One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Read online

  “In each case, the amount of shots fired at the victim correspond with the amount of offences knowingly committed, i.e, amount of offences that have been punished. So this one here…” he pointed at the factory in reference to last night’s victim Ian Andrews, “…has a gaping bullet hole in his face for each of the sexual offences that he has been found guilty of.”

  Saunders’ face was reddening. “How the HELL did we miss that? The third victim had four shots, four prison terms.” He was talking to the two DC’s.

  “Well, don’t worry about it. It’s a significant detail although it’s not much to help our investigation. So - he knows the full criminal history. We suspected that anyway.” Miller didn’t want too much of a big deal making about that one detail. He wound the window down. “What have you been eating in here? Smells like pig’s feet.”

  They all stayed quiet. They wanted to know what had happened with Blake. Miller carried on with what he was saying.

  “It’s obvious that the individual responsible for these crimes is very early on in his campaign. We need to grab him soon, which is exactly what I intend to do. I’ve been trying to work out his thinking. It seems now, that no matter what - he’s prepared to carry the can for whatever he does. It’s obvious from each scene that he’s obsessively thorough in his planning and if you’ll pardon the expression, execution of each “hit.” He knows that he is now in as much trouble as he ever going to be in, six murders in little under a fortnight… he’s not stopping until he’s caught. He’ll be well aware of the judicial system, he’s facing life three times over at the very least, so it’s not going to bother him, or her - if another hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand are murdered.” Miller grabbed the Coke can out of Worthington’s hand and took a giant gulp. He handed it back, burped and continued.

  “So, from what we can figure out, he’s not just some moron trying to make a name for him or herself. We’re looking for an exceptionally proficient killer, who is trying to make the news. That theory is compounded by the hardware that’s being used. We’ve not got the ballistics report from here as yet, but this one looks to be the same weapon used in the other five, the one in Sheffield is confirmed. The point I’m making is that our hit man is using some expensive kit. As you know, he’s using a Gerand semi automatic rifle, which is still one of the best and most expensive around. It can fire seventy rounds a minute with awesome accuracy, coupled with the fact that his shooting ability is phenomenally accurate, it’s clear that this person has set up stall, means business and is not about to mess up. He or she is no idiot, so let’s not underestimate the killer.” Miller’s voice was cold and affected, the tempo uncharacteristically slow.

  A silence gripped the four policemen for a moment as they thought about the observation that Miller had made.

  It really was possible that this mad-man was going to continue shooting the paedophiles. Miller was right, why would he stop now? What possible motive would there be to stop? It was an alarming thought.

  “Right, let’s get on with it. What’ve we got here?” The gaffer added a bit of enthusiasm to his voice.

  Saunders spoke up for the three of them. “The only turn up is regarding the call that was made to the victim prior to the shooting. I’ve had an incoming call log generated for the number of the factory. BT have emailed me a list of all of the numbers that have called that number in the past two weeks.” He pulled his tablet computer out of his bag and loaded the screen. He passed it over to Miller.

  “As you can see, everything is on there, including the killer’s phone call at 2.12 am. Problem is, if you look at that line where it says “origin” there is no number. On every other line you can source the call from its original, this one you cannot. Can you see where it says “exemption” beneath the other numbers? I’ve been back onto the criminal intelligence sector at BT and they say that “exemption” applies only to untraceable calls.”

  “We all know there is no such thing as untraceable calls. Are you telling me that they can’t be arsed?” asked Miller as he stared at the word “exemption” on the email. Saunders exhaled before answering.

  “Well, it’s a grey area. BT has two sources of untraceable calls. The first is not that complicated, basically - if you have a building that operates more than one hundred lines that are extensions of an original number and you have to dial nine or zero to get an outside line, that can be classed as an exemption. It just means it can be a total ball ache trying to source the original extension number. But, it can usually be done.”

  Miller burst in, “I know all this. What are you telling me?” he asked. He seemed sharper and more irritable than his team had ever known him.

