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  She stared back, and he couldn’t hold her gaze. “Go on, what’s the second thing?”

  “You’ll think me stupid, but, if that was the case, I should stay here alone, in hopes he comes for me, so I can put a stop to him abducting any more women.”

  “Why you, Rick, exactly why do you have to be the bait?”

  “Sweetheart, I didn’t choose this role, and I certainly wouldn’t volunteer for it. It’s him that’s picked me for some obscure misdemeanor I’ve been guilty of. But it does make sense to move you and Amy to safety, and then for me to lure him into the open because he thinks I’m alone.”

  “He’s made no direct threats though, has he?”

  “Nope, nothing. But, he didn’t threaten the women he abducted either. He is a sociopath, and if he makes the decision to come after me, and you are here, he won’t hesitate to hurt you.” He raised his hand and put it on her shoulder. You and Amy are everything to me. I love you, I would feel a lot happier if you stayed with your parents, if only for a week or two, just till we catch him.”

  She turned in her seat, dislodging his hand so he dropped it to her hip. “But, what if you don’t catch him for months? I can’t stay away forever. And it would be a dreadful imposition on Mum and Dad, especially now Amy has a puppy. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if you told Amy the dog stays here, and she moves out; they are inseparable.”

  He grinned and nodded. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, Minty would be an added problem, and it would be a long drawn out screaming match if he tried to separate them. “You’re right Jules, I hadn’t thought of that. But, I am worried for your safety. Could you at least run it past your parents, and see what they think?”

  “No, I won’t. You know as well as I do, Mum would say yes in a heartbeat, and then all the comments would start all over again about you and Angie, and how I shouldn’t have taken you back. I know things have been brilliant with us, and I’ve told her that repeatedly. But this would open all those old wounds all over again. No, wait, don’t interrupt, please, let me finish.” She paused, just for a moment to gather her thoughts. “I love you for thinking of us and worrying. I love that you want to keep us safe, and if there was a threat made, fine, I would move out. But there has been no hint of that. A little while ago, I was a basket case of fear over the Y2K bug thing. For the life of me I don’t understand that; as you said it was like a phobia. But this is different, and I am not scared. This is my home, and I will be buggered if I’m going to give it up over this maniac when he hasn’t made any threats.”

  Rick knew her well enough to know her mind was made up, and there was little point in pursuing it further. “You’re one tough lady, aren’t you? Just promise me you will take all precautions when I’m not here, keep doors locked, don’t let anyone in the house, for any reason. Oh, and watch yourself when you go to the shops, he seems to be grabbing his targets there.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” She gave a mock salute. “Did you want to take me to bed now and make love to me, or watch a movie first?”

  Chapter 10: My Memoir Entry - Step into My Parlor

  I didn’t rush the next killing. I wanted to savor every morsel, like eating the finest steak. At the back of my mind constantly was how disappointed I was when I finally saw Carly’s body, so I counselled myself against having higher expectations than could be delivered.

  It had to be right this time. No hurried stabbing under a willow tree, no, I wanted it drawn out. I began to realize, that was going to be the best part—enjoying their suffering and fear, before their death.

  I enjoyed thinking about it; planning how it would happen, and so on. It was at first as good as I imagined how the real thing would be. So, for a long time, knowing I was going to embark on the journey was enough. We are all creatures of fantasy, I think.

  First job had to be setting up the right environment. I had decided to use the rear garden entry to bring victims in through the house to the cool room. It was at the end of a long laneway with high-galvanized iron sheets down both sides for fencing, so it would give me the privacy I needed. No nosy neighbors to spoil the party. To that end I spent a Sunday afternoon oiling and cleaning off the rust from the hinges, making sure that the gate opened quietly. I created a parking space alongside the back shed where I had found the two bodies. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself driving in through the gate, parking by the shed, then calmly locking the gate. Inside the car she would be cowering, handcuffed, and gagged.

