by Jim Laughter
The police and coroner left the body and crime scene exactly as they’d found it—the scattered leaves, the mulcher/blower still on the ground, the pool of sticky-dry blood soaked into the soft soil. The medical examiner had already determined the murder had taken place around 1:30 a.m. and that someone had concealed the body beneath the leaves. It fit the pattern of a dozen other murders scattered across the country; brutal attacks on prostitutes, none exactly the same yet all equal in style and viciousness.
An intermittent trail of blood traced a random spotted path from where the body still lay behind the brush, back across the grass to the steps leading down to the reflecting pool. Evidence showed the killer held the woman with his left hand from behind, probably pressing her against his own chest while he cut her throat, allowing her blood to soak his own body. Morris speculated that whoever killed this woman must have been covered in blood and escaped down the steps toward the reflecting pool on the National Mall. In a city full of tourist and homeless indigents like Washington DC, how could he have gone unnoticed?
While Benjamin questioned half a dozen tourists and street people gathered around the parameter of the crime scene, Keller and Morris examined the body and the place where the murder had taken place. It was hidden from view behind a low concrete stem wall that ran around the base of the memorial and provided the perfect place for the murderer to slaughter his victim.
Not a bad place for a hooker to turn a quick trick, Morris thought.
But that wasn’t what concerned Keller. She wondered how the killer could have persuaded this woman to accompany him to such an isolated yet public place. She was a prostitute, and from the looks of her, an experienced one. Surely she had a regular hotel she rented on a nightly basis to ply her trade. Perhaps it was just the thrill of having sex in so public a setting. Had her customer suggested the memorial? Was he a thrill-seeker as well as a murderer? They’d not found evidence of sexual exchange on any of the other murder victims but with prostitutes it’s impossible to tell when the sex had taken place or with which customer. Keller doubted forensics would find any evidence on this one either.
“You ever seen anything like this?” Morris asked. His earlier brashness had washed away in light of the gristly scene.
Keller shook her head. In over a quarter century of law enforcement, ten of them with the FBI and fifteen with the Washington DC police department, she could not remember a case this bizarre and brutal. There had been 1,116 murders reported in Washington DC alone in the past ten years. None of them compared to this current series, if it was a series being committed by a single killer.
Of the 1,116 confirmed murders, 167 had been closed without anyone being arrested or charged with the crime. How could fifteen percent of the murders in this city go without someone being arrested? Was it possible that many people had been killed in this city in ten years by out of town visitors? Was Washington DC a destination city for killers? Go to Washington. Visit the monuments, see the sites, sit in the senate gallery, learn how laws are passed, murder someone. Keller wondered if they’d ever find this maniac.
When he finished taking statements from tourists and indigent street people that had shown up early at the memorial, George watched the two senior agents work the crime scene. He thought about Matthew Barnes, one of the victims of the Apostle Murders interstate serial killer, his first murder case—the case that got him transferred from the Fraud Division to Violent Crimes. Barnes, a Certified Public Accountant from Ogden, Utah had been kidnapped and transported to a ghost town in the Purgatory Mountains, staked to the ground, skewered through his arms, legs, and torso with lances before having his head chopped off with an Ethiopian sword. Benjamin recalled the scene. There had been so much blood. He hoped he would never see that much blood again.
Benjamin also recalled that Matthew Barnes had been killed as part of a religious mission when a deranged preacher named Samuel “Preach” Preston believed God had called him to kill for the purpose of restoring order to the modern church. He remembered thinking the preacher exhibited a certain degree of remorse and repentance, not wanting to commit the murders but willing to kill for the sake of his ministry, regardless how misguided and psychopathic. This killer, whoever he is, must revel in the act of killing, taking from it some personal pleasure or fulfillment. He couldn’t imagine any killer, regardless how deranged, haphazardly killing in such a brutal manner without a purpose in mind.
Maybe he doesn’t have a purpose, George thought. Maybe he’s a lunatic that just likes killing women.
Did a woman some time in his past hurt him beyond repair and he’s just now venting his inner demons? Or has he been killing for years and we’ve only just now discovered his pattern? He wondered how many other bodies were scattered across the country. Perhaps hundreds of unsolved murders could be attributed to this particular maniac.
Benjamin approached Morris kneeling beside the old caretaker’s abandoned machine. “You find anything, sir?”
Morris looked up at Benjamin from his examination of the leaf blower where he was extracting strands of long, blond hair from the machine. He’d hoped to find some piece of evidence on the machine. It was obvious the killer hadn’t touched it since the groundskeeper had dropped it when he’d discovered the body. But you could never tell with forensics. Maybe he touched her hair with this bare hand. Perhaps he’s a sexual deviant after all and had demanded an oral encounter, leaving a semen specimen behind. Or maybe he drooled on her while he held her head against his chest when he cut her throat. There was a million to one shot they’d find any DNA evidence but right now he’d take those odds.
“Strands of hair in the blower, but it ain’t gonna do no good.”
“No good? Why?”
“Because we already know her hair was vacuumed up into the shredder mechanism of this machine,” Morris said. “Unless forensics turns up a DNA trace, any evidence here will all be duplicate redundancy.”
