The Traveler

by John Katzenbach

  “I read newspapers and magazines. I subscribed to True Detective and Police. I spent hours studying the writings of a number of prominent forensic psychiatrists. I learned about sex murderers, mass murderers, professional murderers, military murderers. I studied massacres and murder conspiracies. I became intimate with de Sade, Bluebeard, Albert DeSalvo and Charles Whitman and My Lai Four or the Shatilla refugee camps. I knew Raskolnikov and Mengele and Kurtz and Idi Amin and William Bonney, whom you probably know as Billy the Kid. I know about the PLO and the Red Brigades. I could tell you about Charles Manson, or Elmer Wayne Henley, or Wayne Gacy or Richard Speck or Jack Abbott or Lucky Luciano and Al Capone. From Saint Valentine’s Day to the Freeway Murders. From the Salem Witch Trials to Miami’s drug wars to San Francisco’s unsolved Zodiac. I know about 007 from fiction and MI-5 in reality. I could explain why Bruno Richard Hauptmann probably wasn’t a murderer, although they executed him, or why Gary Gilmore was really just a loser who happened to kill, but he got executed, too. In fact, I studied just about every execution I could. I read everything from Camus’ essay on the death penalty to McLendon’s novel Deathwork, and then I read the Warren Commission Report and congressional testimony exposing the workings of the Phoenix Program in Vietnam . . .

  “Did you know,” Douglas Jeffers continued, “that in some states, court records and police reports become part of the public record? For example: I went down to North Florida not so long ago and read up on the case of one Gerald Stano. Interesting guy. Intelligent. Friendly. Outgoing. Not your reclusive loner by any means. Held a steady job as a mechanic. Did well. Everyone liked him, even the homicide detectives. He had only one small flaw . . .”

  Jeffers paused for effect.

  “. . . When he went on a date with a woman, he wouldn’t settle for a chaste handshake or peck on the cheek to say goodnight.”

  Jeffers laughed.

  “No, Mr. Stano preferred to kill his dates.”

  He glanced at Anne Hampton, assessing the pained look on her face.

  “Slicing and dicing them . . .”

  Another pause.

  “Could have been as many as forty.”

  Jeffers waited again before continuing.

  “You’ve got to admire him his consistency, if for no other reason. He treated everyone the same. Every woman, that is . . .”

  Anne Hampton remained quiet, waiting for Jeffers to speak. She saw him take a deep breath.

  “So you see what I became,” Jeffers said, his voice fairly ringing. “I became an expert.”

  “And then,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “I was ready to be a killer. Not some lucky jerk who got away with a random murder of a prostitute. But a complete, calculating, professional homicidal machine. But not a hit man, taking orders from some lowlife mobster or Colombian drug dealer. But a murderer completely in business for myself.

  “And that’s what I am.”

  He drove in silence for hours.

  Jeffers did not elaborate further. He thought to himself: Well, that’s enough for her to absorb for a bit. And what he had in mind next he believed would elevate her to yet another level.

  Anne Hampton was grateful for the quiet. She tried to force herself to think of simple things, like the smell of an apple pie baking, or the sensation of slipping on a silk shirt, but they were elusive.

  They crossed the river in Memphis in the dead of night. She saw the lights reflecting off the steady black water and Jeffers told her about the time the Cuyahoga River burned in Cleveland. The toxic wastes dumped into the water had caught fire, he said. How do you put out a body of water that’s on fire? He described shooting pictures of firemen at night, outlined by the soaring flames. They passed a sign as they crossed, which said, in a cheeriness that contradicted the hour: you’re leaving memphis—come back soon!

  Jeffers sang, “Ohhhh, momma, can this really be the end? To be stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues again . . .”

  He looked over at her and saw she did not recognize the tune. He shrugged. “My generation,” he said. He laughed. “Don’t make me feel so old.”

  She did not know what to say.

  They stayed on the interstate in Arkansas. It was well after midnight when they stopped at a Howard Johnson’s. She thought the clash of orange and aqua disturbing late at night, as if the color scheme should be changed as night fell, to something more somber and less jarring.

  In the morning they were on the road early, and drove for two hours before stopping for breakfast. Jeffers was ravenous, and he forced her to eat substantially, as well: eggs, pancakes, toast, sausages, several cups of coffee and juice.

  “Why so much?” she asked.

  “Big day,” he replied between bites. “Big night. Ball game in St. Louis. Game time, eight. Surprises to follow. Eat up.”

  She obliged him.

  After breakfast, though, he did not drive immediately back to the interstate. Instead he pulled into the parking lot of a large suburban shopping mall. Anne Hampton looked at him.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  He reached over quickly and grabbed her face, with his thumb and forefinger digging into her cheeks.

  “Just stay close, say nothing, and be educated!” he hissed.

  She nodded and he released her.

  “Watch, listen, and learn,” he said.