  Those thoughts led me to consider my car. Was it suitable for transporting a prisoner? I realized it was not. Even crammed into the boot area she could kick and make noises, which, if stopped at a traffic light, or something, could be embarrassing. It had to go, but what would be suitable? It came to me late one night, while going through a McDonalds drive through when I saw in front of me a courier’s van. Instantly I had a mental image of four sets of handcuffs positioned against the pillars of the cargo area so that a person would be spread-eagled. Then with a ball gag in place and perhaps an old rug thrown over her, she would be virtually invisible, and best of all, silent. Yes, I had decided my victim would be female. I had never had sex with one, but I knew I hadn’t enjoyed it with men. It was a no-brainer.

  Once I had made up my mind, I saw those types of vehicles everywhere, and that added to the appeal; anonymity. I would look like any other delivery driver. Where to buy one from that would ensure I couldn’t later be identified was the next question to be considered. It was then that I made my plans when the idea hit me, late one night watching a horror film. I would buy the van in a private sale, wait three or four weeks, and then kill the previous owner. No sense leaving a witness who could identify me. I would make it look like an unrelated attack like a burglary gone wrong.

  It took two weeks, but I found the perfect buy. The owner, Mr. Joel Ringwood, had resigned as a sub contract courier when his wife got cancer and died. He seemed a broken man when I visited him one Sunday morning to inspect the van he had advertised in the paper. He was in his mid to late fifties by the look of him, and not too much bigger than myself. I thought, as we were chatting away, that I would be doing him a favor.

  We agreed on six and a half thousand dollars, and I paid him in cash, that way the money couldn’t be traced. I had been hiding in an old shoe box a good part of my weekly wage, in notes for quite a while. Well, you must understand my needs were minimal. The house was paid for, so there were few bills to meet, just a few horror movies I hired each week, and my meals.

  The van showed signs of wear and tear but there was nothing ugly to make it memorable. It was the obligatory white color, and as I drove it away I thanked my lucky stars that it had recently been re-registered for twelve months, meaning I could put off transferring it into my name for as long as possible. He wrote me out a receipt in his extremely neat handwriting, and we shook hands before I drove off.

  Patience is a virtue they say, and I watched my target on and off over the next several days and learned his habits. I had made the decision to make his death look like a robbery gone wrong, but I wanted to make sure no family members came to stay with him. Seventeen nights later, I broke in through a downstairs window using washing off the line to muffle the sound of breaking glass. Once inside I deliberately made a noise he would hear and waited in the shadows of the staircase for him to come down to investigate.

  It was so ridiculously simple. It was as if I had written the script and he followed his part exactly. He walked past me on the way to the lounge room and I stepped up from behind, clamped a hand over his mouth and yanked my freshly sharpened boning knife across his throat.

  There was a lot of blood, and it was fantastic to watch it squirt out. He didn’t struggle. The genius of killing him that way, was that all his blood flow was directed away from me. I had worn gloves, as I knew a good burglar would, and once I was sure he was dead, I ransacked the house at my leisure; in no rush, whatsoever.

  I came across the money I had given him, still in an env
elope, tucked into his bedside drawer. I had to stifle my own nervous laughter for fear of becoming hysterical as I tucked it into my pocket. There was also bits and pieces of old jewelry, a mobile phone, and some other junk I had no interest in, but took to complete the picture. I crept away into the night, knowing that even if the van became suspect in the future, it would now be a dead end back to me. But, as I was driving home I realized that would be a mistake.

  We had signed a transfer of ownership form and he may have lodged his part. I hadn’t found it when I had searched, so once the cops knew his vehicle was missing they would track me down through that form and wonder why I hadn’t completed my part and paid the stupid government fees. As I now had my money back, I decided I would transfer it the next morning. I would probably be interviewed as part of the investigation, but that would add to the fun. I might need a reason for buying it, and if so I would say I was considering opening the butcher shop again and needed a van to carry home deliveries. Yes, I thought, that would work nicely.

