Jon Evans - Dark Places

When it was all over she gave us a curt thank-you and began packing her notes and recorder into a briefcase. Talena and I looked at one another and I said "Can you give us some idea of what happens next?"

She looked at me as if amazed by my temerity, but she answered. "Eventually, if everything goes well, you we be called upon to repeat some of this in a court of law."

"But… I mean, what are the chances of everything going well? Are you going to go out and arrest Morgan Jackson tomorrow, or is Scotland Yard going to get him when he gets back to Leeds, or… what?"

"Frankly, Mr. Wood, I'm very reluctant to tell you anything at all about our investigatory process, given your well-documented history of running off half-cocked and nearly getting yourself killed."

She looked at me, and she had a scary intense look, but I think I had one too.

"Paul," Talena said, putting her hand on my arm, "I think we should go."

I shrugged her hand away and leaned forward. "Because I don't think anyone's going to arrest him at all," I said. "I think all this information is going to go into your infobase, and Mr. de Vries is going to try to go after the other killer, the one who killed the South Africans. But I think we all know he's not going to get anywhere. And I think we all know that nobody's going to arrest Morgan Jackson."

"Mr. Wood," Agent Turner said sharply, "your cynicism does you no credit."

"So you think he's going to be arrested?"

"I guarantee you that this case will be pursued with as much vigor as any other Interpol case I have ever seen."

I laughed, putting as much contempt into my voice as I could, and sat back in my chair. "Now that is a very revealing answer."

"Look, Mr. Wood," Agent Turner said, and she sounded almost conciliatory, "I want to stress that you have done the right thing. You've gone to the appropriate authorities, and I will be opening a real live wire of an investigation on this case. You can sit back. Morgan Jackson is no longer your problem and you should leave him alone."

"You mean you can envision Morgan Jackson being arrested?"

"I certainly can."

"All right. Then I have two questions. In this pretty little vision you have, who is arresting him, and on what charge?"

She didn't answer me, just looked back at me and gave a little shake of her head.

"That's what I thought," I said. "This doesn't change anything. I don't know shit about international law, but I do know it's basically toothless."

"I do know something about international law," Talena said suddenly, and I thought she was going to contradict me, "and you're so right. There are men walking around scot-free right now in the Balkans who are guilty of genocide and ordering mass rapes and the worst crimes imaginable, and the West could get a hundred people to testify against each one… and there they are. Walking around. Or, more likely, driving around, in their big fucking bulletproof Mercedes between their big fucking mansions."

I sensed I had hit a hot button.

"All right," Agent Turner said wearily. "All right. Mr. Wood, Miss Radovich, I hear your concerns, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't share some of them. No. We're not going after Morgan Jackson for the crimes he has committed. What we are going to do is keep a very close eye on him. One thing about serial killers is that you can be confident they will kill again. The next time he strikes, particularly if it's in a First World nation, I will do my best to ensure that somebody is waiting for him."

Talena and I shouted at the same time:

" The next time-! " from her.

" First World nation-! " from me.

We stopped when we heard we were interrupting each other and motioned to each other to go ahead. Eventually I convinced Talena to begin.

"You're saying you're going to sit around and hope you catch him next time? That's your big fucking plan? We've told you that there's a madman wandering around the world killing people at random and all you can say is wait until we get lucky?" she demanded.

"Miss Radovich, please be realistic — " Agent Turner said defensively.

I interrupted. "Do you not fucking get it? He's not going to kill anybody in a First World nation! He's not going to do it because he's too fucking smart! He can kill all the victims he likes when he goes traveling, any shape or size or colour or creed he's in the fucking mood for! It's a fucking buffet out there! You wait for him to go after someone in New York or London and you'll be waiting forever!

"

"All right!" Agent Turner snapped. "All right! Shut the fuck up!"

We shut the fuck up. It was like hearing a nun swear.

"Okay," she said. She looked at the recorder and the phone, presumably to be sure that they were off. "Yeah. The truth is he's outsmarted the world. The truth is that unless he fucks up at a kill site there is shit-all we can do in terms of actually arresting him. What we could do is try to keep track of his movement between borders and inform the relevant authorities in his destinations."

"Now you're talking," I said. "Why didn't you say so? That would make for some nice frontier justice. If he goes to Kenya just leak to Moi's Boys that he might be big trouble, and that nobody would make a big fuss if his remains turned up sealed in a forty-gallon oil drum, and they'll take care of the rest for us."

"We could do that, but we're not going to," Agent Turner said.

"What? Why?" Talena asked.

"Because we're talking about Interpol, not some kind of Wild West sheriff," she said scathingly. "It's not something we do. It's not something we have the authority to do unless one of our member states has prima facie evidence to arrest the suspect on a charge, and even then only under certain very tightly restricted conditions which make it basically useless in this case, even if we did have evidence, which we do not. You're right, he's not going to be arrested. Not on what we have. We have no real evidence."

"What do you want, a signed confession?" Talena asked. "And if we had one, would it make any real difference?"

"Honestly?" she asked.

"Honestly."

"Probably not," she said. She gave us a defeated shrug. "But you never know. We still might get lucky."

We went for a coffee afterwards, Talena and I, at a little cafe on Market Street.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" I asked her.

"I go back tomorrow."

"Hmm."

We sipped coffee at each other.

"You look nice in a suit," she said.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," I said. "I wear ties for interviews, weddings, and funerals. And court appearances and depositions, as of today. That's it."

"Men," she said. "You pay them a compliment and they tell you that they hate it."

"There's not a whole lot that justifies my whole gender's existence, is there?" I teased.

"Don't get me started," she said. "Especially don't get me started on stubborn idiots who go endanger themselves for no good reason."

"No good reason? I found him, didn't I?"

"Yes, you found him." She sighed. "And you were very brave and resourceful. Pity about you being so stupid or you'd almost be admirable. But honestly, what good does the name do? You heard the lady. Even if he'd given you a signed confession it probably wouldn't change a thing. He's going to go on doing what he does until he fucks up and picks on somebody one size too big."

"Maybe," I said.

"What I don't understand is why. I mean, I have a degree in psychology, I'm supposed to have some understanding why people do the things they do, but not this guy. Most Western serial killers are totally fucked up, especially sexually, with the worst childhoods imaginable, and they're really sublimating their sexual urges into murder, but from what you say Morgan Jackson wasn't — what's so funny?"