Compulsion

Things happened very quickly after that. Search warrants were applied for. Teams assembled in readiness.

And then came the waiting. Each minute feeling like an hour. There was an outside possibility that Brooke was still alive and with each passing minute that possibility lessened.

Twenty-five minutes later DCI Burns made the decision that they couldn't wait any longer for the judge's warrant. He authorised the team to knock the door down under the 'imminent danger' guidelines.

What they found was a treasure trove of evidence... and a very dead wife.

That it was Brooke was not in doubt - they'd already found her bag sitting on a table in the entryway. She was the only occupant of the house and was lying on what was clearly the master bedroom bed. She lay spreadeagled, her wrists and ankles secured to the bedposts by scarves. Burns didn't think he'd ever be able to look at a lacy black bra or garter belt ever again and consider them sexy.

A blindfold covered her eyes and the detective was glad it would be someone else's job to remove it. Burns didn't want to see her open, staring eyes. Dead eyes. He had enough previous victims haunting him already.

Burns couldn't help feeling sad. He wondered if she'd had any warning, any idea at all that her illicit meeting would end in her death.

She'd been strangled. That much was obvious. As per the previous victims, the killer had used a scarf. This one similar to the ones securing her wrists and ankles to the bed posts. There was no obvious sign of bruising on her arms, legs, or torso that he could see and she was still wearing her underwear. Burns hoped that meant the Strangler had held true to his modus operandi and that she hadn't been raped and tortured.

The owner of the house, one Nigel Lawson, was nowhere to be found despite his car being found in the garage along with Brooke's. DCI Burns was astounded at the man's arrogance at leaving the victim in his house, in his very bed. He clearly thought he had all the time in the world to dispose of the body. Probably thought himself smarter than the forces out to catch him.

Suspecting Lawson had access to a second vehicle and that he would sometime that day or evening attempt to gain access to the woman's house for her computer, DCI Burns radioed the officers staking out the victim's house to be on alert.

Feeling a tad cowardly, Burns sent Sergeant Moira O'Connell back to the station to inform the husband. Many times in his career it had been he to deliver the bad news. Face the parent. The husband. The son. He who'd seen the look. Eyes pleading. Eyes that begged him to say it was a nightmare. Not true. A mistake. He who had witnessed immeasurable grief. Seen the comprehension, the realisation in the survivor's eyes that their lives were forever altered. That they'd never see their loved one alive again. Never share a coffee together again. Never laugh over a shared private joke.

He hated being a witness to that level of pain. He felt like an outsider, powerless to help. Impotent. He hated feeling useless. Each time the responsibility had fallen to him he'd tried to think of something comforting to say but the words never came. He'd always fallen back on time-worn cliches.

Burns knew his job was to be part of the wailing sirens, body bags, and crime tape. His only help for the loved ones lay in finding the perpetrator of their sorrow. He did it to the best of his ability.

Besides, O'Connell was as good a police officer as you could hope to find. It says something when working with a woman when you don't notice their appearance, same as you wouldn't notice a guy's. And Moira was a good-looking woman. He knew that from the annual Policeman's Ball. She was smart and didn't take shit from anyone. For all her toughness, though, she had a knack for imparting bad news. Burns told himself she'd do a better, kinder job than he of informing the husband. Besides, men seemed to accept bad news better from a woman; something else his years on the force had taught him.

They had the photograph hubby had supplied earlier as well as the woman's purse, so were confident the victim was Brooke, but the coroner would require three forms of identification so the husband would soon be required to attend an identification. Burns knew Moira would do a good job of helping him prepare for that traumatic experience.

While asking the crime scene guy, one Burns didn't know very well as he was a new recruit, all the usual questions Moira messaged him to say the woman's husband took the news stoically but badly, declining any counselling. He'd said he needed air and had gone for a walk, promising to return within the hour.

DCI Burns coordinated the search of the house looking for further evidence. It didn't take long to locate Mr. Lawson's computer. Burns could have kissed the young constable who informed him. A case which had been languishing from a lack of leads was now being inundated with them. The computer was bagged and immediately transported to Forensics.

