Retirement

In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it. This time though, I had my doubts. Fred Oathill sat alone in the bare room, observed by myself & the interviewing officer through a small window. He was brought in clearly in a state of distress & confusion, yet after he had been examined and given diazepam to calm him, he seemed to relax. After a few minutes he was visibly more serene and appeared lucid. His expression still exuded fear, yet his dark eyes still flickered occasionally, momentarily with a glimmer of something else. I couldn't decide whether it was bewilderment, guilt, or menace. I turned to the detective, indicating with a nod of my head that I was ready to commence my analysis of Mr Oathills' state of mind. A 77 year old alzheimers sufferer who had been accused of murdering 7 inhabitants at an expensive Cheshire retirement home was most definitely new ground for me, and indeed the police I was working alongside, but I resolved to remain objective and decide whether the defendant was mentally fit and capable to stand trial for the horrendous crimes he had been accused of.

"I've been living at Fairbanks for about 2 years now. I was shipped off there when my eldest son and his new wife found out she was pregnant. They needed more room, and didn't want an old fart like me around, I was clearly in the way. That bitch he ended up with used to make up terrible lies about me, saying I'd soiled myself on the sofa, was spying on her when she took a bath. Just invented stories to turn him against me. Fair enough, I was beginning to forget the odd thing, but she was making out I was some loopy, dirty old pervert just to get me out of the way. My eldest son, Andrew - the younger two are David & George, but none of them are saints, believe me! - well, Andrew took her side, whether he believed her lies or not, and decided the best place for me was in a home where I could be 'cared for' properly. In fairness, my memory has suffered quite noticeably since I went into Fairbanks, maybe they saw something in me earlier. It still doesn't forgive the lies she told about me and the way my family treated me. I suppose the boys still despise me for the break-up with their mother when they were all very young. She was a very unambitious woman, we had 3 children in 3 years, I was too young and wanted adventure. I went abroad to find myself. I moved around a lot, met many interesting people, saw wonderful places, but I always sent back money to provide for the boys I had created."

Much of the history of Mr Oathill was decidedly sketchy, we were waiting on a call from the Home Office to give us a clearer picture of his history. I checked my file for corroboration of the information we did have, he was admitted in June 2008 and for the first 18 months of those 2 brief years had been pretty much a model resident. Courteous, helpful, pleasant, cheery. He had a dark sense of humour which was probably down to the personal tragedies he had experienced during his life. People find many ways of coping, and humour is usually a favourable path. Many of the staff at Fairbanks still could not believe that the mild, good-natured Fred was being detained in custody, far less that he was accused of being a serial killer, probably the oldest on record. The first victim, Margaret Anderson had been discovered in November 2009. Initially it was recorded as death by natural causes, but as the death toll rose, further investigation revealed that she had indeed been suffocated in her bed. For good measure, somebody had even been killing off the various pets that had been kept collectively in the home as many of the residents were animal lovers.

"Yeah, it was a shame poor Rose found her, she had a heart attack on the spot. Suppose they'll try to blame that on me as well will they? Well, yes I was the last person to see Margaret alive apparently, that doesn't mean I killed her does it? I remember my first day at the care home, clear as crystal in my mind. Margaret was sat in her rocker near the big bay windows that look out into the gardens. When she saw me and realised I was new, she came across to greet me, made me feel very welcome. I'll never forget how kind & gentle she was. She had no children and after her husband had passed away she had deteriorated mentally quite rapidly. She insinuated that the care worker who visited her daily voiced concerns about Margaret being suicidal, and it was decided she would be safer in a home where she would be in company and staff could keep an eye on her. She just got used to being there I suppose. The night before she was found dead, I'd been in her room. We used to play cards, talk, have a cup of tea together. She was lovely, engaging company when she was on form. When she wasn't, she could become very depressed. Told me on numerous occasions how she didn't want to continue any more. Saw no point in life. Margaret was bored & just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up."

"Not too long before the end, she alluded to me that one of the male orderlies had interfered with her. It was after a birthday party, we had all had a few alcoholic drinks, which is normally frowned upon because most of us are on medication. The exact details of the incident are vague in my memory. I tried to find out more from her afterwards, but she just closed up, talked about something else. I had got to know her quite well by then and could tell that she was hiding something, and that she was also frightened. That last night, she told me how she couldn't carry on one more day, she saw shadowy figures haunting her in the night, she was terrified and rambling, pleading for me to help her. When I left her, I went back to my room & wept. I felt so bad for her. Seeing somebody who was once a proud, independent woman reduced to a quivering wreck, dependant on staff who were paid to care but generally didn't, it sours the soul a little. Funnily enough, that was when the first animal died too. A hamster, called Monty. I had been unofficially been promoted as 'Doctor Doolittle' of our little menagerie, so jokingly named each animal after various heroes from the allied forces from the second world war. I don't know why really, just a little fun people of our generation could relate to I suppose."

