The Decoy

The Decoy

It was hot. Too hot. Fred Ancanti liked things ice cold - and wearing
a suit in this humidity was stifling. He also didn't like junior
reporter and assistant Percy Thomas, who liked to bug him. But even the
idiot Percy knew when his boss was REALLY pissed off. On days of high
humidity everyone knew to stay away from Mr. Ancanti - he alone in the
small, stifling office had the power to fire every one of their sorry
little behinds. Sometimes Fred wanted to reach out to his colleagues
and to say, 'Hey, don't be scared - I was a junior assistant reporter
once too!' but on most days he just ended up saying, 'Do I pay you to
be slackers or do I pay you to work?'

He'd barely walked in the door when Percy pounced on him.
'Sir. SIR!' he said.
'Not now.' Fred kept on working. Not today.
'But please sir, your wife is on the line.'
'Tell her that if it isn't important I'm working.'
'Sir, I'm pretty sure it IS important.'
Fred rounded on him, and Percy was desperately trying to resist the
tempation to quail.
'OH DO YOU NOW? AND WHY IS THAT THEN?'
'Well, you see, sir it's -'
'Please God may it not be about what do I want for goddamn dinner,'
muttered Fred under his breath.
'It's your daughter, sir.'
'My daughter? Oh, Christ, she's bunked off again, hasn't she? These
fifteen-year-olds -'
'No sir, it's not that.'
'WELL FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WILL YOU TELL ME WHAT IT IS?'
'She's dead, sir. She's been murdered.'
'What?' whispered Fred.

The police were pretty sure of everything. They'd never seen a neater
murder case apart from the girl herself. Covered in blood - a bow to
the head had finished her off. The instrument was just feet away from
her. A rock. Fingerprints. She, herself, was lying face up, trousers
and pants rolled down. Raped. The man who matched the fingerprints
turned up before they could get the results back.
'I have a confession,' he said. It sounded a lot different to that -
practically incomprehensible over the phone as he was crying so hard.
Turned himself in, about nineteen. The guy in charge, Mitch Jacobs, was
rather confused.
'Why the hell did he turn himself in for? Why didn't he just run for
it?'

'It's all a bit too simple,' said his partner. Mitch turned to him,
incredulous.
'What d'you mean, too simple? Guy likes girl. Goes too far. Girl won't
shut up he has to act - kills her by accident or something. I mean, if
it all wraps up nice and simple it means less overtime for us, don't
it?'
'S'pose,' agreed his partner, still wondering.
'But he could've still done a runner.' His partner didn't reply, so
Mitch continued, 'but I guess he's still basically a kid, right? He
prob'ly got scared or summat. Or maybe he realised how much evidence
he'd left. Someone mighta heard the girl scream or summat.'
'Mm. But they don't seem to have a connection, y'know?'

'They are both local, both young people. Prob'ly mates or just knew
each other around. Wouldn't be hard, would it?'
'Guess not. But they're from different sides of the town.'
'A club or a footie match or a nightclub? It wouldn't be HARD,
Nick.'
'She was fifteen-year-old girl. Didn't like football and wouldn't've
been old enough to get into the local club.'
'Have you seen her class photo? She looks like she's twenty, to me, to
judge.'
'Mm.'

The lad turned out to be twenty. He was blubbering so hard questioning
wasn't easy, but all they came out with was that he had raped her. And
then he'd killed her. He hadn't meant to.
'It was just a high school crush that went to far!' cried the man,
Billy Nichols.
'But you're twenty.'
'I saw her around there, we met by there - I loved her but she just
wanted to leave and I couldn't let her go...'
Mrs. Acanti was crying too, outside.
'So much potential, so much to live for!' she wailed into her husband's
suit jacket. Fred Ancanti said nothing. It was all too simple. His
daughter had never mentioned Billy Nichols to him. Not to her mother.
And though he protested he'd met her and she was with her friends her
friends had no recollection of the man. But then again, they were
crying so hard it was difficult to make out. There seemed, suddenly, a
myriad of friends all crying. Teachers. People in upper sixth and just
starting who knew her name and her when she couldn't have known all
them.
'So popular, so likeable,' sniffed Mrs. Ancanti. Fred thought they had
seen her face once in a while - a girl raped and murdered in the
school, a girl that could've been them - would set any excitable girl
off. And once one person starts other people start. The headmaster
found it strange as well, a man in an all-girl high-school.

'We'll be underwater in a minute with all these tears, Mrs. Ancanti,'
he tried to joke, 'she has so many grieving friends.' It might have
been a compliment to her memory but it just set Mrs. Ancanti off
again.

Fred got a call from work, his best friend in the place, Michael
Taylor.
'I'm so sorry, Fred. Losing that daughter of yours, Naomi, wonderful
girl, truly wonderful, I really enjoyed her company at your dinner
party...I hope they catch the bastard.' Fred knew he should probably
say thank you or I know or confirm his grief, his daughter, his only
child was dead but he couldn't bring himself to say it.
'Where were you this morning? You were late.'
'Traffic jam - I didn't get up early enough to beat it,' supplied
Michael, the lie rolling off his tongue.
'You should have done.' Fred made an attempt at his brisk manner.
'I might've been there for you when you heard the news, eh?' Fred was
silent for a minute. He cast an eye around to the grieving women. He
did not wish to talk about Naomi to anyone yet.
'It wouldn't have helped, Michael. Whoever that man is, I'll kill kim
once the questioning is over.'
'They've caught him? Already?' Michael faked surprise artfully.
'Yeah. Twenty-something bozo, looks to thick to do it - but they have
fingerprints.'
'It must have been HORRIBLE for Naomi.'
'I know.' He slammed down the receiver. Michael was silent for a
moment, then started to hum along to a chart topper he did not know the
name of. He didn't know where he had learnt it.

It was a planned rape and murder. A bachelor and childless man,
Michael had met Naomi at the dinnerparty. Thirteen-year-old girls are
interested in pop stars, not boyfriends, not really. It was going to be
fifteen when he struck.

She'd been humming the song in time with her walkman on the way to
school, early morning. Michael waited for her. He raped her. There was
more to it than that but he tended to grin like a maniac whenever he
thought of it, and in light of the tragic event that would be
suspicious. The decoy had been given money. A lot of money. When he
came out from prison he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. A
young man. A believable lie - a college crush that went too far.

Billy Nichols was arrested and held.

Two days later, after the autopsy, Fred Ancanti got another
call.
'We have other DNA evidence, Mr. Ancanti. It might not have been
William Nichols - there are fingerprints on your daughter's body which
aren't his.'
'Who? Who's are they?'He was desperate to know. He knew it. HE KNEW IT.
A twenty-year-old could not have killed his daughter in a passionate
yet chilling rape. She wouldn't have agreed to meet him. He didn't
raise stupid daughters, just damned unlucky ones.

'A man named Michael Taylor, does that mean anything to you?'

All the money in the world couldn't get Michael Taylor out of that
one.