hear the words. I had been a detective for twenty of my 25 years as a police officer. I had never thought even once before today that I had seen enough, but today...............yes. Maybe I can't do this anymore. Forensic pathology was an essential part of the work I did. It didn't disturb me, I had seen too many bodies for that but I could never say that it was something to be eagerly anticipated, it was just work. I'm not the spiritual type so to me a cadaver is just a shell, a place where a person used to live and now simply a source of evidence. To remain detached and remote from the personality it once was is essential for your own sanity if nothing else. That person was now no more, its electrical energy, its mind, its very essence returned to the fabric of a universe of exploding suns from where all things originally came. I've seen my share of the dead but this....don't let anybody ever tell you that familiarity dulls the senses. The dank odour of blood, cold flesh and antiseptic brings an uneasiness that has never improved over the years in any circumstances, but this? How could somebody do that to a three year old? The agony and the terror that must have been her last pitiful minutes on earth haunted me. The grey featureless city flashed by unseen. I was in another place. "We're here detective." It took a few seconds for it to register that the car had stopped. I looked into the drivers' face. "You OK?" he continued. "Yes, I'm sorry, just going over a few things in my mind." My orientation slowly returned. I thanked him and minutes later I was sitting in my office. I stared intently at the mug of black coffee in my hand as though it was some priceless artefact. I wanted to go home, the urge almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to scoop my young daughter up into my arms and keep her there safe from everything. The thought of something happening to her the like of which I had just seen was excruciating, almost physically. It would annihilate me; I knew I would never recover. I gazed out over the rooftops of the city. A thunderstorm of emotion as ferocious as anything I had ever experienced enveloped me like hot metal, burning my inside. Adrenaline rose into my throat, its bitterness making me gulp at my caffeine fix. "John" The voice spun me around. Michael Kelley, my supervisor, stood in the doorway. He started to speak then after a moment suddenly stopped. He saw the pain in my eyes, stepped inside the door and closed it behind him. We sat either side of a dark rosewood desk. Tall and broad shouldered he swept a mop of thick brown hair back with both hands then undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie before speaking. "A friend of mine from the Coroner's office phoned. He told me this one shook you up a bit. You OK with this?" I took a deep breath. This was embarrassing but worse, this was not professional. I was not being professional. I'd done this before, dozens of times. In had seen the worst humanity could visit on each other, I should be dealing with this better. "Mike, I'm OK. I haven't got a problem with this. I just forget occasionally how drug fuelled psychos can do anything." "Don't worry. I'm like you, I've been seeing it for 25 years and it still disturbs the hell out of me. I just need to know that you can remain impartial during the investigation. I don't need to tell you that we have to be careful that we don't do anything that gives him half a chance to get away with this. I read the preliminary report they faxed through." I lifted my head up and looked into Mike's eyes. They were on fire. He continued, regurgitating images that were already burned into my core. "Tortured with a cigarette, strangled, her throat cut; three major abdominal injuries, any one of which could have been fatal. John, believe me I would be quite happy to go downstairs now and stick a baseball bat into the front of this guy's head. But we can't. You know the score more than most of us." "I know." I nodded and started to mentally organise the next few hours. The interview strategy, the best tone and demeanour to adopt, how to introduce what his girlfriend, the child's mother had said. I knew that I would be professional; I would do what it takes. I would concentrate on the evidence and the law and bury the primeval instinct that simmered within me. It was going to be one of the biggest challenges of my career to be genial with this piece of ****, but it had to be done. Mike headed for the door then turned before leaving. "You've got a copy of his girlfriend's statement? She says it was him; he just likes inflicting pain on people when he's high on heroin; she says he changes into a different person. Can you believe she was actually making excuses for him! She's covered in scars herself. Tell me, is the world going to hell or is it just me?" He looked at the floor as if contemplating the unthinkable. "John, his lawyer has already been on to the D.A's office and bending everybody's ear about insanity and diminished responsibility." He bared his teeth and spat the last two words. "Nail him." I nodded. "Is he ready now, I need an hour?" "The doctor's with him now. He'll give us the OK when he's fit for interview."