  He walked quickly through the deepening crowd of people arriving at the mall. She had to hurry to keep pace. Stores flashed about her, and she saw her reflection in the plate glass of one boutique. She heard voices all around, mostly kids yelling and running away from their parents, so she was surrounded by cries: Jennifer or Joseph or Joshua, stop that this minute! Which they never did. She heard couples talking over purchases and teenagers talking over boys, girls, records. These snatches of life around her seemed strangely distant, as if taking place in some other part of history. She quickened her pace at Douglas Jeffers’ side. He seemed oblivious to the crowd, striding purposefully ahead.

  He escorted her into a sporting goods store, where he plucked out a pair of red St. Louis Cardinals baseball hats. He pointed at a plastic snoutlike hat device and laughed mockingly. “They wear those pig hats to University of Arkansas games. Razorbacks. All I can say is, you damn well better win if your fans are going to wear those.”

  He paid cash for the two hats, then headed back through the mall. “One more stop,” he said.

  Inside the large Sears department store, he headed to the office products section. At the counter he purchased a small ream of typewriter paper and a package of business-sized envelopes. Then he walked over to a line of demonstration typewriters. He turned to her and said, “Watch carefully. Stick very close.”

  In a swift motion he produced from a pocket a set of skin-tight surgical gloves. He slid them on and quickly tore open the typewriter paper box. Moving without hesitation, he handed Anne Hampton the box and quickly spun a single sheet into one of the demonstration typewriters. He hesitated for an instant, searching quickly about to ascertain if anyone was close or if anyone was paying attention to them. Certain they were not noticed, he bent down to the typewriter.

  Then he typed:

  Yu guyz ar so dum, yu shud bag it,

  Cuz I just naled another faggit

  luv an kissies,

  Yu no who

  He spun the page out of the typewriter, folded it in three, and placed it inside an envelope. Still wearing the gloves, he put the envelope into his pocket. Then he removed the gloves, glanced about to make certain again that they hadn’t been noticed, and without a word to Anne Hampton paced off.

  Her mind a jumble, she rushed to his side, breathing hard to keep even with his stride.

  He said nothing when they returned to the car, but gestured toward the seat belt. She strapped herself in and kept quiet.
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  He drove steadily throughout the day and into the evening, doggedly keeping to the speed limit, or driving the prevailing speed, so they were passed by as many cars as they passed themselves. She wondered why it always seemed that Jeffers knew precisely where they were going, and how long it would take. He said to her, “We should make it by the bottom of the second inning,” but they had to park a little farther from the stadium than he’d anticipated, so that by the time they got to the gate it was the top of the third. They both wore the red caps he’d purchased earlier in the day. Jeffers produced two tickets at the turnstile, whipping them from his wallet with a flourish.

  She was taken aback by the gesture, and more by the realization that he’d purchased the tickets far in advance.

  “Should be a good one,” he said to the gatetender.

  “Yeah, except they’re up a couple already and ain’t no one figured out how to hit that kid yet.” He was an old man with white hair growing in his earlobes. One ear had a hearing aid attached to it. She saw he’d plugged in a cheap portable radio earphone in the other ear. He ignored them and reached for the tickets of the next set of late arrivals.

  They rapidly made their way through the aisles, bumping into people, stepping around vendors.

  The huge crowd and constant throb of noise unsettled her. She felt as if she were afloat in space, weightless, and that the swells of sound would sweep her away. She pressed close to Jeffers; at one point, when a rowdy group of teenagers tried to push between them, she reached out for his hand.

  In the home half of the fifth, Jeffers announced he was hungry again. “Listen,” he said to her, “just run over to the concession stand and get us some hot dogs.”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  Around them was a tidal flood of sound: the stately right-hander for the Mets had been throwing in his usual overpowering fashion, and the Cardinals had nothing to show for their efforts but the short end of a 2–0 score. But as Jeffers had made his request, the leadoff man had walked and the next hatter promptly lined a base hit to right. The crowd surged in anticipation, and a steady rhythmic clapping of encouragement filled the stadium. She had to yell for him to hear.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She felt his hand suddenly on her leg, the fingers biting into the muscle, squeezing it painfully.

  “I just can’t,” she said, tears forming in her eyes.

  He stared at her. He thought: Perfect.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know. She knew only that she was terrified of the noise, of the people, and of the world that he’d suddenly let into their lives.

  “Please,” she said.

  He could not hear her; the next batter had singled and the runner had scored from second, avoiding the catcher’s lunging tag in a cloud of dust. But he saw her mouth the word and that was enough for him.

  “All right,” he said. “Just this once.”

  He released her leg.

  She nodded thanks.

  “That’s what they call a bang-bang play,” he said.

  “Bang-bang?”

  “Yes. It happens bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The runner slides, bang! The catcher tags, bang! He’s safe! Bang! Or he’s out, bang! I always liked that cliché.”

  He spotted a peanut vendor and waved wildly to attract the man’s attention. He gave her a bag and after she started cracking the shells and eating, he reached down and from his ever-present camera bag, plucked his Nikon. “Smile,” he said, pivoting in his chair toward her.

