‘Ted, I need you to talk to me about something.’
‘Of course, dear,’ he said, placing a mug before her. ‘What do you need to know?’
She took a breath. ‘I need to know about children who kill.’
Forty
‘Jesus Christ,’ Dawson said, sitting back in his chair.
Stacey ignored him and continued tapping.
‘I said, Jesus Christ,’ he repeated.
‘I heard yer the first time, Kev,’ she said. ‘As well as all the loud sighs that were designed to get my attention in the last half an hour.’ She pushed away her keyboard. ‘And now you have it, so what’s up?’
He shook his head with disbelief. ‘You have any clue what goes on in some of these places?’
‘What places?’ she asked.
‘Schools, private schools. All the secret clubs and societies?’
She shook her head.
‘Even Yale has a super-elite secret undergrad society called Skull and Bones which meets in bloody tombs of all places. They’re called Bonesmen, and former members include presidents, supreme court justices, cabinet members and industry leaders.’
Stacey shrugged. ‘So?’
‘They use a certain number as a code for something important in their lives. Says here that the bonds between Bonesmen often supersede all others.’
‘Kev, what are…’
‘Don’t you find it all a little bit creepy?’
Stacey shook her head. ‘People like to belong to groups and shit like that. Didn’t you ever want to be part of a certain group or gang at school?’ she asked.
He shook his head. It would have been enough for him not to have been shamed and humiliated on a daily basis.
‘Oh, I did,’ Stacey admitted. ‘Year seven I was ten years old. Poppy Meadows,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Great name, eh? Well, she was the most popular girl in school. Great family, great clothes, great friends, great at everything and I so wanted to be in her gang.’
Dawson’s interest was piqued by the smile on her face. Maybe Stacey could help him understand the things he’d just read.
‘So, what did you do?’
Stacey pursed her lips at the memory.
‘She was the school’s best gymnast and her group consisted of other great athletes. So, I thought if I could impress her with my own acrobatic abilities she’d let me into the group.’
‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘Practised my cartwheel all night in the back garden. My wrists were sore by the time I went to bed, but I was convinced I had it perfect.’
‘And?’ Dawson asked, sensing this was no happy ending.
‘I waited until they were all standing outside in a group. I counted to three and performed the perfect cartwheel in front of them.’
‘Really?’
Stacey shook her head. ‘Nah, that was what happened in my head. In truth, I didn’t look before my hands landed on the ground right on top of a dying bee that stung me in the palm. I screamed and just kind of crumbled into a mass of arms and legs.’
Dawson laughed out loud. ‘Did they notice you?’
‘Oh, they noticed me all right. And laughed at me for the next two years.’
He sobered. Stacey had recounted that story not with fondness but an objectivity and ruefulness for others to see the normality of her experience. It was a fact of life.
‘But what drove you to do it?’ he asked, wondering why she’d been so eager to humiliate herself.
She shrugged. ‘For validation, I suppose. I wanted to be as cool as they were; liked, respected, adored. They were special, and I wanted to be special too.’
‘What would you have done to be accepted into that group?’ he asked.
‘Jeez, Kev, why so serious?’
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘What would you have done if they’d asked you?’
She thought for a minute. ‘I honestly don’t know. Why do you ask?’
He pointed to the screen. ‘Do you have any clue how many people have died from hazing incidents due to their desperation to get into these clubs?’
‘“ Hazing”?’ she questioned.
‘Initiation rites to gain entry. It goes right back. Stuart Pierson in Igos, Cincinnati, was taken into the forest and was found hit by a train. No one was ever charged. A kid named Michael Davis in 1994 was beaten, kicked and punched repeatedly, taken back to his student apartment and died from massive internal injuries. A kid named Jack Ivey was involved in a drinking contest, stripped to his underwear, tied to the back of a truck, driven around and left for dead. The perpetrators got bloody community service,’ he snarled.
‘But what…’
‘There are hundreds of ’em, Stace. Hundreds of pointless deaths because of these exclusive clubs that people are desperate to join, and most of the time no one gets punished. It seems that what happens at school stays at school,’ he said with disgust. ‘There’s a code of silence that fucks me right off.’
‘And this involved Sadie Winters how?’ she asked, bringing him back, subtly, to the case at hand.
‘I don’t even know that it does,’ he said, honestly. ‘But there’s something going on at that school, and I want to know what it is.’
Stacey sighed. ‘When you’re like this, Kev, there’s no reasoning with you, and this is as good a chance as you’re gonna get.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The boss told you to follow your nose for today, so it had better lead you somewhere good,’ she said, pulling the keyboard towards her, signalling the end of the conversation.
Stacey had a point and he already knew where he wanted to go.
Over the course of the last two years there were three student names not repeated on the term list. Meaning they had left the school, quickly, mid-term.
And he wanted to know why.
Forty-One
Ted placed the mugs of coffee on the table that separated the two wooden seats of the companion set that overlooked the fish pond. Ted had insisted that such a conversation required caffeine.
‘Moby died,’ she observed, as he slowly took his seat beside her. She noted that his joints appeared to be giving him trouble and pushed away the pang of sadness.
‘Yes, my dear. Just a couple of weeks ago.’
She said nothing but felt the loss of the gold carp she’d named many years earlier.
‘So, you think a child could be responsible for a murder you’re investigating?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered honestly. ‘But I can’t rule it out. Someone has to consider it.’
‘Your colleagues are less open to the possibility?’
She nodded. ‘And yet somehow it seems easier for me. Why is that, Ted?’ she asked, quietly.
Her dark mind always seemed able to explore a depth of depravity that was deeper than most normal people could go; her brain more able to accept the heinous level that humanity could produce.
‘Because the very idea of a child being able to kill, especially another child, challenges our belief in innate innocence, which is not something you have extensive experience of, my dear.’
He sipped his coffee and continued. ‘Your eyes were opened to the evil that exists around us at a very early age. You never had that blissful ignorance of the horrors that should be a God-given right. There is no preconceived notion that needs to be destroyed before you can consider the possibilities, all possibilities, however dark or misguided they may be.’
‘And are they, misguided?’ she asked, hoping he would quote some kind of statistic that would assure her that they couldn’t possibly be.
‘Not necessarily, I’m afraid,’ he said, flexing fingers that were showing signs of arthritis. ‘Children do kill, and they do kill other children. Experts have categorised them into three types. You have the ones that kill for the thrill. They enjoy the hands-on kill, torture beforehand and sometimes mutilation afterwards. Our very own Jon Venables and Robert Thompson fell into that category when they abducted two-year-old Jamie Bulger from that shopping centre.’
He shook his head and closed his eyes. ‘Those boys did unspeakable things to that child. There were forty-two injuries.’