Headcase, p.1
Headcase, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE HANGMAN SERIES
‘Jack Heath’s writing grabs you by the throat, gnaws on your bones and washes it all down with a hefty dose of funny. Sick, twisted, violent and oh so good. In Timothy Blake, Heath has created a one-of-a-kind character. I hope.’—Emma Viskic, internationally bestselling author of And Fire Came Down
‘Blake is a brilliant, complex character … this quiet and unassuming figure might just be the most dangerous man in the room. Hangman is cinematic and grubby, brimming with pulpy noir.’—Michael Offer, producer, How to Get Away with Murder and Homeland
‘Wild and original, Hangman stamps a high and bloodied mark on this dark genre. Hannibal Lecter will be adding Jack Heath to his reading list.’—Ben Sanders, internationally bestselling author of American Blood
‘Let’s cut to the chase: Hangman is a great read! Jack Heath’s boundless imagination and singular voice have produced a truly unique thriller. By turns psychologically insightful, wonderfully disturbed and even darkly comedic, Hangman will keep you coursing through the pages at a lightning pace. Brilliant! (Probably best read with lights on and doors locked. I’m just saying.)’—Jeffery Deaver, No. 1 international bestselling author
‘Hangman is ghoulish fun, and fills the Dexter- and Hannibal-shaped holes in our lives.’—Books + Publishing
‘A grisly, efficiently written nail-biter packed with riddles and suspense, Hangman has bestseller written all over it. It’s a dark book, but one with plenty of humour, and a twisty plot that keeps you guessing to the very end.’—Sydney Morning Herald
‘Compelling … Heath keeps the suspense at a high level through to its stunning conclusion. An addictive and suspenseful thriller that will keep you reading well into the night.’—Canberra Weekly
‘Blake is a classic kind of hard-boiled hero, mixing cynicism and honour, brutality and sentimentality … he’s a chivalrous knight of the kind we have never seen before.’—Weekend Australian Review
‘A cracking read full of well-crafted twists and turns … Heath manages to bring Blake out from behind the shadow of his predecessors and stand on his own.’—Australian Crime Fiction
‘Heath has given the crime world an anti-hero for this century. Gifted and flawed, Blake will horrify and entrance readers, quite often at the same time. An exceptionally taut novel both in action and execution, this sledge-hammer story is sure to entice fans of serial crime fiction, taking readers into the dark and dirty recesses of Blake’s mind.’—Good Reading
‘Hangman is a pulpy and perverse delight … Heath makes Blake young, rough, streetwise, and precisely the sort of person Dr Lecter would avoid in the street. This is a gobsmackingly (or lip-smackingly) violent tale, but it is also bizarre, hilarious, and a stealthily astute commentary on post-financial crisis America. Give me more.’—Christopher Richardson
‘Richer than Reacher … Hangman literally tingles with tension, and Heath injects a healthy dose of dark humour.’—Sydney Arts Guide
‘Hangman is cheerful in its gore, with a knack for unexpected violence that’ll leave even the most jaded crime readers at least a little bit impressed … It’s all the best parts of noir fiction, all the spatter pattern ghoulishness of forensics-focused dramas, and so much fun it might just concern you a little bit.’—Hush Hush Biz
‘Fantastic … an immensely satisfying puzzle box, wrapped up in the unrestrained weirdness that I come to the Timothy Blake books for.’ —Shelley Burr, author of Wake
‘Between the brilliantly twisted mysteries and the biting social commentary, Jack Heath has delivered a self-aware evolution of the Dexter archetype for us to sink our teeth into.’ —Shane W. Smith, creator of Undad
‘Jack Heath writes killer reads.’ —Tim Ayliffe, author of The Enemy Within
‘An irresistible mystery, an insatiable antihero and shock twists galore; with Headcase, Jack Heath takes his Timothy Blake series to (literal) new heights, all the while making a puzzle-box plot with multiple strands look easy. Every new book in this gleefully dark saga is a ghoulish treat and this is no exception. Don’t miss it.’ — Gabriel Bergmoser, author of The Hitchhiker
‘Thrilling, grisly and inventive: Jack Heath has single-handedly increased my carbon footprint through lights left on.’—Benjamin Stevenson, author of Either Side of Midnight
‘Made me laugh, and also feel guilty for laughing … the growing tension is produced with great expertise.’—Penelope Cottier, Canberra Times
‘Consistently thrilling. Heath knows how to write an engaging, edge-of-your-seat crime novel that walks the fine line between captivating and all out terrifying.’—novelteacorner.com
‘There is something desperate and feral in this character … this is an undoubtedly entertaining thriller.’—unseenlibrary.com
‘A chilling and sometimes confronting thriller which mines the darkest side of human nature … a book which engages the reader from beginning to end.’—Rod McLary, Queensland Reviewers Collective
‘There’s a level of focus, detail and nuance on offer that firmly placed me in the midst of this unfolding tale and I was riveted.’—Debbish.com
‘Despite the darkness there is a nobility to Blake, and some satisfaction to be had in the way he goes after those more despicable than him, often putting his body on the line to do so. Hideout is another strong entry in this series.’—Robert Goodman, Pile by the Bed
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jack Heath is the award-winning author of forty novels for adults and children. His books have been translated into several languages, adapted for film and optioned for television. He lives on Ngunnawal land in Canberra, Australia.
