Sylvia Thompson arrived home to find her daughter absent and surmised ten-year-old Jennifer had gone to see a friend after school. When her husband, Eric returned from work, he asked after the girl.
‘I don’t know where she is. Her schoolbag is here, so she must’ve been home. I called her friend Dorothy, but she says she left Jen at the end of the street. I also rang a couple of other friends, but they don’t know where she is either. Knowing Jen, she won’t want to miss her dinner.’
It was already dark outside and Eric worried about his daughter. He dialled all family and friends within walking distance of the house. A worrying while later, he called people further afield to see if any had heard from his daughter. At nine, he called the police.
***
Shortly after eleven, the police found Jennifer’s lifeless body. The young girl had been raped and strangled.
Eric Thompson raged at the unknown attacker and swore to extract lethal revenge. The police sympathised with his wild ranting and waited for the man’s torture to abate. They expected some measure of closure after the girl’s burial. The raging did stop, but a cold and calculating anger, more disturbing than the ranting, replaced it.
***
Sergeant Daniel Walters headed the team that investigated Jennifer’s murder. He had been involved with such crimes before and said Jennifer’s was similar to one committed seven months ago. A lack of evidence suggested neither child had struggled with the killer. He had no idea what reasoning the man used to induce them to leave their homes without writing a note of explanation to their parents.
***
Not one witness claimed to have seen the paedophile and so the police had no idea what the man looked like. Forensic experts called in to assist deduced the man might be a hundred and seventy-two centimetres in height and probably weighed around seventy-three kilograms. Fibres found at the two crime scenes led them to believe he wore cheap clothing bought from a well-known chain of department stores. Profilers believed the man to be in his twenties.
Eric Thompson often went to the police station to inquire about progress in the search for the killer. One day, whilst he waited for the sergeant to appear, he paced the foyer of the building. Walters looked down on him from behind a pane of one-way glass. He saw the clenching and unclenching of the man’s jaw. Saw hands curled so tightly into fists, the skin over knuckles was bloodless white. He saw Eric’s nostrils flare and likened the man to a coiled spring ready to unwind explosively.
After watching the distraught man for several minutes, the policeman went to greet him. When they got to Walters’ desk, the sergeant asked Thompson if he could speak freely then told the man grief could cause great stress between husbands and wives and, unless partners actively supported each other, their marriages sometimes failed.
‘You don’t want to lose your wife,’ he told the ashen man. ‘I have problems in my own marriage and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.’
***
From then on, Thompson appeared daily at the station.
***
Several days later, Walters advised Thompson that research of records of known paedophiles threw up seven possible suspects. All but one appeared to have solid alibis for the dates on which the children had been killed. The remaining suspect claimed to have been home alone at the relevant times. The sergeant tapped his finger on a manila folder on his desk.
‘Got pictures of the perverted prick right here, for all the good it’ll do me.’
He suddenly produced a mobile telephone. ‘Hang on Eric, my phone just went off.’ He smiled at Thompson’s uncomprehending face. ‘It vibrates.’ He listened attentively for a few seconds before snapping the machine shut. ‘I gotta see someone downstairs for a minute. You be okay here?’
Eric nodded. He surveyed the room and saw nobody had an interest in him. He turned the manila folder around and opened the top flap to find a photograph of a twenty-something year-old man. He had longish, light brown hair, a gold earring, deep-set hazel eyes and a vertical stripe of brown beard from the centre of his lower lip to his chin. A note attached to the photograph read, best suspect – fits all profile points. Eric turned the photograph over and saw the man’s address written in pencil on the back. He purposefully read it three times, committing it to memory. He then put the image down, closed the folder and swivelled it around to its original position. Eric sat back in his chair and silently repeated the address over and over.
The cop returned but did not sit. ‘Is there anything else, Eric? I’ve gotta go out now, so unless there’s something you need, I’ll escort you from the building.’
Eric stood. ‘No. I guess that’s it. Thanks.’
***
The following weekend, Eric called his brother in the country and asked if he could borrow his hunting rifle. He drove out alone to collect the weapon, not wanting his wife to know what he planned. Sylvia was happy not to go. Since Jennifer’s death, time away from her hate-filled husband had become precious. Eric’s employers had granted her husband indefinite compassionate leave. Whilst his co-workers were sorry for Eric’s loss, they had tired of his angry demeanour and asked for his removal.