Within minutes of the departure of the computer another discovery was made in what looked to be the guest room. Six pieces of identical carry-on luggage stored in the room's built-in wardrobe. Each case contained a collection of computers, tablets, and phones. Lawson was making it easy for them to build a case. The guy had clearly kept the computer gear as trophies. Better yet, each carry-on also contained a pair of panties sealed in a ziplock bag. Burns was confident the DNA would match that of their victims.

Burns breathed a little faster, with a hint of a gust on the exhale. Almost a laugh. Almost a crow of triumph.

A search of police records showed Lawson had been issued with a pistol licence but thus far no gun had been found. Nor had any information regarding his suspected second vehicle. Thus far nothing had come up via car rental agencies either.

The warning had been issued that Lawson may be armed and should be considered dangerous. After all, any cornered animal is dangerous. The instinct is always for survival.

DCI Burns assigned more officers to sweep the neighbourhood around victim #7's house, all reason to act with stealth now gone. Frustratingly, a renewed search of Lawson's house hadn't turned up any clues as to where the perp worked. An empty carry-on wasn't found either so Burns sent two detectives to canvas any shops or department stores that carried the same brand as those already found in the guest room. You never knew your luck; maybe Lawson was out buying Brooke's carry-on.

By 7:00 p.m., Lawson was still at large and his house was dark, the police having completed their search and Forensics had collected all they needed.

DCI Burns would later kick himself for not leaving instructions for the second stake-out team earlier. The lapse between the departure of forensics and their arrival allowed Nigel Lawson to sneak into his house via the back door, perhaps alerted by the damage to the front door.

All DCI Burns knew was that as he entered the back hall for one last check prior to leaving the house to the stake-out team he was confronted with Mr. Nigel Lawson holding a pistol aimed at his chest. Burns quickly span through a doorway, years of training kicking in. His heart was racing but his hands were steady.

Knowing what the sick fucker had done - those women might have been cheating, and as repugnant as that might be, they didn't deserve to die for their sins - and knowing how desperate Lawson must be, DCI Burns forwent the usual warnings, there were no witnesses after all, and re-entered the hall at a crouch, taking Lawson by surprise.

Lawson fired wildly, hitting the wall well above DCI Burns' head.

Without a moment of hesitancy or remorse Burns returned fire, giving Nigel Lawson the two regulation slugs to the middle of the chest with his.38. Lawson was dead before he hit the floor.

Burns approached the man, gun in hand. He looked down at Lawson's surprised but unseeing eyes. He was sorely tempted to put another slug between the guy's eyes, wanting to turn to mash the killer's perverted brain. Repayment for the amount of angst the man had caused so many.

While continuing his study of Lawson, he called it in. Burns waited for some of the recently departed officers to return. He couldn't stop staring at Lawson. The guy was ordinary. Good-looking, yes. But ordinary. Dressed in business attire. Clean shaven. Trendy haircut. Had you come across him on the street or in a club, you wouldn't guess the evil that lurked within.

Somehow that seemed wrong to DCI Burns. Evil should be like it was in the cartoons where the villain is always easily recognised. It should be written all over them. But it wasn't. Not usually. More often than not evil came clothed in regular, blend-in-with-the-crowd colours, and, at times, even in beauty. Seductive. Tempting. Like a beautiful flower hiding poison within its heart.

The sound of sirens broke through his reverie. He was glad. He just wanted to go home and hug his wife and kids.

DCI Burns, it turned out, hit gold with each and every one of the carry-ons. They did indeed hold the victims' computers and each victim had an Ashley Madison account which showed them corresponding with Nigel Lawson in various guises but all with photographs of him. DNA from the knickers also matched the victims.

Lawson's computer was another matter - it, like those of the victims, showed he had an Ashley Madison account but, unfortunately, it only contained information about his latest victim. They would later surmise that he opened a new account for each victim. A single hunt.

Later investigation would also reveal Lawson was in Melbourne on business at the same time as when Victim # 3 was killed.

*****

THE HUSBAND

The husband of the seventh victim of the Ashley Madison Killer, as Nigel Lawson was later dubbed by the press, walked around the corner from the police station, wiping his eyes. He felt exhausted. He found a small park and sat on a bench in the sun, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

Brooke was dead. Gone. He'd never see her smile again.