Benjamin nodded. He was impressed with Morris’ grasp of the situation. On one hand he was a gruff, disorganized, crass, bigoted son of a bitch. On the other hand, he was a pure professional, dedicated to his core with instincts sharpened by years of investigative experience and an uncanny ability to see into the heart of a situation.
“Walk with me,” Morris said, motioning for Benjamin to follow him onto the steps of the memorial. Morris pointed down the steps toward the reflecting pool in the direction they assumed the killer would have had to escape.
“Can you imagine a man covered in blood leavin' this memorial, walkin' down them steps, passin' through more tourists than you could’a shook a stick at, and goin' unnoticed by anyone?”
“No sir,” Benjamin answered. “But then again, it was dark, just after midnight. Besides …”
“This place is lit up with more spotlights than the openin' of a new toy store at Christmas time,” Morris interrupted. “Somebody must’a seen somethin'.”
Benjamin nodded. Even in Washington, the tourists have to sleep. He didn’t think arguing the point with Morris would do any good.
“You can see this damn place from miles around,” Morris continued. “And you’re tryin' to tell me that nobody saw nothin'?”
Benjamin didn’t know how to answer the senior agent. Was he asking for his opinion or was he simply venting his own frustrations? Either way, with exception for the cover of darkness, he didn’t have an answer for how a killer could walk away unnoticed from such a terrible act of violence.
“Sum'bitch had a car stashed here somewhere.”
Morris wasn’t asking a question. He wasn’t seeking Benjamin’s opinion or approval. But where could a killer park a car close enough that he could get to it without being seen?
“This is a damn national monument. It can’t be that damn easy to kill somebody at a national monument then just walk away.”
The look in Morris’ eye let Benjamin know the statement was rhetorical and didn’t require a reply.
Morris and Benjamin stepped ont
o the tarmac that circled the monument and started making their way around the low wall, looking for any place the killer could have parked a car unnoticed then gotten back to it without being seen. But there just wasn’t anyplace to conceal a car, only open ground and pavement.
Keller waited for Morris and Benjamin as they approached the memorial entrance from their walk around the structure. The expression on her face told the men that she was as confused about the murder scene as they were. She looked out over the reflecting pool toward the World War II Memorial and Washington Monument at the far end, then back up at the statue of Abraham Lincoln. She wondered what the great emancipator had seen from his lofty perch inside his eternal granite structure.
Chapter Five
The black Lincoln Town Car turned up the drive to the west gate of the White House. Security guard Louis Teague waved the car through without checking the driver’s credentials. There was no need. He’d seen them before and knew not to ask for them again. Besides, the driver wore the prestigious lapel pin that granted unrestricted access to the President—a pin not issued to just everyone who visited the nation’s first residence. “Mornin', doctor.”
The doctor didn’t answer. He never did. In the three years the physician had been passing through this gate, Teague couldn’t remember a single time he’d ever spoken to him. It was just always an annoyed sidelong glance as if speaking to him would be beneath his dignity. Instead, he’d just roll his window back up and pass through the gate to his reserved parking spot near the west entrance of the presidential mansion.
U.S. Marine Corporal Joseph Kellogg watched the President’s personal physician park the Lincoln. He’d observed the interaction between the doctor and old Lou at the gate, just as he’d seen it many times before. He hated the snobbery the physician exhibited to the old guard. Then again, it was the same elitist snobbery he showed to everyone else, so why should Lou be any different?
The doctor removed a small handbag and a roll-away suitcase from the trunk of the Town Car and turned toward the entrance. The expression on his face telegraphed a message that he really didn’t want to be there; that he had better things to do than make house calls, even if the patient was the President of the United States. But the corporal knew this wasn’t just any house call. Marine One, the presidential helicopter, was being readied for a trip to Andrews Air Force Base where the President, his staff, and the White House Press Corp would board Air Force One for a flight to Texas, then on to a dozen other cities around the country. The doctor always accompanied the President on trips. Today would be no different.
Corporal Kellogg’s first instinct was to stop the doctor, check his credentials, and search his bags, just as he did with every other visitor that passed through this door. But he knew better. He’d done it the first time he stood this post, not receiving orders that the doctor was allowed unmolested access to the White House. The ensuing commotion the doctor raised had sent reverberations of anger down the west corridor, accusing the young Marine of disrespect and racial profiling. So now when the physician arrived at the White House, Kellogg knew to just open the door and let him enter. There was no need to speak to him. He wouldn’t answer anyway.
Chapter Six
“We’ve got a positive ID on the hooker at the Lincoln Memorial.”
Keller and Benjamin looked up from the files they were working on. It wasn’t often that Morris said something so matter-of-factly, so when he did it was usually significant.
“Dunc?” Keller said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I didn’t stutter,” Morris said. He held up a sheet of paper a courier had just laid on his desk. Keller and Benjamin recognized the letterhead as belonging to the Washington DC coroner.
“So?” Keller said.
“So what?”
“The ID?”
“ID?”
“You said we have positive ID on the victim at the Lincoln Memorial.”
“So?”
