Prologue
The Time Before
1.
It was the smell that finally caused my stomach to betray me for the first time in almost 6 years. My breakfast gushed out with such a force that, for an instant, I feared my entire stomach would tear itself loose and jettison through my open lips, landing at my feet in a hot and fiery mess. Food never tasted as good the second time around and the fried eggs, bacon and sausages I had eaten only two hours prior, now resembled something more in line with paint stripper than the delicious buffet put on by the Chief’s wife. The stench that filled the tiny room was blood. The smell was overwhelming, metallic, almost coppery. It had gushed down her leg and pooled on the timber floorboards beneath her, not quite dried out, instead it congealed and then filled the room with its overpowering reek. My partner, Warren Smythe, an 8-year veteran stood watching me, a grin on his face.
“You’ll get used to it, kid. Trust me.” He wasn’t being condescending. Warren had been a great mentor, showing me the ins and outs of the job with youthful enthusiasm. He understood that it was hard when you first started and I had only been in Cider Hill for just over a year. The killer’s victims had numbered 9 then, a large number already, but no-one was really prepared for just how long the monster would elude us. I fought my stomach back under control and wiped my mouth with a handkerchief. Warren gave me a pat on the back and resumed searching the room for evidence.
Victim 14, as we would come to know her, had been suspended by her wrists from a rope thrown over one of her living-room ceiling beams, her hands bound with a thick cord. She was naked except for her shoes, black leather T-straps. I approached the body, careful not to interfere with anything around the room, and made my way behind her. The rock I saw protruding a little from her rectum provided the link that confirmed this to be another victim of the Daylesford Devil. He had forced the same type of river pebble into her rectum as all the others before her for reasons that still evaded us. We were guessing that it was just some sick signature which he had adopted, to claim ownership over each of the victims. Taking the pebble and the fact that most of her right thigh was chewed off, confirmed our worst fears. Lucifer, as the locals had dubbed him, had killed again.
2.
Susan Heidenberg had lived alone in the house on Pickets Lane for almost two months, having moved from Melbourne earlier in the year to take up a teaching position at the prestigious Cider Hill School for Girls, located 5 miles out of Cider Hill. She was 24, single and a pretty blonde. Her father had walked out on the family when she was 9 and her mother had passed this previous year from cancer. No other known family existed as far as we could tell. Our subsequent questioning of friends and colleagues revealed no known suitors, instead, we had found her to be a loner who favoured books to people. There were no alcohol or cigarettes found in the home and a bible sitting on her bedside table confirmed one person’s information that she only ever really ventured out to attend one of the local churches. Other than that, we had nothing. We had a young girl bound, gagged and then half eaten while suspended in her living room. The medical examiner would confirm later that, like the other victims, Miss Heidenberg had been conscious through most of the ordeal and passed out because of blood loss and shock.
I shudder every time I think of her, and the rest that died under such horrific circumstances. We had 14 victims, all young women, ages ranging from 17 to 29, all living in the Daylesford/ Cider Hill areas and all cannibalized by a monster. A monster that loved to not only feast on the flesh of his victims but also who left that strange signature; a river pebble, large enough to stay fixed throughout the ordeal, inside the rectum of his victim. It had been the one piece of information we had kept from the reporters, to protect ourselves against copy-cats, and lucky for us, so far there had been none. None that we suspected, anyway. Still, the newspapers were in a frenzy over the story of the Daylesford Devil, had even coined the name within the first two weeks, when 3 victims had been discovered within mere days of each other. That had been back in 32, three long years before we finally captured him.
3.
The problem we were having (and by we, I mean the 4 police officers from Daylesford, two (including me) from Cider Hill, and the seven officers from Melbourne), was that the killer severed any links to the crime scenes as soon as he was finished, erasing any possible evidence that could connect him to the deed. If there ever was any to begin with. Not a single clue was found that we could use to help us identify him. Even the teeth marks, of which we had many from the various victims, were perfect. It was as if he had pristine teeth with no distinguishable features. No gaps, no misalignments, no visible cavities, just perfect impressions. We had plenty of false leads too, ones we would initially get excited over, only to discover in a short amount of time, that they led to nothing more than dead ends. On one particular occasion we had discovered a used condom in the bathroom of victim 7, Nadine Johnstone, the youngest of the victims. Subsequent interviews had led us to a boyfriend, one Thomas Wright, 19, kept hidden from the victim’s family’s knowledge, because of the overbearing and protective nature of her father, and thus their relationship had been concealed. Mr. Wright had visited the victim earlier in the evening and they had engaged in some activities of a “private” nature. Witnesses had confirmed his story, that he had left the victim around 8 that evening, and her parents had discovered the young lady suspended from the shower rail some two hours later. After all the leads had been followed up and all the questions had been asked, we still had nothing.
