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CHAPTER 1

Welcome to the Funhouse

Patricia Holmes crept along the darkened passage, trying to calm her adrenalin-fueled, ragged breathing, so she wouldn't be heard. Her feet ached from walking on tiptoes, keeping her two-inch heels from clacking on the hard concrete floor, and she cursed herself, again, for not wearing flat soles. They would have been not only quieter but more comfortable in her current stealth mode.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air like a clinging mist, a single bead of sweat rolled down the inside of her left armpit to rest against her bra strap. She wore blue pants, and a plain white shirt under her light, tweed jacket, and the air was warm and thick. Ahead of her, from one of the rooms on her right, she could hear voices. Though she couldn't make out the words, she picked two males, and one, more strident sounding female.

She inched her way to the door and rested the side of her face against the flaking wooden painted surface, trying to hear what was happening on the other side. She stiffened at a sudden slapping sound, followed by a long wail that sounded like fear or pain. She took a deep, slow, calming breath as her hand went to her hip, grasped the handle of the .38 short barrel revolver, and removed it silently.

This is it. This is what I've trained for. I must go through that door and save the victim. Am I ready? God, I hope so.

She took another breath and held it in for three seconds before slowly exhaling. Her heart still pounded, but her hand was steady. She reached for the silver chrome door handle with her left hand, and slowly turned it, hoping she would not be heard. She flung the door wide, and stepped through three hurried paces, gun moving through an arc so she could cover the room "Police, I am armed, raise your hands in the air," she screamed, trying to sound a lot fiercer than she felt.

In a flash, she took in the scene before her: two men stood towering over a young woman who sat bleeding tied to a chair. One held a vicious looking knife at the woman's throat, the other an automatic pistol. Pat had to make an impossible choice: save the victim, or herself as the man who reminded her of a longhaired rock star, jerked his gun in her direction. In a moment frozen in time, she made her decision, and prayed it would be the right one. The man who stood to the left, wielding the knife appeared to be about to cut the woman's throat. Feeling powerless to stop it, her mind flashed back in time to when she had been stabbed herself, and she fought her own panic which threatened to break free. Six feet away, the other thug's gun raced through its arc to locate her, and the barrel was moments from homing in on her chest in slow motion. There was an unmistakable look of rage on the holder's face at her intrusion.

Pat fired twice and the knife wielding man spun and fell. She then re-aimed as the other man, brought his gun to bear on her, and Pat clearly saw his hand clench to pull the trigger. She fired twice more, rapidly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him stagger backward a split second before he could shoot back.

Her heart thumped in her chest; as if it was about to burst out through her ribs; she had been holding her breath. That was when she felt a gun being pressed into the small of her back.

"Bang, bang, you're dead," said Senior Sergeant Timms. "What did you forget to do, Holmes?"

She hung her head in shame, as the two other police officers climbed to their feet, grinning. "I forgot to step to the side once inside the room, so someone hiding behind the door couldn't surprise me, sir."

"Remember, Holmes, you're no good to the victim dead. We want you to go home at night in the same condition as when you arrived in the morning, so protect yourself always. Why did you shoot the guy with the knife first and not the shooter?"

"I thought the victim would get her throat cut if I went the other way, sir."

"Bullshit. You reacted because you have been stabbed yourself. In this role-play, it turned out all right, but think of it like this: if he shot you, he would still kill the woman. The man with the gun was a far greater threat to you both than the man with the knife. Now, reload your blanks, and go back and do it again.

Pat had four weeks left of her training, and she loved every moment of it.

* * *

In interview room number one, at the Fremantle Police Station, Detective Sergeant Richard 'Rick' McCoy frowned as he questioned a nervous looking Michael Martin, who sat across from him at the desk and had so far refused to cooperate. Rick's partner, Tyler suddenly stood, hands clenched into fists, as his chair shot backward and fell over. "You're a weasel, and your life is going to be hell in Hakea Prison when the 'big boys' find out what you're in for," he screamed, spittle flying from his lips, "and make no mistake, I will make it my mission to personally ensure they all know."

As if slapped in the face, the man cowered back and raised an arm to protect himself from the punch he clearly thought was coming. "I din do nuffin to that girl, I din touch her, I swear."

Rick grasped Tyler's punching arm and pulled him backward. "Take a break, Tyler, that's an order. Michael here has just come in to answer some questions. Even though he's formally been arrested, he knows he doesn't have to speak if he doesn't want to. We know why he didn't want to come in willingly, don't we? He was probably scared something like this would happen to him, and he doesn't deserve to be treated like that. He probably heard about that other rapist last month who fell down the stairs who said he was pushed by you. He should be out of hospital next week, but it was a shame they couldn't save his front teeth, wasn't it?"