  It made the papers, naturally. There was a sympathetic outcry: how could some callous thief murder a man who had just lost his wife to cancer? It took two weeks to find the body, and only then by a neighbor. No family had come to visit the poor old bugger. I had a good chuckle at the media’s indignation. I couldn’t help myself, I wrote a three-paragraph letter to the editor joining in with the general flow of comments saying that jail was too good for such a scumbag. I signed it ‘An Outraged Citizen’ and I laughed until I had tears rolling down my face. The idiots published it.

  Three days later, around seven in the evening, I had just finished my dinner of fish and chips when there was a knocking on the door. Call it a premonition if you will, but I was completely unused to visitors, so I knew who it was. I smiled to myself as I went to the door.

  “Mr. Rankin? I’m Detective Constable Whitaker, could I have a word please?”

  I looked at his ID and shrugged. “Sure, how can I help?”

  “It might be better inside, Sir.”

  “Oh, of course, sorry, I’m not used to the police knocking on my door at night. Come through this way.”

  I led him to the lounge and sat on an armchair, while he sat on the couch. Knowing I would be visited, I had tidied up, even vacuumed and dusted the week before. I sat quietly, waiting for him to tell me why he was there, though of course I knew. Dear reader, I cannot describe how much fun I was having.

  “I believe you are the owner of a Mazda van, registration number 1AET 165, may I ask how you came by it?”

  “Why, what’s wrong with it? Don’t tell me its stolen?”

  “Please answer the question, Mr. Rankin.”

  “I bought it as a private sale about a month ago, from an old bloke who had retired from courier work as his wife had just died.”

  “What was his name, and how did you pay for the vehicle?”

  “Joel something or other, Ringbark? Something like that. He asked me for cash, and I obliged him. Six and a half thousand.”

  “Mr. Rankin, Joel Ringwood has been murdered, his van is missing, and he never banked that money. I’m sorry to say it’s missing, which doesn’t look too good for you.”

  “What? He was such a nice man. What do you mean it doesn’t look good for me? You think I killed him to steal his van, and was dumb enough to transfer it into my name?” I stood up, went to my chest of drawers, and ferreted around inside, all for show of course. I walked back to him and held out the handwritten receipt. “Ask his family if that’s his handwriting. I value human life at a bit higher than a second-hand vehicle.” I had to hold back a chuckle at that last bit.

  He stared at it for a moment and made notes in his book. “Why did it take so long for you to transfer ownership?”

  “Because I work for a living and had to wait until my next rostered day off. Do you know how long it takes to go and stand in the queue at the Department of Transport? He was a nice old man, I felt very sorry for him, that’s why I didn’t haggle too much on the price.”

  Of course, he swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. I wondered if all police were that dumb, probably.

  ****

  The ringbolts had been secured to the wall in the cool room, the rear gates opened quietly, and handcuffs and mattress had been installed in the van. All I needed, was a victim to play with. I was ready, and experienced a nervous excitement continually in the pit of my stomach. It was edging ever closer; I could almost taste it.

  Like most things in life, when it happened, it was quite unexpected. I was at home after work, I had had my dinner which that night had been in memory of my father: polony and tomato sauce sandwiches, but, the polony was really thick; almost like slabs, and I permitted myself a second one. My favorite TV show had just finished, NYPD Blue, and I fancied a cup of tea. I learned a lot from watching crime shows on TV. Anyway, I went to make my cuppa, and found the milk had gone off. Damn and bugger It, I remember thinking, which was as close to swearing as I ever came. I looked up at the clock; it was eight twenty, and the local supermarket shut at nine. There was nothing for it, I had to go and get some milk.

  The Ford had long since gone, I had sold it a few weeks prior, and so, I took the van. I was even whistling the theme music from NYPD and every now and again would say ‘let’s be careful out there’ in the voice of the station Sergeant. I pulled up in the car park alongside a station wagon which had just parked too. I looked in the back, not being nosy, I promise, I just happened to look, as you do, and there was a suitcase. Next thing a woman got out of the driver’s side and hurried off toward the glass doors of the shops.

