Death Day

    'Hello,' he said, breathlessly.

    'Hello, sir.'

    Lambert recognized the voice immediately as Hayes. 'Sergeant. What can I do for you?'

    'I've rung twice before, I didn't think you were there.'

    'I was at the…' Lambert's voice trailed off and Hayes realized that his superior had been to the cemetery. 'What's so important Sergeant?'

    'Well, sir, you asked me to tell you if anything happened.'

    'Yes.' Lambert suddenly felt excited.

    'I'm afraid we've had a double murder.'

    'Where, for Christ's sake?'

    'Elm Street. Number…' Lambert heard the rustling of papers at the other end of the line, then Hayes came back on, 'number twelve. The wife and daughter. The husband is missing. We're treating the husband as prime suspect.'

    'What do you make of it?' asked Lambert, scribbling something down on the pad beside his telephone.

    'Knifings sir, both of them.'

    'Got the weapon?'

    'Not yet.'

    'What're the names of the victims?'

    'Mackenzie. June, that was the wife, and Michelle, the little girl, aged about five we think.'

    Lambert wrote the details down on the pad,

    the receiver cradled between his shoulder and his ear.

    'Do you need me down there?' he asked hopefully.

    'Not at the moment, sir. I've got some men out looking for the suspect and Doctor Kirby is doing autopsies on the victims this afternoon.'

    'Ring me back the moment you get the results of those,' Lambert told him, 'or if anyone sees this Mackenzie, right?' He hung up, a sudden surge of adrenalin firing his body. He had forgotten about Mike for a moment, had managed to push that thought to the back of his mind. He had his work again. Now nothing would stop him from returning. He sat down, his thoughts jumbled, and read what he had written on the pad.

    Double Murder. June and Michelle Mackenzie. Husband chief suspect, disappeared. Knifed. No murder weapon found. Autopsies performed.

    What was Debbie going to say? He haif smiled.

* * *

    The phone rang again at four twenty-three that afternoon. The policeman snatched it up. 'Lambert,' he said.

    'Hayes here, sir. We've got the results of the autopsy.'

    'Go on,' said Lambert, suddenly realizing that he hadn't got a pad or pen. 'Hold it a minute,' he said, retrieving them from the coffee table. 'Right, fire away.'

    'Dr Kirby's here, if you want to speak to him, sir,' Hayes told him.

    'Put him on,' instructed Lambert, hearing the murmurings at the other end of the line. A second later, he recognized Kirby's voice. They exchanged pleasantries, then Lambert said, 'What's the verdict, John? And keep it simple, please.'

    'Messy ones, Tom, both of them. I found traces of skin under the fingernails of the woman. I would think your suspect is probably walking around with some pretty hefty scratch marks on his cheek. What order do you want them in?'

    Lambert was puzzled, 'What do you mean?'

    'The mother or the girl first?' Kirby told him.

    'It doesn't matter,' said Lambert, impatiently. There was a pause at the other end and the policeman could hear the sound of papers being rustled, then Kirby again. 'The little girl. I found six separate wounds, mostly around the upper body and neck. The deepest was eight inches, the fatal wound probably, situated just below the larynx. If it's any consolation, I think she was dead before he cut her badly.'

    Lambert scribbled details, 'And the woman?'

    'Twenty-three separate wounds.'

    'Shit,' murmured Lambert, still writing. Kirby continued, 'Mostly in the abdomen, chest and neck as before. The weapon was double-edged, jagged and tapering, which would explain the width as well as the depth of the wounds.'

    'What do you think? Butcher's knife, something like that?'

    'No. I know what it was, I've got it in my office right now. It was a piece of glass, or mirror to be more precise and the reason your boys couldn't find any murder weapon was because it was still embedded in June Mackenzie's body. I took a piece of mirror nearly fifteen inches long from behind the rib cage. It had been driven in from above, just behind the right clavicle, collar bone to you, and it had punctured the heart. I'd say that was the death wound.'

    'Jesus Christ,' said Lambert.

    'One more thing Tom,' added Kirby, as if the catalogue of atrocity hadn't quite been enough, 'the eyes were taken.'

    'Taken? What do you mean taken?' It sank home. 'Oh God, he didn't cut those out too did he?'

    'Well now, that's the whole point. My examination revealed that they were removed without the use of any external implements.'

    Lambert's nauseated anger broke forth, 'What the hell are you trying to say? Did he cut out their eyes or didn't he?'

    Kirby's voice was low, controlled, 'From the scratches on the cheeks and bridge of the nose, I'd say he tore them out with his bare hands. The fingerprints matched those of Ray Mackenzie.' Lambert tried to write down that last piece of information but, as he pressed down on the paper, the point of his pencil splintered.

    'Tom?' Kirby's voice called, 'you still there?'

    Lambert exhaled deeply, 'Yes, sorry'.

    'Did you get all that?'

    'I got it. Put Hayes back on, will you?'

    The sergeant's voice replaced that of Kirby, 'Yes sir.'

    'Get every available man out looking for Mackenzie. I want that fucking maniac caught before this happens again.' He hesitated a moment then said, 'I'll be in touch. If anything happens in the meantime, let me know.'

    He put the phone down. For long moments he stood staring at the pad, the scrawled details of the twin deaths.

    Eyes torn out.

    Lambert threw the pad down and crossed to the cabinet beside the bay window. He pulled it open and took out a bottle of scotch. He poured indiscriminately, filling the tumbler practically to the brim, then he swallowed half its contents, wincing as the amber liquid burned its way to his stomach. He held the glass, considering it in his hand, then he drained it. Rapidly refilling the crystal tumbler, he wondered how many more of them he'd need before Debbie got home.

    She found him sitting in the darkness, only the light from the streetlamp outside illuminating his dark outline. He sat still, the glass still clamped in his hand, staring out of the window, scarcely turning when she entered the room and flicked on the table lamp. The room was suddenly alive with subdued light, changing from the drab place of darkness it had been a second ago into a warm grotto.

    He smiled at her.

    'Tom, what's the matter?' she asked, crossing to him. Immediately she smelt the drink on his breath.

    He lifted the glass in salute and swallowed its contents before setting it down gently on the carpet beside his chair.

    'Would you like a drink?' he asked. 'There's plenty more where that came from.'

    She took hold of his hand. 'What's wrong?' she repeated.

    He looked at her, his smile fading. 'Last night, two people were murdered. A woman and a little girl. Do you know how old that little girl was? Five. Only five years old. They were stabbed and then their eyes were torn out. Bodily.'

    Debbie shuddered, 'Oh my God.'

    'The crazy bastard who did it is still on the loose.'

    They looked at each other, their eyes probing, searching the other's for some sign.