Headcase contains scenes readers may find disturbing. It is unsuitable for children and some adults.
First published in 2022
Copyright © Jack Heath 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100
Email:info@allenandunwin.com
Web:www.allenandunwin.com
Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.
ISBN 978 1 76106 523 1
eISBN 978 1 76118 582 3
Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork
Cover images: Luke Causby (figure); Stockhausen/Adobe Stock (landscape)
For Anna and Russell, with gratitude
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: Now
CHAPTER 2: Two weeks ago
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5: Seven years ago
CHAPTER 6: Two weeks ago
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10: Seven years ago
CHAPTER 11: Two weeks ago
CHAPTER 12: Now
CHAPTER 13: Two weeks ago
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15: Now
CHAPTER 16: Two weeks ago
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27: Now
CHAPTER 28: Two weeks ago
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33: Now
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body.’
—The Tell-Tale Heart, Edgar Allan Poe
CHAPTER 1
Now
I make your mind broader but your head smaller. What am I?
‘I eat people,’ I say.
The psychiatrist doesn’t blink. ‘Tell me about that.’
Her office is plain. Just two low chairs facing each other, a box of Kleenex perched on a coffee table in between. There’s a bookcase, but the shelves are bare. For no reason I can fathom, the only book in the room—a weathered copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fifth edition—is on the carpet, next to the empty bookcase. The chairs are the squishy kind you sink way down into.
The room is structured to protect the shrink. If I became violent, I’d have to fight my way out of this chair and then go around or over the table. Plenty of time for her to reach into her open handbag, where there’s a tube marked lipstick next to her iPhone. Real lipst ick doesn’t have the word lipstick printed on it, and she’s not wearing any. I assume the tube is actually a taser.
Not that I’m much of a threat. A starving, one-armed malcontent.
‘There ain’t much more to say,’ I tell her.
A slight smile. ‘I find that hard to believe, Timothy.’
The psychiatrist’s name is Renee Diaz. She’s in her forties, with cracks around her brown eyes, and long black hair in a loose bun. She wears a double-breasted tan jacket over a black silk shirt, gathered at the neck. Not much meat on the top half of her, but her legs are thick. They’d keep me going for a while.
She doesn’t look away, just watches me watching her.
‘Why aren’t there any books on your bookcase?’ I ask.
She glances over, as though she didn’t know she had a bookcase. With her head turned, I can see a diamond stud in her ear. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I’m not the only one who uses this office.’
‘You could put that book on it.’
‘Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t be able to reach it from here.’
I wonder how often she consults the DSM-V in front of patients. Some might find it alarming, to see their doctor looking for them on a menu of damaged minds.
I remember hearing somewhere that the DSM-V was cobbled together in secret by a small group of doctors, most of whom had ties to drug companies. Many of the ‘illnesses’ are just commercials for the medications that treat them. I don’t think she’ll find my brain in there. What’s wrong with me can’t be fixed by a pill.
‘You could move the bookcase,’ I suggest.‘Or your chair.’
‘I suppose. Is the furniture bothering you, the way it is right now?’
‘No.’
A pause.
‘I thought it might be a safety issue,’ I add. ‘Like you were worried patients might throw books at you.’
Again, no blink. This woman has nerves of steel. ‘Is that the sort of thing you think about a lot?’
‘I guess.’
She reminds me of a profiler I once worked with—a portly white guy named Kennard with a walrus moustache, an imperious manner and an addiction to being described as brilliant. He claimed you could examine the clues at a crime scene, decode the subconscious thoughts of the perpetrator, then catch him. To me, peering into the subconscious seemed like an unnecessary step.
All anyone needs to know about profilers is this: Kennard had a cannibal working alongside him for years, and never suspected a thing.
Diaz is still watching. I turn to the window. It’s not barred, but the glass is reinforced by a sheet of sticky plastic, visible at the corners. If I hit it with a hammer or a brick, it might crack but wouldn’t break apart. The garden outside is surrounded by a tall brick wall, mostly hidden by dense hedges. Other patients are carrying bags of fertiliser around, or turning soil with implements too short and too blunt to be efficient. Nothing sharp is allowed here.
