Hellbound: The Tally Man (2 page)

The two executioners behind the one-way glass simultaneously press a button each to begin the manual injection of three chemicals; Sodium thiopental, a short acting barbiturate, used widely as an anaesthetic, causes unconsciousness very quickly when injected into a vein. Pancuronium, also known as Pavulon, is a muscle relaxant, paralysing the diaphragm and arresting breathing whilst the Potassium chloride finishes the job by inducing cardiac arrest.

The men performing the execution are from the Correctional Department and have literally been trained to push a button. Only one of the two buttons they press is operational. A computer within the equipment scrambles the circuits randomly, so neither one knows which of the buttons did the job. Once pressed, the machine activates six syringes - three of the syringes hold the lethal medication; the other three contain a harmless saline solution. Currently the sodium thiopental does not seem to be doing its anaesthesic job.

Sensing the apprehension around his alert state, Obadiah begins to recite something the warden recognises as a riff on The Rolling Stones. Sabitch casts an anxious glance towards the one-way window.

“…allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste, who’s been around for a long, long year and stole many a person’s soul and faith. Observers, I am pleased to meet you. I hope you guessed my name. But warden, I know what’s puzzling you, is the nature of my game.”

“Would you gag the prisoner please,” Sabitch orders. The guard complies, placing a wide leather strap over his mouth. He does not resist.

The tension is palpable as the rooms occupants wait for the infusion devices to complete their cycle. Obadiah expels a low, serpentine hiss, audible through the gag, his final, precious breaths of air slowly released from his lungs. The witnesses stare in apprehension as his eyes begin to slowly shut, the thief of their sons and daughters falling into an eternal sleep. Sabitch nods towards the doctor, the execution apparently having reached its grim, theatrical conclusion. Obadiah’s eyes are closed, his expression one of peace.

The monitor sounds the asystole alarm, signifying a state of no cardiac electrical activity. The doctor places his hand over Obadiah’s right wrist, feeling for a radial pulse. As he palpates the area, Obadiah’s eyes snap open. In the witness room, some of the people in the front row cry out in shock at the unexpected revival.

The doctor takes a breath and moves back once his eyes have closed for the second time, holding his wrist again. He waits for thirty seconds to ensure he can feel no further radial beats, looks over to the nurse for acknowledgement that the ECG is not picking up a rhythm, and then nods towards the warden. Obadiah Stark is dead.

As the curtain closes across the viewing window, the warden instructs the medical staff to begin the final preparations of the body for transfer to the pathologist for the autopsy. It is standard procedure following an execution.

Outside the death chamber, reporters and cameramen pack up their equipment and begin filing out the room. Some try to catch a few of the departing relatives for their thoughts on the execution. Most are met with silence or waved away with a “No comment.” A few stop and expel their vitriolic feelings of anger, condemning the authorities and the justice system for taking so long to apprehend him.

Joe O’Connell, an investigative reporter for The Daily Éire, a local newspaper in Tralee, has been amongst the throng of media in the witness room. At six foot two, his height and athletic frame ensure he stands above most of the news hounds he arrived with.

O’Connell has followed Obadiah’s murderous career since he committed his first killing in Ireland. The reporter has two reasons for being there; one to get details on the execution for his column tomorrow; two to gather as much information as possible for the book he is going to write on the disease that was Obadiah Stark.

Running his hands through his brown, grey-flecked hair, Joe turns to see who is left in the room, his blue eyes noting a guard by the door and an elderly couple sitting directly behind him. He scribbles a few notes on his pad, places it in his pocket and stands to leave.

He considers approaching the couple to see if he can obtain any quotes to use tomorrow, but as if sensing his intent, the woman raises her head, displaying tear-streaked cheeks. Realising he is unlikely to get anything printable from either her, or more likely, her male companion, he decides against it.

Moving towards the exit, Joe shivers once. The sensation makes him stop and look around the room, but he sees nothing unusual and continues on. It reminds him of his childhood, when his mother used to say that someone must have stepped on his grave.

There has to be evil so that good can prove its purity above it.

Buddha

Chapter One

September 15th
18:54

Fenit (An Fhianait)

County Kerry, Ireland

IF Inishtooskert was one of the most desolate places in Ireland, Fenit was by contrast one of the most tranquil. Meaning ‘The Wild Place’, it was anything but. With a population of just four hundred and thirty, the small village on the north side of Tralee Bay and just south of the Shannon Estuary was enclosed from the Atlantic by the Maharee spit and extended northwards from the Dingle Peninsula.

As well as being home to a lighthouse, a castle, a golf club, an angling club and a football team; Churchill, the harbour had a contentious claim to fame. Saint Brendan, born on Fenit Island and one of the early monastic saints and a navigator, was believed to have discovered America prior to Christopher Columbus. It was alleged that Columbus used Saint Brendan’s manuscript from his earlier travels, ‘Navigatio sancti Brendani abbatis’, to locate what became the United States. Many of Fenit’s occupants simply believed it was a religious analogy.