The both laughed, theatrically before Tyler turned back to the seated accused man. "Just give me three minutes with the fucking pervert, I promise you he will answer all our questions, truthfully." Tyler jerked his arm away and raised it again as if to swing a haymaker to the man's face. Michael cowered away further to the point his chair almost fell backward, and him with it.

"Tyler stand down. That is an order." Rick lowered his head, to hide the grin that threatened to break free at his partner's over-the-top acting skills. "Go and take a breather, mate; I will handle this," he said in a softer tone once he had himself back under control. He stood to come between interrogator and prisoner.

Tyler dropped his arm, and walked out silently, shaking his head. He slammed the door so hard it rocked on its hinges. Rick knew he would go to the next room and look through the one-way glass to watch as well as listen to what happened next.

Michael Martin lowered his hands — one to his lap, the other to his mouth, as he ravenously started to bite what was left of his dirty and cracking nails. Rick slowly shook his head. "You'll have to forgive my partner, Mike. The sight of Jenna's body in the shallow grave you dug for her upset him; he has a favorite niece the same age. You don't have any family yourself, do you?"

Rick sat down and picked up the fallen chair before turning his steady gaze on the suspect who would not make eye contact. He sighed and tried again: "Have you heard of DNA testing, Mike? You left a lot of it on that little girl's body, and you've got previous convictions, so we already had your DNA on file. What my partner said before I got him to leave you alone is true, you know. You can have it easy or hard in prison and make no mistake you're going to there for a long time. How you are treated depends a lot on how co-operative you are now. Play ball and we can tell the judge that you helped us when he considers sentencing, and he can set a protective custody sentence for you."

"I din touch her, Mr. McCoy, I swear I din."

"So, when forensics goes over your car, and we search your house, you're trying to tell me we won't find a single trace of her? We know you took her to your home to rape her. Do you really expect me to believe you didn't do it? And what about the witness who saw you watching Jenna in the park? We know you waited for her mother to get distracted and then you took her. Why deny it and make things worse for yourself?"

"You need a search warrant to check my digs an' car, and you don't have one, so there. I know what you're tryin' to do. I din touch her an you can't prove a fuckin' thing."

He squirmed, Rick's gaze bored into the other, knowing he was lying. He shook his head, slowly. "Listen to me, and please, for your sake, listen carefully because I'm running out of patience here. By the way, when I do run out completely, you should know something: I'm overdue for my lunchbreak. So, if I choose to, I could just go and take it, and let Tyler keep an eye on you while I do. Do we understand each other, Mike?"

He looked up nervously, clearly frightened, biting his nail down to what was left of the quick, but didn't reply.

Rick spoke quietly, and calmly, as if he were dealing with a ten year old: "We have arrested you on suspicion of the abduction, rape, and murder of Jenna Masterson." He slapped the desk hard, and the noise resounded around the soundproofed room as the man sitting opposite flinched. "We don't need to apply for a fucking search warrant, you moron. It's easy when we arrest a suspect, especially one with previous convictions for similar offences."

He paused, then lowered his voice. "Sorry, Mike; forgive me. We've been working this case night and day, and I'm very tired." He rubbed his eyes, for effect. "When we arrest a suspect, it means we can search their residence, car, and workplace, without any trouble convincing a judge when we apply for the warrant. The judge realizes we wouldn't arrest you without sufficient cause. That's why we did that with you, so we didn't have to go through all the bullshit. It's especially true so for someone like yourself; who has a long list of previous convictions for sexual offences against young girls and has been identified by a witness as being at the scene of the abduction. Now, Mike, I know you don't give a fuck about Jenna's family, but Tyler and I do. It's just he has a much shorter fuse than I. So, here's how this is going to go, if you have any functioning brain cells left that haven't been eaten away by the drugs you've been taking. You will confess, and trust me you will feel much better when you do, then we will advise the remand center you need to be looked after in protective custody. If you don't, you will be remanded, and we will send you to Hakea, and you will go in the general populace. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if that happens."

Rick leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk top while his gaze never left the other's face. His body language was of total confidence. Eventually, a sob broke the silence.

"Okay, I dun it. She teased me, doing handstands and showing off her undies. I couldn't help it."

Rick sat up, slowly, trying hard to contain his rage. "So, let me get this clearly, for the tape, Michael. You admit you abducted, raped, and murdered Jenna Masterson? Then you buried her in the bushland at the park at the end of your street?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't my fault."

