The Final Alibi Read online

  The Final Alibi

  The Lawson Chronicles

  Book 1

  Simon King

  The Final Alibi

  The Lawson Chronicles

  Book 1

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Time Before

  Chapter 2: The Return of the Devil

  Chapter 2: A Horror Revisited

  Chapter 3: Meeting the Devil, Part 2.

  Chapter 4: The Trail Begins

  Chapter 5: Clues and No Clues

  Chapter 6: Rekindled Passions

  Chapter 7: Trailing Madness

  Chapter 8: When Words Are Not Enough

  Chapter 9: Remembering

  Chapter 10: Win One, Lose One

  Chapter 11: Secrets and Lies

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1: The Time Before

  1.

  “You’ll get used to it, kid. Trust me.” It was my partner Warren, sounding almost academic, as I tried to steady myself, one hand firmly gripping the doorframe for balance. The smell had overwhelmed me with such speed that my breakfast had already fallen at my feet before I had a chance to try and stop it. Warren had been a great mentor, showing me the ins and outs of the job with youthful enthusiasm, himself now almost 20 years in uniform. He understood that it was hard when you first started and I had only been in Cider Hill a little over a year. The killer’s victims had numbered 9 then, a large number already, but no-one was really prepared for just how long the monster would elude us. I fought my stomach back under control and wiped my mouth with a handkerchief. Warren gave me a pat on the back and resumed searching the room for evidence.

  Victim 14, as we would come to know her, had been suspended by her wrists from a rope thrown over one of her living-room ceiling beams, her hands bound with a thick cord. She was naked except for her shoes, black leather T-straps. I approached the body, careful not to interfere with anything around the room and looked at her face. Both of her index fingers had been chewed off at the base and forced into her eye sockets, both eye-balls still oozing gelatinous remnants down her cheeks. We were guessing that it was some sick signature which he had adopted, to let us know it was him. The eye-balls and the fact most of her right thigh had been chewed off, confirmed our worst fears. Lucifer, as the locals had dubbed him, had killed again.

  2.

  Susan Heidenberg had lived alone in the house on Pickets Lane for almost two months, having moved from Melbourne earlier in the year to take up a teaching position at the prestigious Cider Hill School for Girls. She was 24, single and a pretty blonde. Her father had walked out on the family when she was 9 and her mother had passed this previous year from cancer. No other known family existed as far as we could tell. Our subsequent questioning of friends and colleagues revealed no known suitors, instead, we had found her to be a loner who favoured books to people. There were no alcohol or cigarettes found in the home and a bible sitting on her bedside table confirmed one person’s information that she only ever really ventured out to attend one of the local churches. Other than that, we had nothing. We had a young girl bound, gagged and then half eaten while suspended in her living room. The medical examiner would confirm later that, like the other victims, Miss Heidenberg had been conscious throughout the ordeal and had passed out due to blood loss and shock.

  I shudder every time I think of her, and the rest that died under such horrific circumstances. We had 14 victims, all young women, ages ranging from 17 to 29, all living in the Daylesford/ Cider Hill areas and all cannibalized by a monster. A monster that not only enjoyed dining on his victims but one who also left that gruesome eye socket signature. The newspapers were in a frenzy over the story of the Daylesford Devil, had even coined the name within the first two weeks, after 3 victims had been discovered within mere days of each other. That had been back in 32, three long years before the nightmare finally ended.

  3.

  The problem we were having (and by we, I mean the 4 police officers from Daylesford, two (including me) from Cider Hill, and the seven officers from Melbourne), was that the killer severed any links to the crime scenes as soon as he was finished, erasing any possible evidence that could connect him to the deed. If there ever was any to begin with. Not a single clue was found that we could use to help us identify him. Even the teeth marks, of which we had many from the various victims, were perfect. It was as if he had pristine teeth with no distinguishable features. No gaps, no misalignments, no visible cavities, just perfect impressions. We had plenty of false leads too, ones we would initially get excited over, only to discover in a short amount of time, that they led to nothing more than dead ends. On one particular occasion we had discovered a used condom in the bathroom of victim 7, Nadine Johnstone, the youngest of the victims. Subsequent interviews had led us to a boyfriend, one Thomas Wright, 19, kept hidden from the victim’s family because of the overbearing and protective nature of her father. Mr. Wright had visited the victim earlier in the evening and the couple had engaged in some activities of a “private” nature. Witnesses had confirmed his alibi, that he had left the victim around 8 that evening, and her parents had discovered the young lady suspended from the shower rail some two hours later. After all the leads had been followed up and all the questions had been asked, we still had nothing.