***
Eric called at the house of Benjamin Glass on Tuesday. He concealed the rifle under a raincoat carried over his arm. When Benjamin opened his front door, he looked at Eric and not recognising him questioned, ‘Yes?’
Eric crashed into the house, shoved Benjamin inside and slammed the door behind him. He then exposed the weapon. Eric motioned Benjamin should walk to the far room. Once there, the trembling, white-faced man turned and looked at the intruder. Eric shot him in the left kneecap. Benjamin fell to the floor with a scream and clutched the shattered joint.
Eric’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘That’s for what you did to my little girl.’
‘Girl? What girl? What are you talking about?’
‘My daughter you perverted bastard.’ Eric stepped over the man and shot the other kneecap. Benjamin screamed again and his hands switched to the newly destroyed part of his body.
A voice called from somewhere outside the house. ‘What’s going on in there?’
‘I’m getting justice for my little girl,’ Eric shouted.
‘Oh God, please believe me. I never harmed your daughter,’ Benjamin pleaded. He rolled from side to side, one hand clutching each knee. ‘You’ve got the wrong man. I swear it wasn’t me. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘Oh, I’ve got the right man all right. You’re too clever to leave any clues behind, but the police know you’re the one. If they can’t bring you to justice, I will!’ Eric shot the man in his stomach. ‘And you’re going to die like a dog. You’re going to suffer the way you made Jennifer and the other girl suffer.’
There were no more protests. The inevitability of the situation brought a kind of peace to the injured man. Eric wondered if shock was numbing the pain.
He heard the voice from outside the house again. ‘I’ve called the cops. They’re on their way.’
‘What a pity,’ Eric sneered. ‘It seems I won’t be able to watch you suffer for long.’ He shot the man in his genitals. ‘Tell me it hurts, ya bastard. Scream, or something. I want to know you’re suffering.’ He kicked the man in the head. ‘If there’s a hell, you’re just minutes away.’ He shot the man in the side of his jaw and saw the flesh and bone fly away from the other side of the man’s head. Benjamin slumped into unconsciousness. ‘You lucky prick, you’ve got the easy way out.’ Eric shot the man in the ear, laid the rifle on the floor and walked to the front of the house. He opened the door, stepped through it and sat down on the stoop to await the arrival of the police.
Neighbours watched him with gaping mouths.
***
The police charged Eric with murder. The constable who made the arrest handed the prisoner over to the custody sergeant. ‘This is a sick one, Sarge. Made the victim suffer. You should see the poor slob. He’s been shot seven ways ta hell.’
***
Eric’s solicitor arrived within the hour. ‘It’s the man who killed Jenny,’ Eric told him. ‘The sergeant in charge of the investigation showed me the man’s photograph and gave me his address so I could do this. They could never prove a case against him,. They knew I’d take care of matters for them; that I’d stop him from harming any more young girls. You should speak to Sergeant Walters.’
***
The solicitor returned the next day. ‘Your sergeant Walters says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. He strongly denies showing you any photograph, let alone giving you an address.’
Eric’s eyes widened. ‘What? No. That can’t be. The file was on his desk. Are you sure you spoke to the right man?’
‘Of course I’m sure! What do you take me for? There is no file like the one you described. There never was a collection of paedophiles, as you like to call it. It is true that all known paedophiles in the city were looked at, but the police concluded that none of them was responsible for the killings.’
***
That night, Daniel Walters went for a drink with his best friend and one-time partner.
‘How’s it going with the wife these days?’ his friend asked.
‘We’re good,’ Walters told him. ‘The guy she was seein’ on the quiet zipped ’is fly for the last time.
‘No shit? You had a word in his shell-like?’
‘Nah. Funnily enough, I didn’t need to.’
{Image Credit : Photo by Nsey Benajah on Unsplash]
Peter Lingard, born a Briton, sold ice cream on railway stations, worked as a bank clerk, delivered milk, laboured in a large dairy and served in the Royal Marines. He has also been a barman, an accountant and a farm worker. He lived in the US for a while and owned a freight forwarding business in New York. He came to Australia because the sun often shines here and Australians are a positive bunch who speak English. Peter is a member of the Phoenix House Writers. He has many short stories and poems published, as well as aired on the radio. Professional actors have performed his poetry and he has featured on several literary chat shows to discuss his work. He used to read his stories and poems monthly on 3WBC.
