The Hunter Inside (19 page)

‘Who found the body?’
O’Neill asked.

‘Neighbor. Janice,um…,’
Hoskins replied, struggling to remember the surname of the woman who’s ashen
face had been the first he had seen outside the property.

‘Nothing to suggest she’s a
serial killer, I presume.’

‘You presume correctly,
Boss.’

Agents milled around the
room, undertaking the painstakingly meticulous task of making sure that no
piece of evidence, whether blatant or invisible to the naked eye, was lost.

A scene familiar to the
Special Agent who stood musing on the situation. A full minute passed before he
spoke, such was the effort required to stop him from blowing his top at the
fact that the surveillance he had asked for had not been sorted out by his lazy
boss.

When he did speak it was in
a measured tone. ‘Okay boys, listen. I don’t want you to miss a thing in here.
I want every last drop of blood and every last bit of evidence, hell, of
everything
in police custody. Whatever tests you guys can do I want you to do them twice,
okay?’

A mumble of agreement went
up around the room as the overworked forensics team learned that their stay in
the blood bath was being doubled in length by the finicky Special Agent
O’Neill, big shot.

‘We’ve gotta catch this
bastard before it’s too late for somebody else out there. It’s up to us to stop
this sonofabitch now. So let’s everybody do their job the best they ever did
it, okay?’

A second grumble went up
around the room, devoid of any enthusiasm.

O’Neill turned to Hoskins.
‘Hoskins, go and repeat my instructions to the other agents that are in here
and outside.’ The young agent rushed off, eager to fulfill his duties.

O’Neill followed at a
slower pace. For the first time in his career, he was forced to leave a crime
scene due to a slightly queasy stomach. He navigated his way through the lounge
and past the blood, not pausing to take in the gory scene for a second time,
and out through the door into the garden of the property.

He sucked in oxygen and
tried to clear his mind, as he surveyed the area surrounding the house. He saw
two areas across the garden where agents examined what were presumably the
spots from where the victim had been watched, wondering if he was dealing with
two killers. There was certainly enough damage to the victim to suggest that
four hands had done what it seemed would be very difficult for two hands alone
to achieve, and O’Neill pondered this as he took out his cell phone and dialed
Lineker’s number.

Seven seconds and five
rings later, the receiver was snatched up and the gruff voice of his boss
snarled, ‘yeah’ – in a tone that suggested he was as fed up with his career as
the furious Special Agent who now accosted him.

‘What did I ask you
yesterday?’ Anger bubbled under the surface of the question.

‘I don’t know Sam. What
d’you ask me?’ Lineker replied, in a flippant tone that did not make O’Neill
feel any better, or any more ready to calm down.

‘I asked you for
twenty-four hour surveillance of a man called Paul Wayans. Guess where I’m
standing now. Outside Paul Wayans’ fucking house, that’s where.’ His voice rose
to a crescendo as he continued, ‘And why am I standing outside Paul Wayans’
house? Because you never got up off your fat, lazy ass and sorted out that
surveillance. Wayans was butchered last night; looks like the same butcher who
put pay to John Riley. You’re supposed to be working with me, not against me.’
On delivering the final blow Sam O’Neill hung up on the call, determined not to
say anything else that he may regret and that may earn him a suspension. He was
sailing a bit closer to the wind than he would have liked, but he considered
himself correct to be angry, when his position and people’s lives were
compromised by laziness and incompetence.

He stood for a moment and
watched the agents as they went about their business, three men scanning the
perimeter of the garden while two groups of four examined the two spots where
the tall grass was flattened. A silence hung over the garden that seemed almost
eerie. This was always the same at a crime scene; the surroundings mourning the
loss of life, with a sense of the injustice of what had happened manifesting
itself in the bad air that hung in the macabre setting.

As O’Neill appreciated the
unique atmosphere of the scene in which he was involved, a car screeched around
the corner, almost rising up onto two wheels as the driver pursued a frantic
pace down the road towards the property.

O’Neill stood and watched,
wondering if this was his next, and only, break in the case. The car slowed as
it approached the property, and O’Neill wondered if this were due simply to the
huge police presence that the driver was confronted by. The small maroon
vehicle came to a dead stop outside the neighboring property and a man sprang
out, rushing towards the point around the police barrier that was nearest to
the house of the late Paul Wayans.

O’Neill took a good look at
the man as he began to walk down the garden towards him. He was an old man,
O’Neill noticed, too old surely to have anything to do with the crime, but he
would take no chances. Experience had taught him that the best place to have
his guard was well and truly up.

Tears welled in the corners
of the man’s eyes, and as O’Neill got to within a few feet of where he stood he
could hear the man as he mumbled repeatedly to himself, ‘I could have stopped
this.’

‘Excuse me, Sir. Did I hear
you say that you could have stopped this? Stopped what exactly?’ This was a man
that O’Neill definitely wanted to have a long conversation with. He seemed to
have something he wanted to say and, propelled by guilt, he just might let slip
something that could be a lot of use to the Special Agent.

The man raised his eyes and
looked at O’Neill through fresh tears that had begun to roll down his face,
managing to splutter out his name to the big Special Agent. It was a name that
was fresh in the mind of O’Neill, and he wondered if fate had helped him out
for once. He extended a hand, which the man took, and said, ‘I’m Special Agent
Sam O’Neill from the FBI. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mayhew.’

‘How did it kill him? Was
it bad?’ While he was not sure that these were details he really wished to
hear, Todd Mayhew could not prevent himself from asking them of the big Special
Agent, who decided it best not to answer.

O’Neill pondered the fact
that while this man certainly had something to tell him, he did not have a gut
feeling that the old-timer was guilty of anything unsavory. In fact, his cop’s
instinct told him that this man was going to help him, a lot.