  There was nothing left at the scenes, not a single fingerprint left out of place. According to eyewitnesses, there weren’t any trophies removed from the victims. Valuables such as money and jewellery were always left intact, a fact we believed as a sign the perpetrator was well off. Another interesting note worth mentioning was that none of the victims appeared to have been sexually interfered with.

  As far as we could tell, money nor sexual gratification had been a motivation for the murders. It was as if he had a genuine thirst for blood, and that appeared to be his only motive. To feed. But, as the old saying goes, luck doesn’t last forever. And if that was how the Daylesford Devil had been eluding us for so long, through luck, then he was about to run out.

  4.

  Our big break came just two weeks after the Heidenberg woman had been killed. It was a Thursday evening and Warren and I had just returned to the station after a day of door knocking and patrols. Alyce, our resident switchboard operator and receptionist, took a phone call from old Mrs. Weaver who lived out on Drummond lane, which ran off the Daylesford- Cider Hill Road. She said she had seen a man loitering around the Kennedy house, which she could see from her kitchen window. Joe Kennedy ran a butcher shop in town and Mrs. Weaver knew that he worked late on a Thursday. His 17-year-old daughter, Tami, would be home alone, the girl’s mum having died two years before from pneumonia. Since her death, it had been just the two of them. Mrs. Weaver said the man had been sitting in a thick clump of bushes, appearing to be watching the house and that someone should make sure the girl was OK. We agreed to pop out and check on her.

  The funny thing about fate is that you can never guess how it will shape the future. I still believe to this day, that if the events of that evening had played out any other way, then Lucifer would have escaped again. But one Simple Twist of Fate had sealed his.

  5.

  The day that would come to be known as “Lucifer’s Last Day” was January 24th, 1935. What I believe to be the intervention of fate, was nothing more than a mere oversight by my partner, Warren, who had driven us all over town that day. He had forgotten to keep his eye on one very important aspect when driving a motor vehicle. Our car ran out of fuel two miles from the Kennedy house. If we hadn’t run out, and ended up driving our patrol car to the farmhouse, the killer would have surely heard our approach and been alerted, thus allowing him to escape. Instead, he never knew we were coming.

  The sun had disappeared over the far horizon as we drove out
of town, and by the time the car coughed and spluttered, it had grown almost dark.

  “Fuckin piece of crap,” Warren cried as he pulled the car over to the side of the road. He smacked his hand down hard on the steering wheel a couple of times in disgust, then got out and slammed his door shut.

  “Ah damn it. Come on. Nice night for a walk.” I nodded in agreement and we walked along the edge of the road, Drummond lane only ten minutes further along. It was only two days after the full moon had peaked and the large shiny disc was already sitting high in the sky, illuminating our way like a huge lamp post.

  “Those lights over there,” I said as we turned onto Drummond Lane, pointing across the paddock to our left, “is that it?” Warren looked and nodded.

  “Yup. That’s it,” he said, and then suddenly turned and cut across the ditch, grabbed hold of the fence that flanked the road and swung his leg over. He stood there, straddling the wires and beckoned me to climb over.

  “Cross country?” I asked and swung my leg over, then the other in a small hop. My pants temporarily caught on the barb wire that topped the fence, threatening to tear a hole in them, but Warren lowered the fence a little more and they popped free. I turned and held the fence down for him in return, once I was safely over. We continued heading towards the lights, a few hundred yards across the freshly harvested paddock. January was always a great time for farmers with harvesting dominating this time of year. The smell of freshly cut grain hung thick in the air. It looked to be a wheat field, and the stubble reached knee height. Warren walked ahead of me a little and I followed, steadily increasing my pace, eager to ensure the girl’s safety.

  6.

