Confessions of an Undercover Cop

CONFESSIONS OF AN UNDERCOVER COP: The Last Victim

By TesubCalle

Based on the terrific story ‘Confessions of a Madman’ by Teffers, available at FictionPress.com. If you feel so inclined, read that story first.


My name is Laura Driscoll. At this moment I am sitting in a pub, wearing a wire and a ridiculous blonde wig; my service piece in my shoulder bag. This is the hundredth time I’ve been in a place like this since I started working undercover on this case as bait. Okay, so I am exaggerating. But it has been a long time. Three months and nothing has materialized. In the previous two months, two women have met a tragic end. I know I can’t be in every damned pub in the city. I just wish he would show up in the one I’m in now. Then maybe we could end this. Then maybe nobody else will have to die.

I’ve ordered a drink, but I haven’t taken a sip. The last thing I need is to be impaired. I’m the type of person who gets drowsy and slow when drunk; a state which is not conducive to identifying and catching serial killers.

There have been twelve killings. That we know of. A new one each month. The victims are all attractive young blonde women of similar appearance, found strangled in isolated car parks. No rape. No other injuries. No ‘calling cards’ left behind. He doesn’t pose them or take trophies. He just squeezes the life out of them and dumps their bodies as if they were garbage.

The media has dubbed this guy the ‘Car Park Killer’. Real creative. For some reason the public has a morbid fascination with this type of killer. They eat up this kind of story. They light up the tips line with bits of worthless information. Saying they think their next-door neighbour did it; he’s always wearing black clothing. Saying Elvis did it. Saying all sorts of things that lead us no closer to the actual perpetrator. So many of these people forget the victims. They were real people. Friends. Daughters. Sisters. Young women who should have had their whole lives ahead of them. Instead they made the horrid mistake of getting into a car with the wrong person. I know I shouldn’t let things get to the point where I dwell on the emotional side of my cases. But I can’t help it. I can’t be a heartless bitch and pretend like it doesn’t affect me. But I do know I don’t let it affect my work.

There is always a profile of the killer that’s released to the public, and one that’s kept within law enforcement circles. Depending on the case, some of the details may be quite similar between the two profiles, and some might be quite different. In this case, we purposely released erroneous information to try to smoke out the guy. We wanted to get him mad. We wanted him to mess up. We wanted him to make a mistake so big there would be no doubt as to his identity.

Of course, what we didn’t want was to risk civilian lives. That’s why I got the assignment I’m working on right now. The fact that the killer had still managed to cut down two more women after warnings through the media, increased police presence around pubs and car parks, as well as my undercover assignment, had all of us extremely frustrated and a city in a panic.

If our false release about the possible reasons this bastard had for killing his victims wasn’t unnerving him, he must certainly be one cool customer. And he certainly couldn’t have liked being labelled ‘impotent’, either. That would piss off any hot-blooded male. We figured this guy had to be someone people would automatically trust; someone who would gain your confidence in a second. Someone you’d be comfortable with. Someone you wouldn’t mind going home with.

The biggest break in the case came when one of the department psychologists had what can only be described as a leap of consciousness. Or a damned lucky break.

It was just after the twelfth murder. Everyone was despondent. What were we doing wrong? The killer couldn’t be that smart.

But Dr. Paul Spearman provided us with something after watching the news report of the latest killing on Channel 5. He thought he saw something in the manner in which anchor Ken James was reading the release. At first, he couldn’t believe it. So he quietly requested tapes from Channel 5 of all the previous news releases James made regarding each of the murders. After viewing all of them several times, Dr. Spearman came to the frightening conclusion that James was quite possibly the ‘Car Park Killer’.

Of course we had no evidence. Just a psychologist’s profile. But at least now I had a really, really good idea who to keep an eye out for.

Ken James… Ken James had been a staple on Channel 5 for many years. Everyone knew the guy on sight. Affable. Likeable. Looked trustworthy. Great confidence. In his early fifties, he was still great-looking. Either he had a really good hair colourist, or grey just hadn’t yet seemed to sprout on his thick, brown locks. I also knew he was married. On the surface those things just didn’t seem to fit with ‘deranged serial killer’. But then most serial killers aren’t stark raving mad lunatics on the surface.

Tonight as I stared at my still untouched drink, I truly began to wonder if the killer was James. He had everything going for him. But I also knew if he walked into that pub – without his wife – I’d do everything to make a play for him. If he was alone when he came in, well, let’s just say I don’t believe in coincidences.

I looked at my watch. It was 21:48. Bah. Probably another wasted night. He wasn’t going to show. And it was already the thirteenth of the month. If he was going to stick with his pattern, he was going to kill someone in the latter half of the month since (thankfully) we hadn’t found a body in the former half.

“Hey, honey, are you going to sit here all night nursing that one drink?”

I looked up at the bartender politely.

“Oh, I’m just waiting for someone. He’s probably not going to show, though,” I said.

“Shame. He’s got to be one daft bloke to pass you up.”

I tried to smile.

At 21:56, I was getting antsy. Then the pub doors opened, and in stepped none other than Channel 5 News anchor, Ken James. My heart fluttered. A few patrons looked up and stopped, mid-conversation, in recognition of the fellow. He sat down in a corner table that afforded a view of the entire room.

All the better to track down potential victims, eh James? I thought to myself. I spoke very discreetly into the wire mike. “He’s here. I’m going to make contact.”

I slid off the stool, drink in hand and approached him. He eyed me appreciatively.