"She was nine years old, with her whole life ahead of her, and you took her, raped her repeatedly, and strangled her. Nine years old!"

"She teased me; I swear she teased me. It weren't my fault, I'm tellin ya. I need rehabilitation, even the doctors tole me that."

* * *

Rick made it to the ceremony with ten minutes to spare. He sat down and looked around, half expecting to see Tom in the small crowd made up of friends and family of the inductees. He wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Rick shook his head in disgust.

He hadn't spoken to Patricia Holmes too much during the thirteen weeks of her intense training course, but when he had, she was bursting with enthusiasm for the day she would attain her Detective status. It was her long-held dream, though she hadn't the desire to go through the ranks of cadetship and uniform. She was an investigator, with psychology and psychiatric degrees, and a very good one at that.

She elected to move into the barracks, while undergoing training, as much to get away from her husband's incessant attempts to get her to quit, as to be available to study harder. As the day loomed closer for Pat to begin her course, Tom issued an ultimatum, it was either him and stop working with the police, or they were over as a married couple. If anything, that only strengthened her resolve to do better rather than make her quit. Failure was not an option for Pat, and Rick had never worked with anyone quite like her. She was the smartest, most driven-to-succeed woman he had ever known.

Hers was an unusual case; her criminal psychology, psychiatric degrees, and previous work with Rick capturing two serial killers as a consultant, meant she did not have to formally complete a cadetship. She was already well versed in Court procedure and the law, so the backing of the Assistant Police Commissioner, whose desire for her to be full time appointee to the Major Crime Squad, ensured the rules had been bent especially for her.

From the conversations Rick had with her on the phone over the weeks since she enrolled, Rick knew her marriage was in tatters, if not all but over. His fared not too much better either, despite his best endeavors. Try as hard as he might, he could not recover the glory days he and Juliet had shared in the past. His previous affair, then the manipulative serial murderer, Paul Rankin convinced Juliet that after she took him back, Rick had begun a second affair, with Pat. No matter Rick's attempts to convince her it hadn't occurred, once the seed was sown, there was no stopping it from growing and festering. That they were likely to work closely together in the future did not make things any easier for Juliet, so her suspicions and jealousy blossomed.

Pat told Rick for her; the thirteen-week course was a trial separation. Further, she added a part of her hoped Tom would come to his senses, welcome her back, and let her follow her dream and support her. The more pragmatic side of her realized that was not likely to happen. After all their years in the bank, she told Rick she'd finally seen that Tom couldn't bear the thought of losing control of her, and she was tired of his boorishness.

They had two daughters who Rick had never met: Rose and Bethany. Rose lived in Melbourne and was firmly entrenched on Tom's side, being the apple of his eye. Bethany, ever the peacemaker, who lived with her boyfriend, a doctor, in the rural city of Albany, chose to walk the middle line. She just hoped her parents would sort out their differences, and not become another middle-aged divorced couple statistic.

A door at the far end of the hall opened, and twenty-six recruits marched in single file, wearing full dress uniforms. Rick's eyes scanned the predominantly male line up and spotted Pat immediately. Her face shone, and her eyes sparkled when their gazes met, and a smile danced across her lips. If Tom could only see the look she wore, the pride and enthusiasm she displayed, he surely would understand how happy she was to be following her dream. But he had not come to watch her graduate, refusing to the last to give in to her stupidity, as he called it.

Rick's heart swelled with pride for her. He had played a very large part in supporting her role with the Major Crime Squad during their first case together: the infamous body in the suitcase murder. He soon realized the amazing work she was capable of, and it was her outstanding insights which led to the arrest of PPP, for fourteen murders. After she recovered from the stab wounds received during the confrontation with the maniacal, but extremely intelligent, Paul Rankin, Rick requested she be brought back as a consultant when the bodies of six young girls were found in a cave. Once again, it was her understanding of the warped mind of the killer that led them to him. It had also been her masterful questioning techniques which coaxed a confession from him, which otherwise could have made a conviction difficult. There had been a very real concern, that due to the complications of the case, six murder or even manslaughter charges could have been difficult, if not impossible to prove, should the killer have chosen to plead not guilty.

The recruits were ordered to halt, and stand easy, which they did with feet apart, hands clasped behind backs, and eyes straight ahead. The Commissioner, trailed by his two deputies, rose from his seat, and stood at attention, facing them. He gave a short speech of welcome into the West Australian Police Force, and a few other banalities. It was word for word what one of his predecessors had said at Rick's graduation.

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Excerpted from "Glimpse, The Tender Killer"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Stephen B. King.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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