‘Mr. Mayhew, I’m sorry but
yes; Paul was murdered sometime last night. I was going to come and see you
before this happened…’

‘I didn’t believe him at
first when he told me,’ Mayhew interrupted, ‘I thought he must be having some
kind of breakdown, but then I looked at these…’ Mayhew held out the file of
papers given to him by Wayans the previous night.

‘Listen Mr. Mayhew. Why
don’t we go and talk about this somewhere a little quieter and more
comfortable?’ O’Neill was determined to gather any information that Mayhew
might be able to give. He was also concerned that the stress of being so near
the crime scene may compromise the accuracy of the information, as the old man
grieved for his departed friend.

‘Yeah, okay,’ he mumbled.

O’Neill looked at his dazed
expression and wondered how many years were being piled on by the stress of the
situation he found himself a part of. Most people never encountered the murder
of a personal friend throughout their whole lives, and O’Neill could normally
tell within one minute whether or not they would stand up to the pressure.
About Mayhew though, he wasn’t sure.

‘Can you just hang on a
moment while I tell someone where I’m going? Where
are
we going to
anyway?’

Mayhew pondered the Special
Agent’s question for a moment before answering. Normally he would have taken
him to Chee-Uz, but he feared the memory of Paul sitting bruised and afraid
would be too much for him so he said, ‘There’s a coffee bar a couple of blocks
along from here. Is that okay?’

O’Neill nodded and said,
‘I’ll be back in a moment’, before turning and making his way past the
forensics agents that were still being kept busy by the task of gathering
anything that might prove crucial to the investigation. As he entered the house
and went into the lounge, he saw Hoskins standing with his back to him,
apparently without anything to do, and said, ‘Hoskins. I’ve got to go
somewhere. To see a witness.’

Hoskins whirled round in a
fashion that suggested he had been caught red-handed. ‘Yeah, okay Boss,’ he
stammered, an awkward expression visible across his face.

O’Neill turned and made his
way back towards the door. Before exiting, he turned and said, ‘Oh and Hoskins…
Don’t fuck this one up or I’ll have your balls, okay?’ Hoskins’ face turned a
paler shade as he mumbled an answer in the affirmative, and he watched as
Special Agent O’Neill walked out of the front door of the house.

Mayhew stood,
disconsolately waiting for O’Neill as he walked down the garden towards him. He
continued to weep lightly, but was determined to be strong and hold his grief
until he had done something that would help O’Neill. He bit his lip and tried
to suppress his grief, as the two men got into the small maroon car that Mayhew
had arrived in and made their way towards the coffee bar.

O’Neill remained quiet. He
feared upsetting the old man as he drove, and instead took the opportunity to
familiarize himself with the area around the home of Paul Wayans. The slightest
thing could give him a clue that ultimately might crack the case. He also
figured that Mayhew could use the time to compose himself, and prepare himself
for what he hoped would be an enlightening conversation.

As the streets rolled by,
he glanced across at Mayhew, hoping to see that he was fully in control of
himself. He saw a man that held on by his fingertips, his emotions threatening
to tip him over the edge while he fought to control them.

Within three minutes they
arrived at the imaginatively named ‘Coffee House’, pulling up in the sparsely
populated parking lot that was directly in front of the unimpressive grey
building. O’Neill was relieved to see that the diner was almost empty; he would
prefer to have his conversation with Todd Mayhew without being overheard. The
mall that was situated next door to the diner held more allure for the
spend-crazy residents than seeking sustenance in a nondescript and tired old
coffee house.

A small, plump man
approached the table as they sat down. O’Neill glanced at him.

‘Espresso please’.

Mayhew nodded and repeated
O’Neill’s words. The man rushed away, presumably to prepare their request in as
quick a time as possible; determined to ensure his tip was as large as it could
be.

‘You okay, Todd?’

O’Neill’s opening gambit
was always to obtain the trust from the witness he was going to question. He
was always determined to make them feel that he was on their side; despite the
fact the only side he fought for was the Bureau.

As he looked into the eyes
of Todd Mayhew, he had a feeling that, maybe for once, he
had
found
someone whose side he could be on.

Except that that was not
how it worked.

Maybe Mayhew was ready to
be on
his
side.

‘A large part of me
expected to see you guys there when I arrived.’ Mayhew said. ‘I just
hoped…well, you know…’ He trailed off as the plump man returned – not in world
record time – and placed the two espressos in front of the men. Mayhew paused
until the man was out of earshot behind the counter before finishing his
sentence, ‘I hoped…that I wouldn’t be too late.’

‘Todd, Paul was killed in
the early hours of the morning. There was nothing you could have done to
prevent it from happening.’

‘Special Agent O’Neill, I
saw Paul late last night. It must have been a couple of hours before he died. I
could have stopped it from happening if I’d have taken him more seriously when
he told me.’

‘I think I probably know
what he told you Todd, and to be honest I had a hard time believing him
myself.’

O’Neill could almost scream
at himself for thinking Wayans’ story was an elaborate cover-up. His senses
were normally so much better. But his gut instinct had let him down, and there
was only one other time that he had been so wrong with his judgments. That had
been a long time ago, and he had been a lot younger then. His judgment should
be better now.

Todd looked up at the cop,
who towered over him even when they were sitting, and replied cynically, ‘Yeah,
I saw by his face that your guys had trouble believing him yesterday.’

O’Neill allowed his own
gaze to drop to the tabletop as a sense of embarrassment overcame his desire to
meet the gaze of the old man. He owed respect to a man that he had abandoned
and who must have been so alone and afraid at the end.

‘Anyway, I don’t suppose it
matters now,’ Mayhew said, letting O’Neill off the hook. Special Agent O’Neill
was thankful of this. If the Bureau were made to feel embarrassment for all of
their mistakes they would never be able to do their jobs.