There was nothing left at the scenes, not even a single fingerprint left out of place. According to eyewitnesses, there weren’t any trophies removed from the victims. Valuables such as money and jewellery were always left intact as well, a fact we took as another sign the perpetrator was well off. Another interesting note worth mentioning was that none of the victims appeared to have been sexually interfered with.
As far as we could tell, money nor sexual gratification had been a motivation for the deaths. It was as if he just had a genuine thirst for blood, and that appeared to be his only motive. To feed. But, as the old saying goes, luck doesn’t last forever. And if that was how the Daylesford Devil had been eluding us for so long, through luck, then he was about to run out.
4.
Our big break came just two weeks after the Heidenberg woman had been killed. It was a Thursday evening and Warren and I had just returned to the station after a day of door knocking and patrols. Alyce, our resident switchboard operator and receptionist, took a phone call from old Mrs. Weaver who lived out on Drummond lane, which ran off the Daylesford- Cider Hill Road. She said she had seen a man loitering around the Kennedy house, which she could see from her kitchen window. Joe Kennedy ran a butcher shop in town and Mrs. Weaver knew that he worked late on a Thursday. His 17-year-old daughter, Tami, would be home alone, Tami’s mum having died two years before from pneumonia. Since her death, it had been just the two of them. Mrs. Weaver said the man had been sitting in a thick clump of bushes, appearing to be just watching the house and that someone should make sure the girl was OK. We agreed to pop out and check on her.
The funny thing about fate is that you can never guess how it will shape the future. I still believe to this day, that if the events of that evening had played out any other way, then Lucifer would have escaped again. But one Simple Twist of Fate had sealed his.
5.
The day that would come to be known as “Lucifer’s Last Day” was January 24th, 1935. What I believe to be the intervention of fate, was nothing more than a mere oversight by my partner, Warren, who had driven us all over town that day. He had forgotten to keep his eye on one very important aspect when driving a motor vehicle.
Our car ran out of fuel two miles from the Kennedy house. If we hadn’t run out, and ended up driving our patrol car to the farmhouse, the killer would have surely heard our approach and been alerted to our approach, thus warning him to make his getaway. Instead, he never knew we were there. The sun had disappeared over the far horizon as we drove out of town, and by the time the car coughed and spluttered, it had grown almost dark.
“Fuckin piece of crap,” Warren cried as he pulled the car over to the side of the road. He smacked his hand down hard on the steering wheel a couple of times in disgust, then got out and slammed his door shut.
“Ah damn it. Come on. Nice night for a walk.” I nodded in agreement and we walked along the edge of the road, Drummond lane only ten minutes further along. It was only two days after the full moon had peaked and the large shiny disc was already sitting high in the sky, illuminating our way like a huge lamp post.
“Those lights, over there,” I said as we turned onto Drummond Lane, bitumen turning to gravel, pointing across the paddock to our left, “is that it?” Warren looked and nodded.
“Yup. That’s it,” he said, and then suddenly turned and cut across the ditch, grabbed hold of the fence that flanked the road and swung his leg over. He stood there, straddling the fence and beckoned me to climb over.
“Cross country?” I asked and swung my leg over, then the other in a small hop. My pants temporarily caught on the barb wire that topped the fence, threatening to tear a hole in them, but Warren lowered the fence a little more and they popped free. I turned and held the fence down for him in return, once I was safely over and a few seconds later we were heading towards the lights, a few hundred yards across the freshly harvested paddock. January was always a great time for farmers with harvesting dominating this time of year, the smell of freshly cut grain now hanging thick in the air. It looked to be a wheat field, and the stubble reached knee height. Warren walked ahead of me a little and I followed, steadily increasing my pace, now eager to ensure the girl’s safety.