  We heard a very faint crying as we neared the tree line that skirted one side of the Kennedy’s yard. The main house looked to have a single light burning in the kitchen, the rest of the house appearing dark and ominous. There was also a light burning in the main shed which sat about a hundred yards off to our right. Warren had put his finger to his lips as we neared the trees to ensure my silence, and just as he was about to whisper something there was a small scream followed by ghostly silence. The scream had sounded more like an exhausted protest, but the silence that now followed was what panicked me most. The echo from that scream had played havoc with our sense of direction and for a moment we weren’t sure which building it had come from.

  “You go to the house. I’ll take the shed,” Warren said, and then as an afterthought, “Be quiet, Jim.” He began to turn, then pointed at my belt. “And take your pistol out,” he said pointing at my still holstered weapon. I hadn’t seen him draw his, but he now held it with two hands in front of his chest, barrel pointed toward the ground. I nodded, drew my pistol and turned towards the house.

  7.

  “Hello?” I whispered with a wavering voice as I peered in through the fly screen door. The main door was open and I could see the kitchen deserted, the only sound, some crickets chirping somewhere out in the darkness. I felt for the handle, pulled it down gradually, then slowly pulled the door open, my pistol pointed straight ahead of me. My senses felt like they were on a knife edge, my bladder suddenly feeling full and tender. The door let out a slight creak, and I nearly dropped my weapon as I flinched. My skin broke out in gooseflesh, my nerves on edge. I had never been in this type of situation before, especially knowing there could be a serial killer looming inside.

  I stepped in through the doorway and made my way into the kitchen. I still remember the faint smell of lavender and saw some, freshly picked sitting in a vase on the dining table. The floor creaked loudly beneath my foot and I jumped again.

  “Anybody here? It’s the police.” I whispered, afraid of a reply. There was no answer, the house silent. I remember feeling relief when I realised the house had electric lights. If something had forced me to search the house by torchlight, I think I would have turned and ran. I moved to the living room, felt for the light switch and snapped it on, again, nothing but silence greeting me. The rest of the house proved the same, quiet and deserted. Fear crept into my middle at the realization that the scream had come from the shed. I ran back through the house, barged the door open with one outstretched hand and bounded down the front steps, two at a time. I could see the light burning brightly in the shed, but now saw the front door wide open. I ran, blindly sprinting toward the open door, then struck something hard and blunt with my shin, sending me sprawling into the dirt, the gun falling somewhere in front of me. My shin screamed in pain, feeling as if it was on fire. I could feel something warm on my leg, as I fumbled around in the dark, desperate to find my revolver. After what seemed like an eternity, my fingers felt the familiar cold touch of steel and I grasped it tightly. The wooden handle of my revolver slipped back into the palm of my hand as my lungs sighed with relief. I struggled to my feet, trying to stifle the pain flaring up my leg. I hobbled toward the shed again, the silence becoming more pronounced with every painful step. As I neared the door, I stopped, peeked inside and noticed a shadow slowly pendulating back and forth along the side wall. My fingers were cramping as I gripped the weapon with all my might, the fear now pulsing in my temples. I held it out in front of me, pointing it at the door and slowly crept forward.

  There was a faint sobbing coming from somewhere further inside the building as I stepped through the doorway. But just as I was about to call out, to reassure the sobbing girl, my heart stopped as my panic boiled over. I finally saw what was creating the swinging shadow. Warren was dangling from a rope that was wound around his neck, hangman style. His arms hung lazily by his sides, his back towards me. There was no movement coming from him and I ran forward, calling his name. When I reached him, I grabbed one arm and swung him around with all my strength. He spun, the horror passing my face, then disappeared as he faced way from me again. He began to slowly turn back again, the rope creaking like a door straight out of a matinee horror flick. I meant to yell at him, to help me get him down and stop being stupid, but then his eyes met mine and I realized that Warren would never wake up again. There was a knife protruding from his chest, the brown wooden handle protruding out next to his policeman’s star. The blade was completely embedded to the hilt. There was a patch of blood around the handle, but it was nothing compared to the gush of blood that was still pouring from his sliced throat. His eyes hung open, staring blankly at me, the tip of his tongue jutting slightly from between his lips.