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He noticed how the sunlight highlighted the fine hairs on their backs. He straightened and lifted his hands, flexing and contracting his long fingers, trying to imagine them gripping a scarf wrapped around the slender throat of a cheating wife. Tried to see them pulling the scarf tight until there was no more breath left in them. He shivered, the taste of bile in his mouth. The idea nauseated him.

He knew then his compulsion had died with Brooke. The Hunter had claimed his last victim.

He sagged, his chin dropping to his chest. Relief engulfed him. It was over. It was finally over.

Five years prior Brooke had cheated on him. With the discovery, he'd found out something else. Betrayal doesn't actually kill you like a bullet to the heart or brain. That seemed wrong. It should. It felt like death.

Even now, he recalled the pain, the sense of betrayal that cut to the core, the agony, the rage. Yes, the rage. It had been all-consuming. It had robbed him of sleep. Had haunted his every waking moment. Unrelenting. And always the questions. The questions that would never be answered, at least not adequately. Why? Why had she so betrayed him? He'd never know the true reason. He knew all the reasons she gave him were tainted. How could they not be? Her answers came with an agenda - she wanted his forgiveness. She wanted to stay married.

At the time, against his better judgement, he'd allowed outside interests to talk him into taking her back. To giving her a second chance. His love for her had made him weak, vulnerable, and all too open to their arguments. Everyone makes mistakes, they'd said. She loves you, they'd said. She's devastated at how she's hurt you, they'd said. Ask yourself, they'd urged him, are you better off with or without her?

Deep down, despite the love, he knew it was no mistake. She was flawed. She'd do it again. It would only be a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Before what was left of his heart was decimated.

And so, he'd kept an eye on her. Two eyes, actually. One obvious and the other far more subtle.

He'd hated it. It revolted him. Offended him. It was not who he was. And yet he'd done it. For years. Like taking bitter medicine he'd monitored her every move, every call, every text. Oh, how he'd hated that it was necessary. Hated knowing that she couldn't be trusted. That she'd betray him again. Hurt him again.

A year ago, thinking maybe he was wrong, hoping he was wrong, he'd made a big deal over a fancy dinner in a fancy restaurant of removing all the obvious checking he was doing. She'd been so happy and showed him so later in their bedroom but even then he'd wondered if it was him she was thinking of or was she reliving one of her past illicit trysts. It was just one more unanswered question among the years of unanswered questions.

Unbeknownst to her, though, the doubter in him had continued the deeper, more hidden surveillance.

Sadly, his suspicions, his doubts and fears, proved justified and he learned that the old wounds remained. That though his mind, in an effort to protect its sanity had covered them with scar tissue, the wounds themselves lingered.

The signs Brooke was contemplating a new lover became clear to him all too soon after she'd thought herself safe. Oh, how that had hurt. Old wounds becoming new again. The other shoe dropped.

Déjà vu at its worst.

Something inside him snapped. Died.

And something... someone had been born. Something malformed. Foul. Someone dark. Evil. The Hunter.

After that, all he'd had to do was monitor the Ashley Madison account she'd set up and watch the long-term seduction of his willing, and ever-so-flirtations wife by an obviously seasoned and patient predator.

Rudimentary facial recognition software had given him the predator's name, one Nigel Lawson, and an address pretty quickly, then the frame up began in earnest.

Finding out where the guy drank, then befriending him to learn about his business trips and other movements was so simple as to be unchallenging. Nigel, or The Predator, as he preferred to call him had provided him during one chat with the clincher in his set-up: a business trip to Melbourne. All too easy to time a trip to coincide.

For a man so lacking in trustworthiness he was himself trusting, that or just plain stupid, leaving his keys and wallet on the bar while he sauntered across the room to chat up yet another woman. Plenty of time to take both to the men's room to take a mould of his house keys and verify the address.

When the slime began bragging to his new drinking buddy about all the wives he'd seduced and bedded it had taken all his iron self-control not to wait outside the bar and strangle the scumbag there and then.

But stripped of love, self-control was all he had left.