6.
We heard a very faint crying as we neared the tree line that skirted one side of the Kennedy’s yard. The main house looked to have a single light burning in the kitchen, the rest of the house appearing dark and ominous. There was also a light burning in the main shed which sat about a hundred yards off to our right. Warren had put his finger to his lips as we neared the trees to ensure my silence, and just as he was about to whisper something there was a small scream followed by silence. The scream had sounded more like an exhausted protest, but the silence that now followed was what panicked me most. The echo from that scream had played havoc with our sense of direction and for a moment we weren’t sure just where it had come from.
“You go to the house. I’ll take the shed. And be quiet, Jim.” He began to turn, then pointed at my belt. “And take your pistol out,” he said pointing at my still holstered weapon. I hadn’t seen him draw his, but he now held it with two hands in front of his chest, barrel pointed toward the ground. I nodded, drew my pistol and hurried toward the house.
7.
“Hello?” I whispered with a wavering voice as I peered in through the fly screen door. The main door was open and I could see the kitchen deserted, the only sound, some crickets chirping somewhere out in the darkness. I felt for the handle, pulled it down gradually, then slowly pulled the door open, my pistol pointed straight ahead of me. My senses felt like they were on a knife edge, my bladder suddenly feeling full and tender. The door let out a slight creak, and I nearly dropped my weapon as I flinched. My skin broke out in gooseflesh, my nerves on edge. I had never been in this type of situation before, especially knowing there could be a potential serial killer looming somewhere inside.
I stepped in through the doorway and made my way into the kitchen. I still remember the faint smell of lavender and saw some, freshly picked, sitting in a vase on the dining table. The floor creaked loudly beneath my foot and I jumped again.
“Anybody here? It’s the police.” I whispered, afraid of hearing a reply. There was no answer, the house silent. I remember feeling relief when I realised the house had electric lights. If something had forced me to search the house by torchlight, I think I would have turned and ran. I moved to the living room, felt for the light switch and snapped it on, again, nothing but silence greeting me. The rest of the house proved the same, nothing to mention. Fear crept into my middle at the realization that the scream must have come from the shed. I ran back through the house, barged the door open with one outstretched hand and bounded down the front steps, two at a time. I could see the light burning brightly in the shed, but now saw the front door wide open. I ran, blindly sprinting toward the open door, then struck something hard and blunt with my shin, sending me sprawling into the dirt, the gun falling somewhere in front of me. My shin screamed in agony, feeling as if it was on fire. I could feel something warm trickling down into my shoe, as I fumbled around in the dark, desperate to find my revolver. After what seemed like an eternity, my fingers felt the familiar cold touch of steel and I wrapped my fingers around it. I struggled to my feet trying to stifle the pain flaring up my leg. I hobbled toward the shed again, the silence becoming more pronounced with every painful step. As I neared the door, I stopped, peeked inside and noticed a shadow slowly pendulating back and forth along the side wall. My fingers were cramping as I gripped the weapon with all my might, the fear now pulsing in my temples. I held it out in front of me, pointing it at the door and slowly crept forward.
There was a faint sobbing coming from somewhere further inside the building as I stepped through the doorway. But just as I was about to call out, to reassure the sobbing girl, my heart stopped as my panic finally boiled over. I finally saw what was creating the swinging shadow. Warren was dangling from a rope that was wound around his neck, hangman style. His arms hung lazily by his sides and his back was facing me. There was no movement coming from him and I ran forward, calling his name. When I reached him, I grabbed one arm and swung him around. I meant to tell him to help me, to help me get him down and stop being stupid, but then his face met mine and I realized that Warren would never wake up again. There was a knife protruding from his chest, the brown wooden handle the only thing jutting out just next to his policeman’s star, the blade completely embedded to the hilt. There was a patch of blood around the handle, but it was nothing compared to the gush of blood that was still pouring from his sliced throat. His eyes hung open, staring blankly at me, the tip of his tongue jutting slightly from between his lips.
I don’t remember screaming, but Joe Kennedy would later tell me different. He came running into the shed at that moment, and I whirled around so fast, that I nearly blew his head off if it wasn’t for him ducking beneath my swinging pistol.