* * *

Joe O’Connell tossed his keys on the table and threw himself into the leather chair with a weary sigh. The drive back from work had been a bitch, doing little for his mood. Because of an accident closing the R551, traffic had been diverted to the R558. With every single car in the country apparently deciding to be on the road at the same time as Joe, his usual ten minute drive home had taken an hour and a half. He had promised himself he would check the news later, making a personal bet it had probably been some tosser on a mobile phone that had caused it.

The panorama of Tralee Bay lay before him, the wispy lights of the last few fishing boats making their way back into the marina still visible. The tide on its way in gently rocked the boats already berthed. They rose and fell in a gentle, rhythmic fashion. Announcing the imminent arrival of night, the smudged sky polarised the window, allowing Joe to see his reflection.

In his thirties and with boyish good looks, he was beginning to get Crow’s feet that framed his blue eyes; eyes that missed nothing. In his usual work clothes; shirt, tie and dark blue jeans, and with his glasses on, he had the look of an accountant, rather than a reporter. This belied his athletically built frame, giving him the appearance of someone suited for endurance.

It had been just over a week since the execution of Obadiah Stark, and he still found himself thinking about it. Though his job demanded he report on the detritus of society, the image of someone being put to death was difficult for him to let go of. He had never seen anyone die before.

Using his sullen thoughts as an excuse, he snatched a bottle of Jack Daniels from the bench as he walked through to the kitchen. Pouring himself a straight shot, he flexed his neck from side to side as the malty warmth of the bourbon slipped down his throat. Already he could feel it warm his stomach and relax his mood. Rotating his muscular shoulders in circular motions to work out the cramps, he poured another drink and moved back to the window.

Now shrouded in twilight, he found himself wondering how many of the harbour’s inhabitants would still be discussing the events at Absolom. His column in
The Daily Éire
had gained him a press ticket to the execution which locally had been the equivalent of receiving front row tickets for The Pogues. Joe had found it disappointing that, instead of being interested in the more intelligent capital punishment debate that had raged ever since ADX Absolom’s conception, they were only concerned about whether he had begged for forgiveness? How many of the families present had left due to the stress of being in the presence of their loved ones killer? Had he soiled himself during his final moments? Were his final words vitriolic? He conceded that, bound to the tedious routine of living in a fishing district, they had little else to entertain themselves with other than on gossip and rumour mongering. But now it was over, he wasn’t sure how he felt about capital punishment.

Growing up with staunch Catholic parents, the adage of ‘An eye for an eye’ had been instilled in him from an early age. Graduating from university with his degree in Criminology, he had gained perspective that such an axiom meant everyone would end up sightless. ‘Then again,’ he thought to himself, ‘an eye for an eye in the kingdom of the blind meant a one eyed man would be king.’

Add to the equation his job in investigative journalism, and he had enough insight to metaphorically straddle the fence of the capital punishment argument. The obvious benefit was that the criminal would no longer offend. With money not an inexhaustible commodity in the current economic climate, it could be better spent on alternate resources such as healthcare and employment. It didn’t seem to work as a deterrent, so that left only retribution as justification for it – the punishment in proportion to the offence.

On the other hand, you could tease out a strong argument concerning the potential for a miscarriage of justice. And then there was the ethical acceptability of the death penalty. Whatever the position, Joe knew that there had been no anti-death penalty activists present outside Absolom when Obadiah Stark had died. There had been no question of the man’s guilt and whether he had deserved his fate. For Joe, that silently spoke volumes. ‘Still,’ he thought. ‘Thinking someone deserves to die and watching them die, are two completely different things.’

The lighter cast the study in a flickering glow as he lit a cigarette. Stopping at the desk, he randomly flipped open the file lying there. He looked at it whenever he had found himself doubting whether putting Obadiah Stark to death had been the right thing to do. The file put it into perspective for him. Through a bluish haze of expelled smoke, the face of an attractive young woman, late twenties, and brunette with large brown eyes, peered back at him. Ann Marie Sutcliffe. Obadiah’s fourteenth victim.

Over his years with the paper, he knew he had developed an uncompromising vision of society. It had been out of necessity to remain unbiased for his reporting. His excuse was it had allowed him to use whatever methods he felt necessary to get what he needed. Therefore, during his career, he had lied, flirted, blackmailed, terrorised and stolen to get information. He had collected details, documents and quotes from every, solitary person he had ever interviewed and kept them all in files in his study. So far, he had never referred to them again. The biggest of those files was the one in front of him.

Mostly illegal but well organized and detailed, an anonymous contact in the Gardaí had regularly fed Joe information and details on Obadiah Stark’s victims. Their deal had been such that, if Joe promised not to sensationalise events, his contact would give him as much as possible.

