BiteMarks (25 page)

“
Can I get you another drink?”

He doesn't answer and I am nervous and tense, feeling exposed and unsettled by the stillness. I rise and head through to the kitchen area anyway, opening the fridge and taking out another couple of bottles of lager. The sound of bottle tops striking the work surface is a momentary metallic percussive accompaniment to the rapid tapping beat of rain falling on the roof and against the windows.

Marcus hasn't moved when I return and set the bottle down in front of him. He nurses the warming dregs of the first bottle in his hand.

“
Say something.”

“
I don't know what there is to say right now, Shane.” 

He finally moves back into animation and takes hold of the fresh bottle, downing two thirds of it in one go, then stopping for a moment to belch before drinking the rest.

He stands up and places the empty bottle gently down on the table top. “It would be best if I left now.”

He doesn't wait for my response, crossing quickly to the door and exiting into the storm; his movements across the space between the house and the car are unhurried and unheeding of the water saturating his white shirt.

Chapter 16

In the end it's all about pain. 

The sensation is a constant but not the experience, and it is the experience that drives me, that goes to the core of what I am. You might, not having analyzed the composition of your own pain, consider it to be a purely physical manifestation, but you'd be wrong. The mind processes those different shades of hurt and it can choose to overcome, accept, or change them; receiving them in fear or anticipation or both. In that moment when the nerves beneath the surface scream or sing we can feel confirmation that we are alive in the truest possible sense, and perhaps wish that we were not.

In the silence of the full day since Marcus listened to the pain pouring out of my past and staining the present, I've had plenty of time to contemplate such things. I've thought about Brett Dodds, the Fanged Man, his life an aberration and a tragedy. A boy wounded by the actions of others through no fault of his own, but who took the pain and distilled its component parts in some hellish internal recess and then revisited those agonies amplified on total strangers. 

I've thought about those same strangers, selling their own bruised skins to the predatory and the vulnerable alike, by virtue (if the word can be permitted in such a context) of their own lives being comprised of maltreatment and pain. The vampire pimps and pedlars of narcotic amnesia feeding off and feeding this cycle of human misery; possessive of that finely honed instinct for spotting the potential in that small flicker of hope on a lost souls expression. 

I've dwelt on the actions of cowards like Strang and Moore, with their resonance of the past evils visited upon me by childhood sadists; driven by a desire to victimize whenever a small weakness or difference might present itself under a binocular stare. 

I think of Karen, driven by her obsessive need to solve the pain of others. Immersing herself in a job which is prepared to take and keep on taking without ever feeling compelled to give anything back. I believe that with each new investigation she feels reborn, renewed by fresh purpose for a time. She can prove herself to be stronger, smarter, needed in ways that she's never found in her personal life away from the crime scenes and interview rooms with their smells of fear and pain and desperation.

The job drains her life away, consuming the time with small bites that leave no marks, and she seeks refuge from that knowledge in the fleeting intimacies; waiting for 'the one' to come along and bring her back to that state where she can feel again. 

At some point I began to turn that clear gaze inwards, starting the curious dissection of the pain that drives and feeds me. I saw cycles and circles in there; the suffering as a cancer that permeates everything. I saw aspects of myself from distance, wondering idly if the detachment was symptomatic of a creeping form of madness dissociating me from my tentative emotional bonds. 

Me as a new-born, emerging screaming with blood bathed skin, nothing has changed, only now the screaming is internal and inaudible to others and the bloodstains are no longer my own. Me beaten and bloodied, at the feet of school yard bullies, outnumbered and lacking the physicality to even up the odds. Even then the mocking internal voice finding reasons to laugh darkly at the situation. They had labeled me a 'pussy' and then spent most of their free moments chasing me, lacking the ability to see the irony in that situation. 

Vivid recollections of those ridiculous sayings designed to comfort the tormented. Sticks and stone may break my bones but words will never hurt me … the pains after experiencing violence are the part that fades, the accompanying words do the damage; the taunts that we should just ignore burning somewhere deep inside and staying with us re-emerging on occasion to taunt us even further. 

The feelings of fear and rage, smothering the taste of anger knowing that it would result in more pain for me if it escaped; the anger appearing to dissipate but defusing into other places inside me and waiting. Me developing a connoisseur enjoyment of visiting exquisite physical pain on willingly receptive people, the sexual charge touching the animal core of what it is to be human. Me standing in a lonely copse with my only two friends grown still and cold, swaying gently on the ends of their ropes with ice dusting hair and eyelashes.  

A call on my mobile phone from the Inspector has been my only contact with the outside world and my only distraction from my thoughts. He'd told me in a soft voice that Professional Standards needed to speak to me about the Brett Dodds investigation, but that he'd granted me a couple of days leave to get my head together first. We were both aware of how big a deal that small act of kindness was.

I know that Marcus will have already been interviewed about the whole thing. I imagine the insinuations and subtle implications interspersed with the dangling get out clauses rolling off reptilian tongues. A stream of efforts designed to get him to open up absolve himself of blame and reveal the salivating prospect of my wrongdoing. I'd heard that successful prosecutions of serving officers were a fast track to success in the Professional Standards department, and that they proceeded with underhand tactics at every turn. I had no firsthand experience of whether these rumors were valid though, having remained off radar until this point. 

Until our last discussion I'd have trusted Marcus not to breathe a word, now I couldn't shake the image of his strange absence of expression as he left my apartment after my revelations to him. I hoped that his silence was only a precaution.