“Where’s Tami?” he cried at me, tears and snot running down his face. “Where’s my little girl?”
“I haven’t found her yet,” I answered, then paused when the faint cry resumed from somewhere behind us. Joe looked over my shoulder, then pushed past me, running to the back of the shed, past a small tractor parked against the far wall. I called for him to wait but there was no stopping him. I followed him closely, my pistol never dropping an inch, ready to shoot anything that moved. As Joe rounded the corner and saw what was hiding behind the dividing wall, he screamed his daughter’s name.
8.
She was hanging from a rope, although not by her neck, but by her hands, both bound at the wrist and then suspended from the rafters. She was naked except for the pillowcase tied over her head. Joe was trying to cut her down with his pocket knife as I ran up behind him. I could see a wound on her upper left arm that looked all too familiar, a neat round bite mark seeping blood just below the shoulder. I removed my jacket and put it over the girl’s shoulders then helped Joe lay her down as the rope finally let go. He removed the pillowcase from her head and I saw that the girl was mostly all right except for a small bruise blooming next to her right eye.
9.
The girl lost consciousness as we laid her down on some hay that lay to one side. I was about to suggest that we carry her into the house, when we heard a revving engine break the silence. I stood, turned and peered out into the shed.
“MY CAR,” Joe suddenly yelled, and I ran as fast as I could toward the door with one thought screaming at me. The person at the wheel of that car was the killer that had been eluding us for 14 victims and I was the only one that could stop him. Any apprehensions I had, disappeared in an instant as I heard the car speed up, then saw it drive in a U-turn as I rushed out of the shed. Its engine revved again as it began to head down the driveway.
Without thinking, I aimed my pistol, held my breath, then made it roar as I unleashed all six bullets in a furious hail of hope and fear. The back window blew inward in a shower of glass and the right rear tyre seemed to explode with a loud eruption. There were two metallic pops as the bullets struck the car body and then the vehicle lurched to one side and rolled through the fence that ran parallel to the driveway, then into the ditch with a loud crash. The driver’s side door opened and a dark figure rolled out into the night, staggered a little, then ran toward the distant trees. I was after him in an instant, desperately trying to reload my pistol with each step, the pain in my shin now just a distant haze, blocked out by the adrenaline-fuelled charge I was making.
“STOP,” I screamed, so loud that it felt like my vocal chords had torn, my throat burning. The figure didn’t hesitate, only continued running, the desperation evident in the leaps and bounds he was taking across the paddock that Warren and I had walked less than 15 minutes before. My legs felt like they were running on pure adrenalin, some strange propulsion that was moving me with such incredible speed that the countryside felt like it was passing me in a blur. I was gaining on him and he knew it, the nervous glimpses he was throwing over his shoulder followed by a groan of desperation and then the quickening of his legs, his feet almost skimming along the top of the dirt. He must have had the dawning realisation that his freedom was nearly at an end. I could just make out the sounds if his panting when a louder more piercing noise came rushing over the far hill. My eyes darted in that direction and I felt instant relief wash over me as I saw the accompanying flashing red lights that were now blazing through the trees in licks and splashes, first one patrol car and then a second a few seconds later. I pulled out my flashlight and shone it towards the headlights that were now driving along the road, desperate to get their attention. I watched with anticipation as they slowed, turned a little, then stopped as their headlights illuminated the field we were running through. I pointed my pistol at the running figure one final time, barely 50 yards behind him now, then shot once, aiming high.
“STOP! STOP OR I’LL SHOOT YOU,” I screamed again. This time the figure came to a halt and held his hands skyward. The sobbing was what I heard first, then the pleading voice.
“Please, I did nothing, it was Loui,” he cried at me. There were two other officers now running toward us, both brandishing their own weapons, Lester Redding and Col Thomson. Lester was in the lead and screamed at the man to get on the ground. The man dropped to his knees, his hands pressed together in front him, as if in prayer. None of us even registered the fear that was on the man’s face.
“Please. I was just walking past. I did nothing.” His words meant nothing to us as we closed in, pounced on him then handcuffed his hands tightly behind him. When he was finally cuffed, Lester gave him a swift boot to the middle of his face.