  “I’m saying that it’s not the case here because the gunman must have used a mobile. So, the bad news for us is that the individual we are seeking is using a brand new generation of illegal mobile phone. Instead of being registered to a single network, this phone that BT are calling the “ghost” is any old mobile that has been modified to use primarily the network which is strongest in the immediate area. It has no number, so incoming calls are impossible, it’s basically a phone where the calls are totally free, untraceable, un-tappable and completely invisible to the network providers. Listen to this, if the call duration exceeds two minutes, it switches to the next, weaker signal, with no interruption to the call. It’s being used by the Russian Federation, the MI5, the CIA and illegally by high profile criminals who have the right connections. And it is good connections that you need, because this phone currently changes hands for about six grand!” Saunders was evidently impressed by the sheer audacity of the invention.

  “So in a nutshell, that phone is “invisible” to the networks that are supplying it with air time?” enquired Miller.

  “Essentially, yes.” Saunders was desperate to offer something to his boss, anything that might make him come alive on the case but there just wasn’t anything. “I’m sorry Sir, but that’s all there is.”

  Miller nodded his acknowledgement of Saunders’ effort then took a few seconds to compose himself, choosing the words that he was about to say very carefully. “Don’t worry about it. It’s about time I had a case like this to test me. I’m not letting some crazy vigilante topple me or my team - so heads up, play on, we’re just going to have to be better than him, that’s all. He’s going to carry on, and each new murder is going to seem easier and easier. He’s going to get clumsy, sooner or later.”

  The other officers were not sold by Miller’s address, he seemed subdued and lost. But Saunders had worked with him for six years, and he knew him better than the others. He knew that all it would take was a short, sharp, sudden burst of energy gained from a single lead and he knew that DCI Miller would be firing on all cylinders. He just needed that first piece, and the task of completing the jigsaw could start with the usual amount of energy and gusto.

  “Right lads listen, finish up here, I don’t want any loose ends at all. Once you’ve done - get yourselves to bed. I want all reports on my desk at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow. Keith, will you chase forensics and ballistics reports, you know what they’re like. Get a good rest, make sure you’re all fresh and we’ll begin the profiling in the morning. I’m off to see Dixon, see if we can set up an urgent press conference for later today. Get yourselves some sleep, tomorrow is going to be the start of the biggest murder enquiry you’ve ever been involved in.” With that, Miller got out of the car to a chorus of “Sirs” and walked along the scarcely occupied car park in the direction of his own vehicle.

  He got into his car and headed back towards his office. He turned the stereo on as he wondered whether local radio were reporting the murder yet. He tuned into the local station Key 103, and was surprised that it was the top story. The announcer’s voice sounded sharp and pacey.

  “It’s ten o’ clock in Manchester. The headlines this hour. A man has been fatally wounded at his workplace in Dane Bank in the early hours of today. Initial reports say that the man who was out
side the Porta Delco factory was shot at from a concealed location near to the building on West Gate Industrial Park. Police haven’t commented yet but there is growing speculation this morning that the case may be connected to a spate of shootings that have taken place in the city over the past two weeks. We are still trying to get the full details on that story, when we learn more you’ll hear it here first. A man who tricked his workmates into believing that their lottery syndicate had won a jackpot of three million pounds has appeared before…”

  Miller switched the radio off as a sudden nervousness hit his bowels. He hated the whole pantomime of doing a press conference, particularly nowadays with the amount of competitive news media that was dramatising every single high-profile investigation. He always suffered from terrible nerves at such occasions and it was evident to his wife Clare, who always teased him about the amount of sweat he would perspire while on TV. His light brown hair always appeared jet black, his well tanned face looked unhealthily pale due to the bright TV lights bouncing against his moist face. Miller always looked completely different on TV. The thought of Clare sniffing his shirt and pretending to be sick after the last one made him chuckle. He decided to pull the car over and give Clare a ring. It only rang a couple of times before she picked up.