  I don’t remember screaming, but Joe Kennedy would later tell me different. He came running into the shed at that moment, and I whirled around so fast, that I very nearly blew his head off. The explosion from my pistol sounded like a canon, the deafening crash reverberating around the shed like tidal waves.

  “Where’s Tami?” he screamed at me, tears and snot running down his face. “Where’s my little girl?” It took me a moment to understand him, the ringing in my ears slowly abating.

  “I haven’t found her yet,” I answered, then paused when the faint crying resumed from somewhere behind us. Joe looked over my shoulder, then pushed past me, running to the back of the shed, past a small tractor parked against the far wall. I called for him to wait but there was no stopping him. I followed him closely, my pistol never dropping an inch, ready to shoot anything that moved. As Joe rounded the corner and saw what was hiding behind the dividing wall, he screamed his daughter’s name.

  8.

  She was hanging from a rope, although not by her neck, but by her hands, both bound at the wrist and then suspended from the rafters. She was naked except for the pillowcase tied over her head. Joe was trying to cut her down with his pocket knife as I ran up behind him. I could see blood pouring down her arm. The index finger on her right hand was missing, a stump of raw raggedy flesh poking out from the bloody fountain. I removed my jacket and put it over the girl’s shoulders then helped Joe support her as the rope finally let go. He removed the pillowcase from her head and I saw that the girl was mostly all right except for a small bruise blooming next to her right eye and her missing finger.<
br />
  9.

  The girl lost consciousness as we laid her down on a pile of hay that sat to one side. I was about to suggest that we carry her into the house, but suddenly heard a revving engine break the silence. I stood, turned and peered towards the sound.

  “MY CAR,” Joe suddenly yelled, and I ran as fast as I could toward the door with one thought screaming at me, ‘He was out there, the Devil was out there’. The person at the wheel of that car was the killer that had been eluding us for 14 victims and I was the only one that could stop him.

  I saw the headlights drive past the door as I reached it, the silhouette of a single person in the driver’s seat of the car. He looked to be hunched over the steering wheel, gripping it with both arms. He looked at me as he passed and our eyes met for the first time. It was what I didn’t see that sowed the seeds of doubt in my mind. I didn’t see anger in those eyes, or rage, or evil. I couldn’t even say it was panic. What I saw was fear.

  The car now passed me completely, turned in an arc and headed for the driveway. If he made it to the end of it, he would be out on the open road, with every chance to disappear. Without thinking, I aimed my pistol, held my breath, then made it roar as I unleashed the remaining bullets in a furious hail of hope and fear. The back window blew inward in a shower of glass and the right rear tyre exploded in an eruption of flying rubber. There were two metallic pops as the bullets struck the car body and then the vehicle lurched to one side, rolled through a fence, then into the ditch with a final thud. The driver’s side door opened and a dark figure rolled out into the night, staggered a little, then turned towards the distant line of trees. I was after him in an instant, desperately trying to reload my pistol with each step, the pain in my shin now a distant haze, blocked out by the adrenaline-fuelled charge I was making.

  “STOP,” I screamed, so loud that it felt like my vocal cords had torn, my throat burning like I had swallowed hot coal. The figure didn’t hesitate, only continued running, the desperation evident in the leaps and bounds he was taking across the field like a spooked jackrabbit. My legs felt like they were running on pure adrenalin, some strange propulsion that was moving me with such an incredible speed that the countryside felt like it was passing me in a blur. I was gaining on him and he knew it, each nervous glimpse followed by a groan of desperation and a quickening of his legs. He must have had the dawning realisation that his freedom was nearly at an end. I could just make out the sounds if his panting when a louder more piercing noise came rushing over the far hill. My eyes darted in that direction and I felt instant relief wash over me as I saw the accompanying flashing red lights that were now blazing through the trees in licks and splashes, first one patrol car and then another. I pulled out my flashlight and shone it towards the headlights that were now driving along the road, desperate to get their attention. I watched with relief as they slowed, turned a little, then stopped, their headlights illuminating the field before me. I pointed my pistol at the running figure one final time, barely 50 yards behind him now, then shot once, aiming above his head.