A trim young man with a stubbly scalp is examining the trowel in his hand, the blade glinting in the sun. After a moment, he seems to sense me looking at him. He lifts his head and meets my gaze with one eye. The other is a dark, hollow socket.
‘You mentioned eating people,’ Diaz prompts.
I turn back to her. ‘You heard that, huh?’
‘Where do you think that urge comes from?’
‘You’re the psychiatrist.’
A wry smile. ‘Do you remember the first time you felt it?’
‘It’s always been there,’ I say. ‘At the group home they said I was a biter. Mrs Radfield eventually beat it out of me, but that didn’t stop me wanting to.’
I remember all the other kids waddling around, fat and juicy. After I aged out, I was homeless for a while, begging for change. I’d watch all the pedestrians walk past like a sushi train. When I started consulting for the FBI in my mid-twenties, I sized up every suspect, wondering if they’d fit in my freezer. I’m thirty-two now, and I still can’t help seeing everyone as walking, talking meat. It seems unlikely that I’ll grow out of it.
‘You should keep me here forever,’ I say. ‘I can’t be fixed. If they ever let me out, I’ll hurt someone.’
Diaz puts her pen and notepad down, perfectly parallel to the edge of the table and to each other.
‘Have you diagnosed me with something already?’ I ask. Despite my view that psychiatry is mostly bullshit, I’m curious.
‘Let’s not worry about diagnoses just yet,’ Diaz says. ‘Let’s just focus on feeling better.’
Imagine any other kind of doctor saying that. Let’s not worry about whether you have cancer or AIDS. Let’s just focus on feeling better.
‘Why don’t we start with your more recent history?’ she says.
‘How recent?’
‘The events leading up to your stay here.’
Everyone says stay. Never imprisonment. Never incarceration. Like I won’t notice all the locked doors, surveillance cameras and armed guards, as long as they keep pretending I’m here on vacation.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let me tell you about the astronaut.’
CHAPTER 2
Two weeks ago
What do you call a zero who goes into space?
It was almost nine am on Wednesday, and I was standing on Mars, looking at a dead astronaut.
He lay on the sandy dirt, legs spread, arms above his head, as though he’d been frozen during a dance routine, mid-leap. His face was mottled purple, like a squid. A mole on his cheek had turned black. Dark blood trickled from his ears, his nose, his lips, his eyes. I’d never seen anything like this.
I crouched next to the body. His helmet was off, but there was no smell of decay. I was starving.
‘Remind me who you are,’ Detective Jones said. He was a white guy in his fifties whose Houston PD uniform was a size too big. Like a kid playing dress-ups. He had a wedding ring, and his shoes had been recently shined. Clean-shaven, except for a single white hair growing from his Adam’s apple. I wondered if he knew it was there.
Cops always made me nervous, even back when I was consulting for the FBI. I could never shake the fear that someone was about to wrestle me to the ground and cuff me.
‘Timothy Blake,’ I said.
‘And you’re here why?’
‘I’m from ClearHorizon, an outside contractor working for the US Air Force.’ I handed him a card. There was a glossy silhouette of a plane on one side and my name embossed on the other. ‘We’ll be revising the safety protocols so this doesn’t happen again.’
I thought this sounded pretty good, but Jones didn’t seem convinced. He looked me up and down. My suit and tie were new, but cheap. Ditto for my haircut, and my prosthetic hand. I had chipped teeth, and my accent was the type that an Ivy League college would have scrubbed off, had I attended one.
I didn’t look much like a pampered, big-city consultant.
‘So what doesn’t happen again, exactly?’ Jones asked.
‘I’ll leave that for you to determine, detective. I’m just here to observe.’
‘I can’t have you watching over my shoulder while I decide if this is a crime scene. You’ll have to get back behind the tape.’
He had good reason to be territorial. We were at an astronaut training facility in the middle of the Johnson Space Center. This fake Martian landscape was surrounded by buildings owned by the federal government. It was only a matter of time before the FBI or the real air force turned up and tried to take control of the investigation.
‘Sure thing,’ I said, but didn’t move. Agreeable could sometimes pass as obedient. ‘Who found the body?’
‘Uh, me.’ Another man hovered a few feet away. He was in his forties, bald, Black. Thin legs and arms, but with a gut straining the buttons of his business shirt. I imagined his liver would be rich and buttery. Nutritious, too.
A rectangular sticker on his shirt said Dr Franklin Anders. He’d written the name in small letters, to make room for Dr. He looked sick with worry, the way most people did the first time they saw a corpse. Like they thought the reaper might still be nearby.
‘You’re one of these NASA poindexters?’ I asked.
‘I’m an atmospheric composition analyst,’ Anders said, which was very much a yes. When he spoke, I saw he had a gold-capped tooth.
‘What were you doing out here?’