It was a little unnerving to hear him talk about the death of a friend and then in the next sentence be casually discussing a dead pet. But he was in a very stressful situation and quite heavily medicated, which would explain his thought patterns. I observed Mr Oathill more closely. He was a tall man, still a touch over six feet even though age had blessed him with a stoop which had stolen inches and years in equal measure. He had an uncanny resemblance to an actor whose name I couldn't quite place, maybe a Marlon Brando/Jack Nicholson hybrid. He looked younger than his 77 years, a few wrinkles around the neck the main culprits in revealing his true age. His tanned complexion was probably a result of working and living in South America for many years before he returned to England, his hand had been forced by the death of his wife in an apartment fire in Venezuela. I had been unable to glean clear details of his working history, the only information was that he worked for a private merchant in the field of medicine.

"I don't see what going over the past is going to achieve. I struggle remembering last week, never mind years ago. I know my wifes' death was the most painful news I had ever received. I was working overtime on the night-shift when I got a call at work from a man who lived across the street from me in Barcelona. Its only small compared to its namesake in Spain, well, Catalunya, but its still a beautiful place nonetheless. He told me there had been a fire in our apartments and that I should come home immediately. A few of my colleagues lived in the same block, it was owned by the company we worked for. When I arrived, the street was over-run with fire crews, police, ambulances, onlookers, it was chaotic. The building was unrecognisable, a gutted, smouldering shell. I knew instantly that my German wife, Dagmar was dead, I was completely numb and went into shock. Afterwards I was told it as being investigated as arson, and that 17 of the 22 residents had died that night. All of them employees and their families of the company I worked for. I couldn't stay in South America after that. Initially I wished I had died with her in that inferno. I returned to England in 2003."

"The company I worked for was a German pharmaceutical manufacturer. We were synthesising various medications, mainly for the fields of psychiatry & dementia. It was one of four similar operations by the same corporation in South America. Curiously, another plant in Bolivia was destroyed in an explosion at about the same time as the fire. The police authorities declared it was an aggressive protest by animal rights activists. I assume it was because of some of the raw materials that were used in the production process. The investigation into that and the fire at the apartment block both suddenly stopped, I remember thinking it was very curious considering the amount of death and destruction involved. I was too riddled with grief to take any action or find out more, but a few years after I had returned to England, I received a letter from an ex-workmate of mine. It was a very paranoid, rambling affair, filled with all kinds of conspiracy theories, suggesting that some staff had been unwitting guinea pigs to medical experiments, that kind of thing. The letter listed further incidents & suicides that had occurred directly related to the company I worked for. I struggle to remember much more about it. I was so lost at the time. After many sessions of grief counselling I vowed to just enjoy what time I had left on the planet, as that was what my wife and I had planned to do together anyway, since she was gone it was down to me to carry our flag alone."

I observed a lone tear slowly meander down Mr Oathills cheek, like a river of sadness trickling weakly to its imminent demise. I questioned him further about the rest of the residents at the nursing home, along with Margaret Anderson, 5 other elderly patients had died in a similar manner, either from suffocation or an overdose of medication. The last death had been the frenzied stabbing of a 37 year old care worker. Jason Stone had been employed at Fairbanks for 5 years, in that time receiving various disciplinary actions against him for allegations of assault, theft and neglect. Unfortunately, since the Commission for Social Care Inspection had given the home a 1 star rating for care and service in its annual report, the allegations were decried as overzealousness by management looking for a scapegoat to explain the poor score. Mr Stone was reinstated on appeal after suspension, it was he that Fred Oathill had referred to previously, allegedly sexually interfering with at least 3 of the victims. There was no doubt however about the death of Mr Stone. Upon hearing piercing screams and loud commotion after midnight on April 2nd, Diana Watts, head nurse on night duty at Fairbanks had followed the source of the blood-chilling shrieks. She opened the door to Mr Oathills room to observe a scene of complete carnage. Mr Stone lay dying, slumped in an armchair, his head and chest a morass of blood which had seeped through his white tunic, turning it crimson. There were at least 8 puncture wounds to his face and body and Mrs Watts knew immediately he would be dead in seconds. She turned her shocked face towards the bed, her eyes finally arriving on Fred Oathill, panting heavily, kitchen knife still clutched tightly in his white-knuckled hand.

"I knew he would come for me. After Beatrice was found dead, they said it was an overdose but I knew she had been murdered, I told that Stone I knew what he was up to. He brushed me off, telling me I was a crazy old goat and to keep out of his face if I knew what was good for me. I had taken a large knife from the kitchens days previously, and taken to sleeping with it under my mattress. I was scared, yes, but I knew that if he came to do to me what he had to the other residents, I would have to defend myself, and face the consequences later. I remember thinking at the time, well, at various junctures during most of the time the deaths were occurring that I should inform someone in authority of my suspicions. The fact that you are spoken to and treated like a five year old simpleton convinced me to hold my tongue, I didn't want to come across as a hysteric and have those bastards up my medication even more. So I waited. I tried to discuss with other residents the possibility of something very sinister going on under our roof, but many of them were much further down the road of senility than I, so usually I was met with a blank stare, or an offer of a game of draughts! I did write a letter to my son Andrew, voicing my fears, but on his next visit he told me to stop reading such gory books or watching late thrillers as it was clearly addling my mind. Charming."