  He clicked off a series of pictures.

  She felt embarrassed. “My hair,” she said. “This silly hat . . .”

  But he just gestured toward the playing field. “Pay attention to the game,” he said. “You may need to remember some details later.”

  This frightened her, and she tried to concentrate on the action in front of her. I understand baseball, she said to herself. I know about squeeze plays and pitchouts and hitting behind the runner. I was the shortstop on my high-school softball team and I learned the rules.

  But the figures on the artificial green of the playing surface seemed mysterious to her, no matter how hard she tried to analyze what was happening before her.

  She dared to watch Jeffers. He seemed intent on the game and on the action on the field, but she knew that this devotion obscured some other purpose. Her mind would not form concrete possibilities.

  She shivered in the sticky humidity.

  Her head felt dizzy and she swallowed with difficulty. Once, when she saw him bend toward the bag at his feet, she almost choked in sudden confusion.

  Finally, as the teams were changing sides, she asked in a voice that seemed to her hollow, “Why are we here, please?”

  Jeffers turned to her and stared. Then he burst out in a huge laugh. “We’re here because this is America, this is the national pastime, this is the Mets and the Cards and the pennant is on the line. But mostly we’re here because I’m a baseball fan.”

  He laughed again and looked at her.

  “So you see,” he continued, “right now we’re killing nothing. Except time.”

  He hesitated. “Later,” he said.

  She did not ask any more questions.

  They stayed until the top of the eighth. Jeffers waited until the Mets scored four to blow open the tight game. Then he grabbed her by the hand and led her, along with the other early and easily disgruntled fans, out of the stadium. As they walked away, a great shout went up from the stadium behind them. He heard a young couple walking a few feet away, listening to a radio, announce to no one and everyone at the same time: “Jack Clark home run with two on!” And he nodded. “They should know,” he said softly to Anne Hampton, “that it’s never over until it’s over. A great American said that once.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Caryl Chessman,” Jeffers replied.

  Jeffers made certain that Anne Hampton was strapped in her seat, then he went to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He rummaged about for an instant in what he called his miscellany bag, finally coming up with a set of Missouri license plates. To these he’d previously attached metal clips, so he was able to bend down and place them firmly, directly over the car’s actual plates. He took a cheap tag frame that he’d acquired in an auto goods store and locked it over the top, so there was no way the telltale yellow of his New York plates would show, but so he would swiftly be able to remove the set from Missouri, stolen sometime before. Then he opened the bag containing the weapons and pulled out a cheap .25-caliber automatic. Taped on the inside of the bag was a specially prepared clip of bullets. He made certain that the soft points were notched, then slid the clip into his camera bag. He searched around for another second before putting his hands on a simple leather briefcase. This he took out before locking the trunk.

  Inside the car he switched on the interior light.

  She watched as he pulled a small yellow file from the briefcase and opened it on his lap.

  The file contained a set of newspaper and magazine clippings beneath a typed checklist. She saw the words: Gun/Typewriter/Access/Egress/Emergency Backup/Lawyer/ID. Each word-category had several lesser categories listed beneath it, but she was not quick enough and the light was too shallow for her to see what they said. A number of items had been crossed off, and others had received large check marks next to them. A few had handwritten notes next to them. She saw that the file contained two maps, one hand-drawn, the other a grid map of the city. As she watched, Jeffers seemed to be reviewing the lists and the maps. She glanced at the newspaper clips and saw a half-page article from Time magazine. It was from their Nation section and the headline read: random murder of gays creates furor in st. louis. She saw that the other stories were from the St. Louis Post-Dispat
ch.

  “All right,” Jeffers said with a slightly excited tinge to his voice. “All right. We’re set.”

  He looked over at her. “Ready?”

  She did not know how to respond.

  “Ready?” he demanded harshly.

  She nodded.

  “Right,” he said. “The hunt begins.” He drove into the city darkness.

  She was turned around and lost within moments. One second they were up on a thruway, cutting amidst skyscrapers that seemed to leap up into the nighttime next to her, then they were circling through shabby, ill-lit streets that glistened with reflected headlights. After what she thought was at least thirty minutes, Jeffers slowed. Anne Hampton stared from the window and saw occasional knots of men standing outside of bars in the warm summer evening air, talking, gesturing. Jeffers was taking it all in wordlessly.

  But, she thought, he still seems to know where he’s heading. She forced her mind into a benign blank. After circling through a ten-block area for another half hour, Jeffers steered the car down a darkened side street, finally pulling to the curb near the end of the block. It seemed a residential neighborhood, not houses, but apartments carved from older buildings, with trees planted in sections cut from the sidewalk. But she saw that they were only a few blocks from the brighter lights of the main thoroughfare. She watched Jeffers slide around the front of the car and open the door for her. She thought his movements spidery, predatory. In an instant she found herself virtually lifted from the vehicle and, arm in arm, walking down the sidewalk. As always, she was taken aback by the taut strength of his hands and arms. She could feel his hunched muscles rigid with excitement.