Keller knew Morris was just being his usual self; a cantankerous old ass. Benjamin wasn’t sure. Was Morris screwing with them or had the old fool slipped a gear?
Morris handed the coroner’s report to Keller. It detailed how the prostitute had been murdered, describing in scientific terms the precision slicing of her throat, the incisions made to her abdomen, the knife slashes to her face, and the stab wounds on her torso. It also described how someone had surgically removed a portion of her small intestine and draped it over her right shoulder.
Keller studied the report, reading it aloud. “Anita Chapman, 123 Riabasa Lane, Washington DC. Female, age 24, five-foot seven, one-hundred-thirty pounds, blond hair, blue eyes.”
This doesn’t feel right, thought Benjamin. I’ve seen this before. He tried to recall a case file or report he’d read somewhere with similar circumstance. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Then he remembered. “Chapman? Anita Chapman?”
Keller nodded and showed the report to Benjamin. She pointed at the name on the page. “Anita Chapman.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Benjamin muttered, an expression of shock and concern on his face. He lifted the page out of Keller’s hand, turned and crossed the room back to his desk.
“George?” Keller said. He didn’t answer. Instead, he sat down at his desk and called up the internet on his desktop computer.
Keller had never seen the young agent react this way to a piece of information, not even when he’d first realized that the serial killer in the Apostle Murders case was a deranged preacher on a mission from God. But this was different. She could tell this was something sinister, possibly even unworldly.
“George?” Keller repeated. “Do you know this woman, George?”
“She a girlfriend of yours, rook?” Morris asked from his desk. “You got a little somethin' goin' on the side now that the little woman’s carryin' your pup?”
Benjamin paid no attention to Morris. He’s just trying to rile me. Instead, he turned his full attention to the web browser on his computer. He ran his eyes down a list of names on the screen.
“Sweeeet Jeeesus,” he repeated, this time drawing out the words.
His expression caught Morris’ attention. He knew George was a deeply religious man. For him to use such an expression was contrary to his nature. He carries a damn Bible in his jacket pocket, for cryin' out loud.
George clicked his computer mouse and a Hewlett-Packard Laser-Jet Pro P1606dn printer whirled to life, expelling a list of five names. Keller pulled the sheet off the printer and read through the list of names. “Mary Ann Nichols, Anne Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows, Mary Kelly.”
Morris shrugged his shoulders. With exception to the Chapman woman, he didn’t see any connection to their current victim and the list of names. “You gettin' at somethin', kid?” he asked. “Your old African grandpa talkin' to you again?”
I wish grandpa wasn’t speaking to me this time, George thought. I wish he’d leave me alone just this once.
“George?” Keller asked. She knew the young agent was on to something. She couldn’t tell what it was, but she had a gut feeling things were about to change.
Benjamin leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His head hurt from studying the case file, and his stomach still churned from seeing the massacred body of Anita Chapman.
Again, he recalled the scene from a movie he’d watched on cable television some time back where Hannibal the Cannibal told FBI Agent Clarisse Starling that everything she needed to catch the Buffalo Bill killer was right there in the case file.
“We’ve been so blind,” he whispered, more to himself than the other agents. “It’s right there in front of us and we couldn’t see it.”
He thought about the list of names in the Apostle Murders case and remembered how they’d been the obvious clue to solving that case.
“You’re not fixin' to pull out your Bible again, are ya Reverend?” Morris asked.
George didn’t answer.
“You gonna give us another Sund
ay School lesson then run our asses all over the country again?”
“No sir,” Benjamin answered. “I’m afraid there’s nothing holy about this killer.”
Benjamin’s comment disturbed Keller. She didn’t like the timber of his voice and knew he’d stumbled upon something important. She looked at the list of names again. Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddows, and Kelly. Just like Morris, she wasn’t seeing a connection either, but it was apparent George had discovered a clue.
“George?” Keller said, laying a hand on his left shoulder, spinning his chair toward her so she could look into his eyes. They were clouded and distant. She handed the sheet of paper to Benjamin who took it but didn’t look at it. Instead, she saw a tear trickle from his eye and run down his cheek.
“I know who the killer is.”
Morris pushed away from his desk and tried to close his case file at the same time, spilling the remainder of his coffee onto his desk. The look on Benjamin’s face restrained him from cursing his clumsiness or making any wisecrack remarks about the incredible statement the young agent had just made. Instead, he crossed the room and stood beside Keller, intent on Benjamin’s next words.
“George?” Keller repeated. “You said you know who the killer is?”
Morris and Keller waited for his reply. Benjamin nodded but didn’t answer. Even though he knew he was correct, he still couldn’t believe the connection he’d just made.
Morris reached down and shook Benjamin’s shoulder. “Rook?” Benjamin looked up into the eyes of the senior agent. “Snap out of it, Rook.”
“Yes sir,” Benjamin said. “Sorry, sir.”
Keller took the list from Benjamin. “You said you know who the killer is.”
“Yes ma’am,” he answered, forgetting her fetish about being called ma’am. “I do.”
“Then spit it out, kid!” Morris snapped, growing impatient with his delay. “If you know who the killer is, spit it out so we can go arrest the sum’bitch.”
