By Debi Marshall
Inside the wicked brain of kid killer, Derek Ernest Percy. younger. White. excessive IQ. Middle-class relations. Naval ranking. A portrait of a yuppie luck tale? No. A portrait of kid killer, Derek Ernest Percy. during this definitive, graphically chilling account of Percy's lifestyles, a guy dubbed via a jail officer as 'Australia's solution to Hannibal Lecter', award-winning true-crime writer Debi Marshall applies her investigative journalism abilities to a forensic exam of the crimes, the guy and his modus operandi. expert via particular fabric by no means earlier than noticeable - poignant and insightful interviews with Percy's mom, sufferers? households, psychiatrists, law enforcement officials and previous colleagues - Marshall additionally takes us on her own trip as she seeks to solve the reality concerning the monster whose lonely, idiosyncratic personality has deceived the easiest psychiatric minds for forty years. Is Derek Percy accountable for Australia's worst unsolved baby abductions and murders? Is he mad...
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Additional info for Lambs to the Slaughter
In the distance he hears a car engine start and a vehicle speed away. 30 on this Sunday afternoon, pass a vehicle travelling at speed on the main road. The car catches their attention: not just for the speed it is going, but for the awkward position of its lone occupant, perched high in the driver's seat as though he is sitting on something. Shane is walking and running, walking and running, and is now back at Warneet's main road. He can't see the man's car, or anyone else. He stands in the middle of the road, his chest heaving from exertion for twenty, twenty-five seconds.
That was the best bit, dominating her, intoxicated with his power, and he would write it down later, jottings that mirror parts of this girl's murder, the important details that he can re-live in his mind. The minute hand turns on the wall. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Long, long pauses. And now he's describing her murder, how he got the knife out as she lay on the ground near his car and plunged it into her neck. Put it in and ripped it across while she was still alive. Knight's fingers curl and uncurl as he listens, but his face betrays nothing.
A station wagon but sort of little – maybe a Datsun or a Hillman, he reckons. A couple of rugs are on the back seat and there's a sticker on the body, about four inches round, with NAVY written clearly on it. The driver is looking ahead, but he turns and glances at them briefly. They keep walking, on towards the beach. Shane wants to turn right and urges Yvonne to follow him. 'Come on,' he tells her. ' But she doesn't want to. She is only tiny but also high-spirited and feisty. She stands her ground.