“You’re Ken James, aren’t you?” I asked with a smile, by way of starting up a conversation. “I’m Jenna Burns.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Jenna Burns,” James said congenially. “Please, won’t you have a seat and finish your drink with me?”

I sat. He looked at me intently, eyes roving from the top of my head to my face, shoulders, blouse and terminating at my hands, which were clutching my drink. I’m quite sure he liked what he saw.

“You’re much better-looking in person,” I said. I wanted to bite my tongue after I’d said it, because it was so disgustingly clichéd. Laura Driscoll would never say that. But tonight I wasn’t Laura. I was Jenna Burns. And Jenna could be the biggest airhead if she wanted to. As long as it meant charming Ken James. As long as it meant an invitation to get into Ken James’ car.

He smiled, showing off teeth that must have been professionally whitened. I could tell even in the dim pub lights. “Thank you. I never tire of hearing compliments, especially from women as attractive as you.”

Boy, he can really milk it, I thought.

“You’re not drinking your scotch,” he noticed.

“Oh,” I sighed. “It was scotch on the rocks, actually, but the rocks have melted. That really ruins it for me. Maybe I should order another…”

“I have a better idea,” James whispered seductively, leaning closer to me.

“What?” I dared not get my hopes up. But if this was going where I hoped this was going, I’d be this close to nailing a serial killer.

“Why don’t we get out of this smoky pub? Come with me to my place; I’ll top up your glass with scotch, or whatever it is you’d like to have.”

“Oh,” I dropped my voice, pretending to be taken aback. “I don’t know…It really is getting late, and I have to be at work tomorrow…”

“I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” he said smoothly, “please, half an hour, with me.”

“Well,” I said, trying to sound like I was actually weighing the pros and cons of leaving with him, “okay. But only a half-hour!”

“Wonderful!”

Sometimes playing hard-to-get can work wonders.

In a matter of moments we were inside his car. It was a roomy sedan with leather seats. News anchors must truly have good salaries. Or perhaps James was important enough to Channel 5 that he commanded a big paycheque. I did not buckle my seatbelt as we pulled out of the pub car park. I pulled it across my chest and tucked it behind my hip. If for some reason I had to make a quick escape, I wouldn’t have to worry with fumbling with it. I noticed he didn’t buckle his, either.

All the better to reach across and strangle you, I thought.

Fully confident that I had backup close behind us every step of the way, I tried to relax as James navigated the car to less populated parts of the city. If he tried something, we’d get it all on the wire, and I also had my gun. He wasn’t saying much. This began to unnerve me. He tried to make idle conversation, but his voice sounded hollow and uncaring to my ears. As if what he was saying was just perfunctory. I tried my best to keep up my end of the conversation. I don’t know what possessed me to say what I said next.

“Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Why?” James said, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes.

“That ‘Car Park Killer’. How do I know you’re not him?”

“Oh, Jenna, please,” he said with a laugh. “That’s ridiculous! Do I look like a crazy lunatic to you?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He nodded, but I could sense his manner had changed. He was gripping the steering wheel tightly now, and his jaw was clenching. I turned my attention to the road, and I could see we were approaching the car park of an abandoned drive-in movie theatre. He made the exit that would take us there. Oh, no. I prayed my backup hadn’t lost us. But just in case they’d somehow missed us…

“Why are we turning here?” I asked innocently. “This place hasn’t shown a movie in years.”

He didn’t answer me.

That was as far as I was willing to let things go. I didn’t know if we had enough. I didn’t know what anyone would think of everything he’d said and done that night as recorded by the wire and my backup surveillance with their hidden cameras. But I wasn’t about to let this killer get his hands on me. For now I was quite certain Ken James was the ‘Car Park Killer’.

I snatched my gun out of my shoulder bag and pointed it at him. “Police. Stop the car and keep your hands on the wheel!”

With a sudden movement that caught me off-guard, he hit the brakes. I shot forward, and my forearms arms caught the brunt of the impact against the dashboard. James made a grab for the gun. I gripped it tightly, in spite of the pain shooting up to my shoulders. I was determined to not let go, but at the same time trying not to set off a round prematurely. If I was going to shoot this bastard, I wanted it to be clean through the heart. We don’t ‘shoot to wound’ like in stupid cop shows. In an instant he was on top of me, powerful hands around my wrists, trying to pry the weapon away. He was also using his body weight to his advantage, and we thrashed around wildly. With a yell of rage, he cupped his left hand and lashed the side of my head.

Maybe the blow to my head made me lose my focus. I really can’t remember. The next thing that happened was that he somehow managed to get his hands on the gun. I remember hearing the gun go off, and feeling a dull impact. I don’t know if I screamed. Damn, damn, damn. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I couldn’t move. The car was going again. I felt a rush of warmth soaking my blouse. I heard my door open, felt a hand violently shove me. I fell, uncontrolled, to the dirty, uneven ground of the movie drive-in car park. I heard the car speeding away, and sirens in the far distance. Then my eyes felt heavy and I felt very cold. My last thought before losing consciousness was that the bastard still had my gun.

I awoke in a hospital emergency room. I was alive.

What had happened?

Did they get him?

Pain.

I felt my eyes closing again.

It was later when I was told the bullet came very close to killing me. My own gun. Damn him. I was also told that Ken James had been followed by my backup. They found him, dead, with a single gunshot wound to the head. Self-inflicted. At his hand was a written confession, admitting to twelve murders plus a previously unsolved one – one that had apparently started this monster down the destructive road he had taken. But in the end, Ken James was his own victim. The last victim.