  “Hiya babe, you okay?” The tired, troubled, pissed-off voice that Saunders, Worthington and Chapman had had to listen to disappeared. He sounded fresh and energetic, and totally calm.

  “Andy! Hiya love. I thought you’d have been back, I was awake from six waiting for you.” Miller was smiling, he loved hearing Clare’s voice.

  “Sorry pet, I was in Sheffield at six.”

  “Sheffield? That’s a bit off your patch isn’t it?”

  “Well, it looks like my patch just got a bit bigger for the time being.”

  “Don’t be silly - you’ve hardly got a bald patch!” Clare was laughing at her cheap shot, though Miller had seen it coming. She’s made his life hell since he’d asked her if she thought he was going a bit thinner on top.

  “Very clever, you. How are the nippers? Alright?”

  “Yeah, Leo’s been a bit bad tempered about having a bath but Molly soon sorted him out by letting him play with her Squeak Eggs in there.” Miller laughed.

  “Hey, I bet she wouldn’t let me play with them!”

  “No way! Trouble is she’s going to be taking them back any minute so you never know, World War Three might just be kicking off at your house.”

  Miller laughed again, he was completely absorbed in the conversation; everything else had disappeared for the moment.

  “Listen love, things are pretty mad at the minute, I’m going to be late home.” He waited for the familiar tone of disappointment to enter his wife’s voice. It was there instantly.

  “Oh well,” she said. Miller waited for more, unintentionally forcing an uncomfortable silence from Clare. She realised and hastily continued.

  “Don’t worry about it, just make sure you give me a kiss as soon as you get home.” She hated the selfish feeling which overwhelmed her every time her husband rang up to apologise for his lateness or absence from the family home. But it was an honest and genuine feeling, it really bothered her and she always found it very difficult to shake off, no matter how hard she tried. Years ago, it was just a part of life, but her husband had become a lot more office-hours based in recent times, and this case was reminding her of the bad old days, when it wasn’t uncommon for him to be out for twenty four hours at a time.

  Miller was well aware of how much Clare hated these silly hours, but he needed to explain to her that it was only a matter of time until he caught the killer, and a certain amount of normality would return.

  “I’m sorry babes, but things are going to get worse before they get better. Anyway, I shouldn’t be that late tonight. Do you want me to bring a Chinese in?” He knew that was always a winner.

  “Oh yeah! Lovely. I’ll have a twenty-seven with eighty-one, and get me a forty-five. That will be great.” Miller grabbed a pen.

  “Right, a twenty-seven, an eighty-one and what else did you say?”

  “Forty-five, that’s the hot and sour soup.”

  “Oh, I’ll have one of those too, and I fancy a sixty-nine.” He waited for a familiar response to the familiar joke.

  “You’ll have to try harder than bringing a Chinese in!”

  “Listen, if I get a chance, I’ll pop in if I’m passing. If you are really missing me you can see me on Granada Reports. I should have a press conference on today.”

  “Well make sure you’re wearing some Right Guard or else nobody will come forward!” They both laughed.

  “Give the kids a kiss from me. I’ll see you tonight if not before. Love you.”

  “Love you too, bye.”

  Miller disconnected the call, restarted his car and pulled off the side road. His destination was Detective Chief Superintendent David Dixon’s office, DCI Miller’s direct supervisor.

  Chapter Four

  3.00pm

  MCP Headquarters

  Miller was surprised at the turn-out, he hadn’t imagined that this afternoon’s press conference would have attracted quite the amount of press interest that it had. But now that the media had started talking about a serial killer, it was inevitable really.

  He could feel his nerves rising further as he took a quick peek at the growing number of waiting journalists, sound-men and cameramen patiently chattering with one another in the hall, as he went past on his way to a quick debrief with Detective Chief Superintendent Dixon in an adjacent office to the MCP press centre.

