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“You said they’d play games with you?” The man swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. “What sort of games?”
“Don’t know.”
The man points to the dolls in front of them. There’s an Action Man, in full army gear, and a Ken doll. “Can you show me?”
The small hands reach out and pick up the figures. Cara’s mouth is dry. On the tape the boy starts bashing the dolls together, then he puts one on the table while the other one is struck against it.
“Your father hit you?”
“Yes.”
“And your uncle?”
Quieter now: “Yes.”
The boy picks up one of the dolls, and with his other hand he slowly pulls down the Action Man’s trousers. The man on the video has turned white. The Ken doll is faced away. Cara can’t take her eyes off the small hands on the tape, child’s hands, doing a thrusting motion with these two figures. She can’t think about what this represents, she just can’t.
“Sexual abuse.”
The voice comes from behind her, making her jump. Shenton stands in the doorway of her office, watching the screen. She snaps the tape off.
“I didn’t realize you were still here, Toby.”
“Is this from 214?” he asks.
“Yes. You should go home …” she starts, but Shenton takes a step forward into her office.
He glances at the black screen, then rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms in front of him. “Child abuse is common in serial offenders. Sadly, despite what the media likes to portray, most killers are made rather than born.”
“You think that’s what happened here?”
“It’s likely. Although it’s worth adding that not all victims of sexual abuse go on to abuse others themselves. And certainly, a very low percentage actually become serial killers. But it’s a common factor.”
As he talks about this—something he clearly knows about—Cara sees how he grows in confidence, standing up straighter, his eyes brighter. Perhaps after this he should look into specializing, she thinks. Move out of general policing into forensic psychology.
“How’s the profile coming on?” she asks him.
“Should be done by tomorrow. Can you send me the Zodiac crime scene photos? I don’t seem to have access.”
“I’ll do it now,” Cara says. Then adds: “Are you okay?”
He looks up quickly. Shenton seems paler than usual, his skin almost translucent in the harsh overhead light. He blinks at her, then looks down at his shoes again. “I’m fine.”
“When this is done, we’ll all get some downtime,” Cara says. But her words sound insincere, even to her own ears. “Appropriate help for those who need it,” she finishes.
He stares at her again, then turns wordlessly. She watches him go back to his desk. She wonders about her hollow statement. Appropriate help? Even if anyone actually knew what that was, when would they have the time to talk to a shrink? When would she?
She opens up her email and starts sending across files. She does the same as everyone else in this line of work: put all the shitty stuff in some corner of your brain, block up the wall, and walk away.
Block up the wall, she thinks as she presses “Send” to Shenton, and hope and pray that one day the horror never manages to break its way back through.
CHAPTER
47
THE PAIN TAKES over Griffin’s whole body. It’s not just his back now; every muscle aches, his skin itches. He can feel his heart racing. He needs to take something, anything, but he knows it will only get worse. He needs more now for it to make a difference.
Driving back from the station, he considered taking a detour. He knows where the dealers hang out. He knows if he wants something, anything, to take the pain away, for a bit of hard cash he could get it. But he’s also seen the results of such a deviation. He knows where these people end up, and he doesn’t want to go there. Not yet.