"So, yes, I did take the life of Jason Stone, but it certainly wasn't murder, as I am 100% convinced he had come to my room that night to do me in as he had the others. I acted in self defence and I'm glad he's dead, at least he'll never be able to hurt any more defenceless people. When I told the police my suspicions about the other deaths, that's when the exhumations and re-examining of post mortems began. When they told me there was no evidence of any wrong-doing on Mr Stones' part and that I was their chief suspect, I was pretty gob-smacked. My sons have all disowned me, not really too surprised about that, the only support I've had is from families of some of the other victims. I'd got to meet various daughters, sons and grandchildren who came to visit various residents in the home. Many of them have rallied around to get me legal help as they at least are convinced of my innocence. They even bought me a cat called Churchill, which I found touching. I appreciate that you aren't here to find me innocent or guilty, I suppose you are going to decide whether or not I'm sane enough to stand trial. The truth is, either way, I either go to prison, or back to a home, imprisoned with my thoughts, I don't know which is worse. There are times I wish I was back amongst my friends in Venezuela, I felt part of a real family during those years. I'm sure we'll be together again soon."

He looked me right in the eyes, a gaze of defiance, guilt & something almost inhuman was venomously thrown in my direction. Before I could continue my questioning there was a sharp rap on the small window, the officer outside indicated a phone call had come through for me. I put my pen down on the pad I had been making notes on, excused myself to Mr Oathill and ventured towards the door. I waited for the red light to turn green so I could eventually leave, and proceeded along the corridor to another, similarly dingy room where a telephone awaited me. There was a small television fixed to a wall bracket in the corner, silently playing the national news channel. I picked up the telephone receiver and was informed that I was on hold. I held it loosely to my ear, idly waiting for the call to be reconnected. As I glanced up at the screen, a 'Breaking News' banner was scrolling across the bottom of the display. It was about a mass murder that had taken place in a care home in South America. An elderly man had apparently walked into a Jewish care home and started shooting indiscriminately. The screen flashed up a map of Venezuela. I could barely believe it. I had stopped breathing for a second. I burst into action, fumbling for the button controls and turning up the volume on the set.

"....from the chief of police Miguel Silva of Barcelona, Venezuela. He stated that at 9.15 this morning, an armed man had walked into the breakfast lounge and begun firing upon residents and staff. Details are hazy at present but we have learnt that the accused was an elderly man who was not a resident at the home, but a Swedish immigrant by the name of Olaf der Lith. He was eventually overpowered by a member of staff armed with a fire extinguisher, but it is believed at least 9 people have died and another 15 are in a critical condition. There has been a lot of recent tension within the Jewish community in Venezuela, stemming from the presidents stance against Israel and its perceived genocide attacks in Palestine, yet this seems to have been the actions of a lone individual with murder in mind. There has been talk of this having some connection with the German medical company that was based in this city during the late 20th century, apparently Mr der Lith was an employee and Nazi sympathiser. MK pharmaceuticals had various investigations and accusations thrown at it during its time in operation. Not least the terrible fire which raged through the employees apartment block 12 years ago, killing 19 residents. This tragedy was soon followed by accusations of medical experiments on staff and unsuspecting members of the public, which saw the company cease trading soon afterwards. But today, the air is thick with shock, disbelief and grief at this terrible, violent and devastating massacre. Our thoughts are with the families of the victims and the wounded, we will be back with this story when more facts...."

I was already running back along the corridor when I heard the frantic shouts emanating from the room where Fred Oathill was contained. The police officer who had been standing guard was pushing furiously against the holding cell door, it was clearly blocked on the inside. I glanced through the small observation window, I could see the top of Mr Oathills head, lifeless and slumped downward onto his chest. His prone body was covered thickly in what was a massive deluge of deep red, my recently innocent pen was protruding from somewhere in his neck. Arced jets of blood covered the ceiling, the enormous force of pressure released when the nib had pierced his carotid artery. Now just a slow, thick flow oozed from the fatal injury. The police officer had managed to force the door enough to create a space for me to slip sideways into the room. The smell of sweet, pungent plasma assaulted my senses, adding to the nausea and light-headedness I was overcome with. I carefully circumnavigated the scene of carnage at my feet, aware of not disturbing evidence as this was now a crime scene. My eye had been drawn to the pad I had left on the table though. A fresh page had been turned and a note scribbled. I looked down to observe that the recently departed had written his own name, crossed out letter by letter, as if decoding an anagram. Fred Oathill = Adolf Hitler. I slumped down into the chair, incredibly confused and feeling more than a little defeated. The realisation I had believed his lies would sink in later. For now, I had to inform the highest authorities of the enormity of what I was uncovering. Mercy had blinded me.