  Miller had spent over an hour with Dixon earlier, discussing the case and working on the official statement that was to be read out to the media. But there was a problem. Dixon had changed his mind on a substantial point that they had worked out earlier. Dixon was standing waiting for him, his parade uniform looked freshly pressed, his neat, short white hair that had earned him the nickname “Frosty” had been cropped in the time since Miller had last seen him. He’d not had his bushy white eye-brows trimmed though, Miller was quick to spot that. Dixon had a glum look about him as he held out a piece of paper.

  “Listen Andy, I know this is going to frustrate you slightly, but I’ve consulted with my superiors and I have to tell you that much of what we discussed earlier needs to be revised, specifically what we know about the motive for these murders.” Dixon’s face said it all. Miller knew what was coming, and he also sensed that Dixon wasn’t best pleased about it either. Miller knew the rules. He understood as well as anybody; shit rolls downhill.

  “Sir, if you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then we have no case to investigate. Please, tell me that I have the wrong end of the stick.” The DCI was pleading for support - Miller could feel the very last hope he had for this investigation draining away from him. Dixon liked Miller, always had; the reality of Miller becoming the youngest DCI in the force’s history was testament to that fact. But Dixon was his boss, and he too had a job to do.

  “Okay, listen to me, and make sure you comprehend the reason for what I’m about to tell you. Andy, you have to understand that we are on the same side. I have my orders, and now you have yours. We have to forget going out there and asking the public for help with these crimes unless we give a true account of the situation, specifically the motive.” Dixon looked hard at his DCI. Miller tried to speak but Dixon’s quickly raised hand commanded that he remain silent.

  “The reason, I’m instructed, is threefold. Firstly we have called the conference. It is at our request that these people come and broadcast our news. We can’t go out there and tell the population at large that we have a serial killer on the loose who is taking perfectly aimed gunshots at random victims. The main reason is that it will cause sheer panic. Now that’s a good enough reason for the first, when you consider the ins and outs of that detail alone, but the second is just as valid. If we withhold a detail as imperative as the motive that we believe we have, we will get s
ued by, to name a few; the press for tampering with their editorial integrity, the Home Office for misleading the public and bringing their office into disrepute and also, I must mention the CPS who could throw any subsequent trial out if they suspected that our evidence was obtained while pursuing a deceitful investigation. Basically, our hands are tied on this one.”

  Dixon had a regretful look on his face, but Miller was livid.

  “What’s the third reason, Sir?” he stared, equally as hard at Dixon.

  “Well, the third reason is simple. And this is completely off the record and discussable with only myself, mind you.” Dixon put his mouth close to Miller’s jaw and began speaking very quietly, just a touch louder than a whisper.

  “The third reason is, nobody, and I trust you know who I am talking about, gives a hoot about this case.” Dixon pulled back from his Detective Chief Inspector and nodded, as though confirming what he had just said.

  Miller was completely speechless. He’d been a detective for fourteen years and had never once come across anything like this. Eventually, as it sank in he spoke, battling with his rage to keep his voice quiet.

  “Sir, please tell me that you are taking the piss.” Involuntarily his temper got the better of him and his volume gradually rose so that the end of his sentence sounded like a loud “hiss.”

  Dixon took it gracefully. He knew Andy Miller well; he appreciated his temperament and dedication. Miller was searching Dixon’s face for some hint of remorse for the position he’d put him in, but it wasn’t forthcoming. He looked down at the file he was holding and then back at Dixon. As he began to speak he noticed that his words were echoing around the tiny room. He lowered his voice.

  “So, Sir, to just to ensure that we are reading from the same page - you’re instructing me to go out there, bearing in mind that there has been just four months since the discovery of Tim MacDonald’s body, who as you know was abducted from his street as he played, kept captive as some sex-toy for almost a week, raped and God only knows what else, before he was bludgeoned and left like a discarded crisp packet to die slowly at a freezing picnic site. And with still no arrest made against the perpetrator - you’re suggesting that I sit up there in front of all the media and ask outright for help in tracking down a gunman who preys exclusively on convicted paedophiles?”