By the second day of solitude I was ready to face the music, sick of running through all of the possible outcomes in my head and decided to get it over with. I made a call to Headquarters at Burntstump, and arranged to meet with officers to answer questions about my involvement in the Brett Dodds case. 

The main police Headquarters building is no great architectural beauty, but the setting, partially concealed and well back amongst thick deciduous forest, is magnificent. As I walked from the visitors car park towards the reception, the Autumn woods came alive with bird song and the hedgerow rustle of small fleeing mammals. The colors and scents of the world are at their most vivid after an October rain, and I feel invigorated and defiant.

My instructions had been that uniform wasn't necessary and neither was legal representation, this was only an informal chat for now after all. I'd taken my legal advice by phone from an old acquaintance with expertise in such matters and I was wearing full police uniform. More than anybody, I know the powers of preparation and appearance, and I didn't trust that this would remain informal for long. 

The glass foyer feels stifling in comparison to the crisp air outside, as I announce my presence and business to the aloof unsmiling woman of indeterminate age who staffs the reception desk. Her straight hair is pulled back so hard that it appears to be receding; she barely even bothers to look up at me as she directs me to wait on one of the hard plastic chairs along the corridor. 

The chair is deeply uncomfortable and the hard tiles of the floor announce the approach of others long before they come into view, the overall feel seems deliberately unsettling. I prepare myself for a long wait; logic dictates that since I've kept them waiting to speak to me, they'll use this opportunity to redress the balance. Just as I'm contemplating asking for a pillow and quilt, I register the purposeful progress of two sets of male feet heading in my direction. I stand up as the owners of the footsteps come into sight, unwilling to allow them the satisfaction of standing over me and allowing me to assert my physicality on the situation. 

“
Shane? May I call you Shane? PC Marks seems too business-like really, and as I said this is just an initial chat to sort out some discrepancies … I'm Detective Chief Inspector Mike Watson.” I grasp the offered hand and give it a perfunctory shake. “This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Richard Daniels.”

“
A pleasure to meet you both. Shane's fine, by the way.”

“
Follow me, we'll head somewhere with more privacy and get this all over and done with. I'm sure you're just as anxious as we are to put this whole thing behind you?”

“
What 'whole thing' are we referring to, Mike?”

“
The Dodds investigation fiasco. Embarrassing stuff, of course, and like I say, there are one or two curious issues that we'd like to put to bed today. Just through here please.”' He gestures to a windowless interview room; so much for informal. 

“
Right then fellas what would you like to know?” I note that Mike's partner has yet to speak or smile, but he answers first.

“
You don't mind if we tape our discussion do you, Shane?” He reaches for a fresh packet of interview tapes, the same variety as those that I've used to record in custody suite interview rooms a hundred times before.

“
Actually yes, I do” His hand stops mid-way to the tapes. “If this is a friendly discussion then start talking to me in a friendly manner; if this is an investigation into my conduct in relation to the Dodds inquiry then cut the fucking crap and we'll get this on the record.”

“
Now who's being unfriendly Police Constable Marks?” Mike drops the 'Shane' as quickly as he drops the smile and other pretense “You're confusing me for somebody stupid.
T
he cheap psychology won't cut it with me …. sir .”

“
Okay, let's level with each other right now then. Richard and myself are investigating how and why two junior officers became involved in a serious CID investigation into attacks on prostitutes. We've had your friend's thoughts and he's now on light duties until we get your side and decide on the next course of action. You're not under arrest and are therefore free to go if you wish, but at the same time I wouldn't advise you do that if this is a profession you intend to pursue.” The threat is explicit in his tone, as is the fact that for whatever reason, Marcus hasn't dropped me in it or I'd be wearing metal bracelets right now.

“
Thank you. I still don't consent to you taping this discussion if you'd like to record that somewhere conspicuous. Now what precisely do you want me to tell you?”

Richard decides to take a turn speaking again.

“
Start with how you first got involved with this case and we'll ask more questions from there … ”

I spend a total of three hours in 'discussion' with the two Detectives, keeping the lies simple and the omissions consistent, maintaining focus. They don't believe me, doing passable impressions of incredulity and controlled anger, casting aspersions and injecting sarcastic asides about my 'miraculous' deductions. They also gradually become aware that I won't slip up, that we all know that I'm being economical with my version of the truth, but that I'm not going to roll over and give them what they want; and as this dawns on them the heat leaves the interrogation. 

“
So to conclude, what you're saying is that Marcus knew nothing about the details of this investigation, he just helped out with some inquiries because you're good friends and you asked him to?” Mike pulls a dissatisfied face as he finishes the sentence. 

“
That's right; I didn't know all that much myself to be honest. I didn't know Dodds' name or what lines of inquiry had already been followed and who'd been spoken to by CID. I just used my common sense and got lucky with the
d
entist thing, bluffing them into confirming the suspicion that he was a local man who'd had his teeth done locally.”

“
And you got that idea from searching CRIMINT?”

“
Yes, there were references to cosmetic dentistry in there which gave me the idea. Eventually, by sheer bloody-mindedness and good fortune I stumbled across the right landlord and the downstairs neighbor confirmed our suspicion that it was the right address for our man.”

“
Why didn't you call in the Criminal Investigation Department at that point then?”

“
Two reasons; firstly, I wasn't a hundred percent sure that we did have the right guy until I could gain entry and make an arrest. That was how I convinced Marcus not to call it in at various points; he's a by the book kind of cop in all respects, without my influence he wouldn't have even started out on this thing. Secondly, I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought that such a high profile collar might bring kudos with it. I want to be a Detective, and thought that this might impress them enough to allow me a place on secondment.” I do my best sheepish expression.