Much of the joy left his life when his wife stuck the knife in his back the first time. Before that betrayal he'd been a mild-mannered man. Softly spoken. One who enjoyed the theatre, the arts, a good book, and other more cultured things in life. Now that joy, that gentleness, was gone.

The Hunter was amazed his wife hadn't noticed the change in him, but he figured she'd come to resent being on the defensive after being caught the first time, and it was only a matter of time before she would attempt to reclaim the ascendency by cheating again. Boringly, he was right.

It had been the simplest of things to copy the predator's profile pic and start his own account on Ashley Madison. He'd used proxy servers and the like to cover his tracks, making it look like he was the predator. Easy if you knew how. He, as Nigel, had meted out justice for his fellow betrayed husbands. Would they thank him? Probably not. His justice was a double-edged sword seeing as it also meant they would learn of their wife's perfidy.

But that wasn't enough. Nigel Lawson had to pay for his crimes, for his wanton disregard for the marriage vows of his conquests.

The problem of luring Lawson away from his own house so the Hunter could kill his own wife there had proved, in the end, simple. Nigel proved as predictable as his victims.

All he'd had to do was start another Ashley Madison profile. This time as a woman, under the name of Brandi; a late twenties, mixed-race, bored wife looking for a bit of excitement. Totally fictitious, of course.

Visits to various stock image websites provided a plethora of photographs of bikini-clad, café latte-skinned girls with dark sultry looks to choose from in order to pique Nigel's interest. A careful scrutiny would show they weren't all the same person, but The Hunter knew from long experience that people were very good at fooling themselves when they wanted to. They saw what they wanted to see. They said love was blind, he'd discovered lust was responsible for the same affliction.

Once snared, he'd simply arranged for Nigel to meet 'Brandi' at a motel an hour away, on the other side of town. The initial tryst was supposed to be at 8:00 p.m. but a message sent via Ashley Madison arriving around that time and every hour or so afterwards, sent using the delayed send function of the email service, kept the frustrated lothario at the motel until morning. The Hunter had watched him take an uber from the motel to his work. He hadn't looked happy.

The Hunter was proud of his stalking abilities. The man behind the persona, not so much. He'd known his wife would eventually fall for the lure of Nigel fucking Lawson. It was there in her words, her messages. Her lust in black and white on the screen. She wrote things to Lawson she'd never even intimated to him, her husband. She'd never given him the chance to be the things she needed.

Each dirty revelation was another poisoned dagger in his already broken and rotting heart. He'd had to kill her, versions of her, over and over again. It was the only thing that helped with the pain. The rage. They were cheating sluts too. Murderers of their husband's love, their trust. Just like Brooke.

But it had to stop.

Brooke. How easy it had been in the end to lure her to Lawson's house. All it took was one message. He'd pretended to be Lawson. Now or never, he'd said. She'd practically come at a run. She drove boldly into the garage. Stepped from the behind the wheel smiling and confident. Like a model.

Her smile didn't last long though. Not long at all.

All she'd worn over her slutty underwear was a trench coat. And high heels. CFM's. Come Fuck Me pumps. She'd come ready to fuck.

In the end, she'd been a cliché.

An echo of the rage he'd felt upon seeing her eager and anticipating another man's cock as she turned to face him in Lawson's garage washed through him but he pushed it away. It's time was over. All of it was over. He was a free man. Free in every way. Free from the compulsion to punish. Free to live his life.

And a predator's reputation was forever destroyed for being identified as the Ashley Madison Killer. Justice.

Now, for one last time, he mentally went through the jigsaw pieces he'd fed the police, looking for flaws that might lead them back to him. The exercise reminded him of his work as an editor, checking and double-checking plot lines, timelines, tiny details. The Hunter was good at his job.

The ever so helpful Sergeant Moira O'Connell had told him they were staking out Nigel's house, probably hoping the news would give him some comfort. He knew from Lawson's bragging during his time as his pub friend that Nigel owned a pistol. The Hunter could only hope that Lawson would act true to his arrogant macho character and be shot down in a shootout with the police. Then again, the alternative of having him live a long and miserable life in prison as Bubba's bitch was also highly appealing. The Hunter nodded - either outcome would do just nicely.