And Joe had been true to his word, always reporting the facts, not the conjecture. And yet despite his unusually guarded professionalism in this one instance, he sometimes wished he had done what a paper had done a few years before in the United States when they had managed to get access to what were thought to be sealed police files. Using the details within it, they had come up with the perfect nom-de-plume for Obadiah Stark. One that would sell papers and allow the killer to be perfectly burnt into the public’s consciousness - The Tally Man.

It was believed that Stark had begun his murderous career in America around 1988, committing eighteen murders over the course of six years. The murders appeared motiveless; his victims seemingly without a ‘victim trait’ - police talk for arbitrary. Each killing had increased in redundant violence, the level disproportionate to the last. Throughout it all, he eluded capture; the police left no evidence to pursue until twenty four year old Sara Morgan. Surviving her attack after being left for dead and suffering horrific facial injuries, Sara’s detailed statement ultimately led to the serial killer’s media-friendly nickname.

One more murder occurred in the United States after Sara’s escape followed by nothing for six months until a body was found in an alleyway in Slane, Ireland. Being a small town situated on the north bank of the Boyne, they were not accustomed to dealing with serious crimes. The Gardaí enlisted assistance with the investigation from their neighbouring constabulary twenty-eight miles away in Dublin.

When another victim was discovered in a cave outside of Ardfert, a decaying city near Tralee, they knew they had a problem. With the modus operandi matching descriptions they had received from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Interpol, it was clear that The Tally Man had arrived on Irish shores. Joe subsequently discovered that his choice of country was not arbitrary. Obadiah had been born here.

He flicked through the file, stopping at the photographs that had corroborated the escaped girl’s description. Taken the night of his arrest, they showed Obadiah naked from the waist up, his arms behind his head. His muscular, sun-kissed back bore the large outline of a tattoo in the shape of a tombstone.

The detail on the tombstone was exquisite, emphasising every slant and curve of its surround and pedimental top. An intricate use of shadow accentuated the depth of the work, causing the stele to have an almost third dimension. The rationale for the Gardaí taking the photograph was not to admire the skill in its design, but more to catalogue the details contained where an epitaph would normally be written.

As accurately described by Sara, within the epitaphic were twenty-seven, small, tattooed score marks. They were laid out in groups of five; four vertical lines and one diagonally through the middle of them all. This design was duplicated five times within the tattoo, with two scorings set apart from the others. Twenty seven tallies signifying twenty seven dead souls.

Three more JD shots and numerous cigarettes later, Joe’s mood had taken a turn towards the melancholic. He wondered why he did it to himself, pouring over the murder details repeatedly. Wandering over to the stereo and flicking it on, he clumsily browsed through his CD’s until he came across Beggars Banquet by The Rolling Stones. With Mick Jagger’s gravely tones blasting the opening lines of Sympathy for the Devil through the speakers, Joe sat down and closed his eyes. The song’s lyrics, married up to a samba-like beat, took him back to Obadiah’s chilling pastiche moments before his death.

“Please allow me to introduce myself…”

He imagined Obadiah Stark, the scar on the national psyche, smiling from his gurney, defiant in the face of death. Obadiah had represented a perfect conduit for everyone’s irrational fears about evil. His existence had been comparable to someone turning off the night-light and leaving their children sat in the dark, listening to the creaking on the stairs.

Joe realised that people like Obadiah Stark rarely happened. Yet through all his time writing about the man, he knew he had come no closer to understanding what made him tick. Maybe the pathologist performing the autopsy had seen the answer when he had cut him open. Joe imagined it surreally visible when they had removed his skull, a message stamped across his meninges – The reason for me killing all those people was because…

Men like Obadiah Stark didn’t spring out of mid-air, he mused. Nor were they sent by the devil. They were simply a childhood disaster waiting to happen - one that approached for years and no one did anything about it. And the families, punished through their losses, naively took comfort in the childlike belief that his execution would ensure that no one repeated such incomprehensible crimes again.

His train of thought forced him to consider his book. If it was ever going to be taken seriously, he would need a specialist. Someone who, as Mick was querying in the background, knew the nature of his game. He would have to look into that at work tomorrow.

Finishing his drink in one mouthful, he switched off the stereo and climbed onto his bed, fully clothed. He found himself revisiting his final piece on The Tally Man, as he fell quickly into a drink-assisted sleep.

‘Was Obadiah Stark so neglected as a child, that he became incapable of any emotional empathy? Individuals such as these are unable to judge something to be cruel if cruelty is all they have known. Current research by the NSPCC suggests up to one million children are trapped by neglect and deprivation. With parenting proven to be the most critical element in a child’s life, is it fair to blame the now deceased parents of Obadiah Stark for their son’s crimes?

The haunting sight of watching a man killed, albeit legally and with the full support of the justice system, has challenged my logic between locking someone up and throwing away the key, or metering out what could be classed as poetic justice. I find myself convinced that the death of Obadiah Stark was the right thing to happen, that such a man could never have been rehabilitated or offered a chance at redemption. But I find myself wondering if we have the right to make such a decision, and whether his execution simply represents a much larger problem we continue to refuse to face – that of deciding what defines justice.’