Not only did the halogen lights make the small bare room excessively bright but also uncomfortably warm. I sat tall in my simple metal chair subconsciously applying all the classes on interview technique; how to impose myself on the subject, how to control the conversation and how to instil a feeling of inferiority in the suspect. These things happened on autopilot. Across the table, not moving his gaze from mine for a moment was Dennis Murray. He looked large even sitting. His face was round and red under a mass of unkempt mousey hair. He had large shoulders, biceps and a thick neck, all the legacy of previous jail sentences pumping iron. He wore the standard orange jump suit and lounged in his seat with his backside forward. His eyes were dark and sunken and the corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards deliberately giving the impression he was bored. My thoughts turned to the defenceless toddler. She wouldn't have understood what was happening. She wouldn't know why she was being subjected to this horror. I could hear her screaming. I could hear her pleading, begging for mercy. I averted my eyes from across the table and down to my notes. I wanted to hurt this thing so badly, I wanted to reach over and drive his head into the wall behind him. "If we could get started detective." I looked back up to the small diminutive man sitting beside Murray. Sixty years old, small, almost dainty with silver hair and a red bow tie standing out from his tweed jacket. His face was sickly sweet. He sat with pen in hand. "Detective, I firstly want to make a statement on behalf of my client before you ask any questions." I nodded and he continued. "My client denies any wrongdoing arising out of last night's incident. My client is a registered heroin addict and receiving treatment for this illness. He has no memory of assaulting anyone. You have no evidence that he did commit any crime last night. Under these circumstances I have advised him not to answer any questions. Secondly, my client has been examined by a doctor who has stated that his blood pressure is high and his pulse is a little fast as a result of drug abuse. The doctor stated that he shouldn't be interviewed in his present state but my client wishes to assist in any possible way he can and get this over and done with so has given his permission for this interview to proceed." The lawyer sat back slightly, half turned and smiled towards Murray as if he required a pat on the back for completing some sacred task. So, we had his permission to proceed. I hid my contempt through gritted teeth. "Well that's the preliminaries over with," I smiled at both. "We'll just let you go and forget about it then shall we." I injected as much sarcasm into the sentence as I could. I stared into Murray's eyes and lost the smile. "Last night a three year old female was brutally killed in an apartment where you spent some time. I would like to go through your movements for the last twenty four hours. Tell me, if you haven't done anything wrong why that would be a problem? "No comment" Murray yawned as he spoke lifting both handcuffed hands up to his mouth. "Tell me who was in the apartment between 8 and 11pm last night?" "No comment" "Was your girlfriend there?" "No comment" "Where were you between those times last night?" Murray didn't respond, this time he started to make a point of cleaning his fingernails firstly with the nails of the other hand then with his teeth. The questions from me continued. Sometimes he would respond ‘No comment'; sometimes he would just stare at the ceiling or into my eyes with a barely disguised smirk. Nothing I did could initiate a verbal response from him or disturb his nonchalant unconcerned demeanour. I listed the victim's injuries from the pathology report one by one with a pause in between each. I could barely keep the rising bile down but looking at the two men opposite I saw nothing but blank indifference. I asked him about his heroin habit, his sexual orientation, his pass times, his girlfriends, his parents, anything to initiate a discourse but he stuck rigidly to his legal instructions. He wouldn't speak, he wouldn't provide an alibi. Even when faced with the damning statement from his girlfriend who put him in the apartment, high as a kite at about the time the little girl died, he didn't flinch. He showed no emotion. As a last resort I showed him photographs of the little girl. First alive and well; she was smiling, opening presents wrapped in brightly coloured red paper, sat astride a wooden horse and then standing in a pretty pink dress blowing candles out on a big chocolate cake. Then naked, her eyes milky and lifeless; a bloody wound across her neck, her tiny body a mass of angry black bruising and bulges. He paid no heed to the horrors on the table before him. His face showed not