  My blood chilled in my veins. The bloody woman was running away, probably leaving a four-year-old in her haste to escape, just like I had always thought my mother had. Right then I knew she was the one.

  I had planned for this time in my mind a hundred times, maybe even a thousand. Everything was in place, and I felt remarkably calm. I got into the back of the van, clutching the tire iron in my hand, and waited for her to return. The minutes dragged by, until eventually I heard her high heels click clacking toward us. When I heard, her trying to open her door, I flung mine open wide.

  Time appeared to slow down for me, and I saw everything crystal clear. She jumped in shock at the noise of the sliding door crashing open and dropped her bag of shopping. I heard glass break as it hit the ground. I hit her over the head with the wheel spanner and distinctly heard the ‘thunk’ sound as it connected through her thick hair. She fell, right into my arms, and, like a ballet dancer pirouetting, and I used her momentum to half drag, half carry her inside the cargo area of my vehicle. Once I dropped her top half inside I then lifted her legs, climbed in behind her and closed the sliding door again.

  Went like clockwork I recall saying to myself. I handcuffed her feet and hands with the cuffs I had purchased some time before from the Army, Navy, and Police Surplus store on William street in the city. Next, I slid the elastic over her head and positioned the red ball of the gag in her mouth. I had purchased that from a disgusting sex shop with a lurid display in the window and I had hated every moment I spent in the awful place. I needed a gag, though, and I couldn’t think where else I could buy one from.

  I gazed down at my handiwork. She wasn’t an unattractive woman. I would guess her age was in her early thirties, probably about the same age as my mother had been when she took off. She had long black hair and a trickle of blood ran down her forehead. I couldn’t help myself and I know I shouldn’t have, but I felt her breasts, which was a first for me, and I quite enjoyed the experience.

  I was giving them a good squeeze when she stirred. I leaned over her and licked the trickle of blood away. I had often wondered what someone else’s blood tasted like and of recent times it had featured in some of the dreams I still enjoyed. That was when she freaked out for the first time, but I knew it wasn’t going to be the last.

  I had spent many long hours working out how and when things would progress, and I am pleased to rep
ort it all went as well as I had imagined. At home, I parked inside the back garden. Then, with the gate shut, I hopped into the back of the van with her, and with glee saw her trembling trussed up like a hog, looking for any chance to escape.

  I took out my boning knife and pressed the tip to her lily-white throat. “Shush, shush, Angel. Now listen carefully. Like everyone does in life you have two choices, are you listening?”

  The poor thing blinked her eyes rapidly and nodded. “Okay, first choice you come meekly inside and have some fun with me, then I blindfold you so you don’t know where you are and take you back to your car. Second choice, I kill you and bury your body in my garden. What’s it going to be? Oh, blink once for the first option, and twice for the second.”

  I thought, this was what I was born for. I had given her some hope, and she had jumped at it. Of course, she blinked once, but I knew she would look for any chance to run.

  I undid one handcuff from the side of the van, reached over her and joined it to the one on her other wrist. I giggled, just a little; she did not look comfy at all in that position, but I could hardly let her hands free while I undid her feet so she could hit me over the back of the head. Next, I unclasped her feet, then, holding the knife to her throat again I freed her last captive hand leaving them manacled together in front of her.

  “Now, we are going inside, remember be good, and play nice and I will take you back to your car. Try to run and you die.”

  Ok, I was lying, so shoot me. I held onto the connecting chain on the cuffs and helped guide her out of the van, knife at the ready. “Oh, by the way, if you scream you die too, did I forget to mention that?”

  The garden was pitch black as we walked to the kitchen door, but I knew the way. My heart was crashing in my chest. It did take a little dexterity to unlock the door, hold the knife and handcuff chain and I did sense her stiffen as she intended to make a run for it. Once I showed her how sharp my knife was by touching her arm with the blade though, she stopped.