“Take that you cunt,” he snarled in his thick Irish accent. I can still hear the crunch of his nose to this day. We all just stood there, silent, looking down at the now sobbing, pathetic figure lying at our feet. A small, skinny man, not much older than me, scared and trembling. All of us knew we had the man responsible for the murder and torture of 14 women as well as one police officer, and that now, hopefully, the nightmare had finally come to an end.
10.
The man we had arrested was Henry Edward Leighton, of Mitcham Road, Daylesford, aged 30. He worked at the timber mill out on Jackson Street, had never been in trouble with the police and had no wife or children. The press noted his initials and immediately jumped on the fact that the Daylesford Devil had the initials of H.E.L. Close enough to Hell as far as they were concerned and the headlines that followed were straight from a Hollywood movie.
“TAKEDOWN” one flashed across its front page, the line beneath it reading “The fall of the Devil”. “CAPTURED” read another, “THE END OF THE HORROR” another still.
He denied it all, no one doubting that he wouldn’t admit to any of it. He claimed to have been walking past when he heard a commotion coming from the barn and had freaked out when he saw the dead cop swinging from a rope, stealing the Kennedy’s car in a panic. We conducted our investigation and although we couldn’t find a single piece of evidence on him, we knew the lack of alibies for any of the murders would not be enough to convict him on. Most of the other evidence was circumstantial, such as his perfect teeth, the river pebbles we found behind his house, a witness spotting him near one of the murder locations around the time of the murder, carrying a coil of rope. He also had blood on his shirt sleeve when we arrested him that had matched the blood type of Warren but he claimed to have touched the officer, checking on him it and getting his blood on his sleeve in the process. The final piece that ultimately convicted him though was Tami’s eyewitness evidence, the only person to have ever survived the devil himself.
11.
He fronted court for the final time in April 1935. The death penalty was requested and although almost granted, the judge determined that there wasn’t a 100% airtight case against Leighton, and as such, had to deny the request for hanging, instead only sentencing him to life, stating that the overwhelming amount of circumstantial evidence, combined with Tami’s testimony satisfied him of Leighton’s guilt, but only as far as life, not death. He screamed his innocence when he was sentenced just like they all did, then was led from the courtroom in chains and taken straight up to Crab Apple Hill, which sat less than 10 minutes’ drive from the courtroom. He could have been taken to Pentridge Prison in Melbourne but Crab Apple Hill was already home to the state’s worst killers and Henry had overtaken them all. On Monday, April 22nd, 1935, Henry Leighton began the first day of his sentence at Crab Apple Hill Prison.
Warren Smythe was buried next to his mother and father in Melbourne Cemetery with very little fanfare and almost no recognition from Victoria Police. A number of officers from Cider Hill and Daylesford were granted leave for the day, including me, and we had hired a bus to take us there. In the days before and also after the funeral, I approached Chief Rademeyer on several occasions to request Officer Smythe be nominated for the Victoria Police Star, which I had heard was the appropriate medal for an officer killed the way he was. And each time, I was ignored. A couple of other officers also put my name forward but I didn’t want anything. I had performed my duties the way I had been trained and for what I was being paid for. Warren, however, gave his life. He deserved it. To me, it felt as if the hierarchy weren’t interested in medals or awards, as if they wanted the whole matter finished with so they could go back to the way things were before. Before a man went on a killing spree to the tune of 14 innocent victims, and the police had failed to protect each of them.
Whatever their reasons, I didn’t care. The officers of the two police stations involved, had done a remarkable job in ending the carnage. Had gone above and beyond to ensure the public could walk the streets again without fear. Just as they always had. To hell with the Rademeyers in this world.
I was never 100% sure that he was in fact Lucifer, also known as the Daylesford Devil. I was never absolutely positive because I didn’t actually see him. I had put my faith in the system and allowed it to decide for me. The nightmares that followed, the ones that would play out in my mind where Lucifer would continue his crime spree, the ones where I would wake in a cold sweat, sure I had made a mistake, continued for years. As the years passed, and the memories withdrew into the darkest recesses of my mind, the nightmares gradually disappearing, my conscience eventually felt at peace. Once they had gone completely, the nightmares never returned, never causing me to doubt the final result. That was, until June 1st, 1954.