the least sensation or remorse. I let a full half minute pass in silence to allow the opportunity for some sober reflection. There was none. Eventually the lawyer spoke again. "Detective, You have no evidence my client committed this dreadful act, none at all. You have no forensic evidence linking him to the scene, any weapon used or the body of this unfortunate girl. The word of this woman putting my client at the scene at the material time is worthless, you know that. She is a hopeless drug addict; she's probably forgotten what she said to you even now. You know full well she won't be giving evidence at any trial and in fact there is as much evidence that she was responsible as there is that my client did this." I had been in this situation before but not in respect of something as gruesome as this. There was a growing horror spreading up my torso like heartburn. The thought that this man could walk from the police station, a free man after what he had done was unbearable. But the horror I felt was that his lawyer was right. We didn't have enough. My mind raced as to where to go next. Murray no doubt sensed my momentary indecision. A thin, humourless smile crept across his face. Under the table my fists clenched but I knew I was helpless. I closed the notebook on the table. "This interview is terminated for the time being." I tried to speak as calmly and as ‘matter of fact' as I could. The lawyer sprang to his feet looking at his watch. "I have instructed my client to make no comment to any further questioning; you are wasting your time officer. I have a prior appointment to attend to; I trust you will contact me if you plan to talk to him again." I nodded a reply not wanting to waste my breath on a verbal response. I showed the lawyer to the door. He beckoned me outside then while putting a pair of gloves on lifted his head and said "I also trust that he will be treated properly while he is in custody. I have examined him for marks, if you get my meaning." "I do" I replied not wanting to hide my indignation at his innuendo. "And officer, please don't think that during the course of this day you will prick my conscience. The photographs were a nice try but I've been in this business a long time. A conscience is an encumbrance so I dispensed with mine many years ago. My job is to get him out of here and put any obstruction in your way that I can. I don't care what he's done." "You make that perfectly clear." I replied trying to keep a poker face. I watched him disappear down the corridor then turned back into the interview room. "When can I go?" Murray asked nonchalantly while still lounging in his chair. I continued to stand in front of him. I preferred to look down. "Don't think for a minute because your smart lawyer says that you've got nothing to fear that I'm not going to keep looking for ever until I find something. You'll have made a mistake somewhere. The body, the weapon, an alibi, your girlfriend; I promise you there will be something and I promise you I'll find it." "Oh my girlfriend might not be around too long. These drug addicts you know, notorious for accidentally killing themselves, minds are never their own. Their hold on life is so tenuous. Listen, you're so intent on pinning this on me. Have you considered you might be looking in the wrong place?" His eyes met mine full of menace. The knowing smile appeared again. My feeling of hatred almost hurt. This animal was not going to win. It was probably then that I decided that at any cost he wasn't going to win. My inner turmoil was interrupted by the shrill of my mobile phone. I broke from the eye contact with Murray and stepped out of the room. For 60 seconds I spoke with a colleague about some banal unrelated matter. The interruption was timely. The thought of putting a chair over Murray's head was becoming more pleasant as the minutes went on. I returned to the room. The thought of any more time than necessary in the company of this man was nauseating. "Stand up. You are going back to the cell. Before we speak again I need to........" I stopped mid sentence. As I looked into his face the smirk was gone. Suddenly his ruddy complexion seemed the colour of putty. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, one formed on the end of his nose and dropped into his lap. "I need the bathroom" he muttered. He rose to his feet unsteadily. I stood in the doorway holding it open as he walked slowly towards me. He was taking deep breaths as he passed and emerged from the room into the empty corridor. I showed him the dozen steps to the brown wooden door of the lavatory. Holding it open for him to enter he lifted his head up to my eye level. "I don't feel so good" he stammered as he momentarily leaned on the door before shuffling in. "You don't know how that upsets me." I replied, not sure whether this was just some ruse to prevent him being put back in the cell. I locked the door behind him. My mind was elsewhere during the brief exchange. I was telling my supervisor the state of the investigation, haranguing the scientists to come up with evidence connecting Murray to the crime scene and going through the girlfriend's statement in my head trying to ensure I had missed nothing. I had paid little attention to his changed demeanour. Whatever Murray was doing I had not considered it of significance. Only when I collected my notes from the interview room, turned off the lights and returned to the lavatory did the magnitude of the unfolding events strike me. I looked in the small spy hole. Murray was slumped on the floor at the side of the lavatory bowl. His back was against the wall and his legs splayed out at awkward angles. His mouth and eyes were open wide and he gasped like a goldfish. Both his hands pressed against his chest. He looked up at the small circle of glass through which I was watching. His eyes were wide. The arrogance in them had gone. They were now the sorrowful pleading eyes of a child. I could see him trying to form words but every few seconds his face creased in agonising pain. I turned immediately and ran to interview room. Opening the door I located the large red emergency assistance button on the wall above the desk. Putting my armful of paper and books down I drew my arm back to punch it hard. Inexplicably, the palm of my hand stopped an inch from the shiny red dome. I looked at it as though it wasn't mine. My mind was a blur. What was I doing? Was I mad? ‘This man was dying.' ‘Yes he was' ‘Who cares?' ‘Who knows? Who's seen him?' I again made to press the button but as my palm almost touched the surface the little girl came into my mind's eye. I saw Murray's eyes pleading then I saw the little girl's eyes pleading, tearful, terrified. I kept mentally playing over the argument. ‘You will go to jail' ‘Maybe it would be worth it' ‘How many lives do save by letting him die?' ‘But this is wrong' ‘It's only wrong if he walks out of this police station.' I looked out from the room into the corridor before walking slowly back to the lavatory door. It was silent. I looked in. Murray was now lying on his side. His arms stretched out reaching along the floor, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly. I turned around and scanned the corridor. I could hear in the distance the soft garbled noise of a dozen simultaneous conversations on the other side of the building. I knew no cameras covered this portion of corridor. No other room was occupied nearby. In the silence I slowly nodded to myself. I returned to the door. Murray was motionless. A thousand things flooded into my mind. ‘Two minutes should do it,' I thought, ‘that's enough time for the heart muscle to be irreparably damaged.' The seconds ticked by painfully. At last when the time came I dropped my papers, ran around the corner into the corridor covered by security cameras and slammed my palm onto the big red button on the wall.
The clock on the wall in Mike Kelley's office ticked louder than I had ever noticed it before. I sat in the large leather chair gazing down at the floor. I could hear Mike Kelley some feet away from the door in the corridor. His voice was animated. Eventually he returned and closed the door behind him. "His lawyer's been on the phone. It took me a while to persuade him that you didn't push him out a window or something. You OK? You seem to have had your fill of dead people today." "Yeh, you could say that. I tried Mike, I worked on him all the time until the paramedics arrived. He just went down like a stone. Not once did I get a pulse." "Don't worry. I know you did. I spoke to the medical people. They say it was typical of a narcotic induced attack. If they could have got oxygen to him within a couple of minutes and pumped adrenaline in him straight away he might have had a chance but......so be it." "Saves the city the time and money of a trial anyway." I added almost as a throw away. "If only." Mike stood and walked to another desk in the office and picked up a ream of paper. I looked at him quizzically for a moment. He returned my gaze and carried on. "I'm sorry Mike you won't know will you. His girlfriend, the child's mother made a full admission. She woke up after a bad trip, blood all over her, knife in her hand. She's dreamed about fighting the devil disguised as a child. We've got the clothes back and the knife, all fits." For several seconds I didn't speak. Then praying for the right response, I said slowly, "And Murray?" "Not there. If his lawyer had let him speak we might have got to the answer a little quicker." I left the room and headed slowly for the outside and fresh air.
Copyright 2008 John Thorley |
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